Midway through the week and it looks like I’m just going to talk about sex and depravity the whole time. Maybe I should do theme weeks. Next week will be all about China’s human rights violations, I swear.
But I got to thinking the other day while I was standing out front of my neighborhood strip club having a cigarette that there cannot be a more worse place for a woman to walk around on the street. Sure, women in New York have to deal with cat calls all the time, hoots and hollers from construction workers, honks from “scrubs” in their best friend’s car, perusing the Proust section at a Barnes and Noble bookstore, what have you. There is no place where a woman’s low cut blouse and high riding skirt that just barely shows off the bottom of her pert buttocks is safe from malicious, voiced affection.
However, right outside of a strip club? It’s even worse. The guys out there have just spent the last two hours whittling away their meager paychecks looking at single mothers wriggle up and down a greasy poll. Women with their clothes ON are a foreign site to them and as one of those slimeballs I can guarantee you that it is physically impossible for them to NOT picture a woman naked as she picks up her stride and heads for the subway.
But they never say anything. The overriding shame of being seen in front of a strip club by a woman basically shuts a guy up because all men assume all women know each other, especially their girlfriend or wife. So they just sit there and watch the women go by, envisioning them in a ten dollar I Dream of Genie hooker costume from the back of Ricky’s.
I think in some ways that’s worse.