Sex(ual Harrasment) and the City.
Fuck you, douchebags.
I'll be the first to admit that every once in a while, like, say, on a very hot day, my boobies are a little on display, and while the harrasment is never deserved, and I don't agree, let's say... I understand. (Insert Chris Rock clip: "Now, I'm not saying I'd ever hit a bitch... But I'll shake the shit out of one.") But on a day like today, when I'm buttoned into a wool coat from throat to mid-calf, there is absolutely no reason for me to get catcalled at. I'm terrified at the prospect of the impending summer heat, when I'll stop wearing jackets and the hemlines will go up, and it's just gonna be, eh... Pandemonium.
Now, God loves the women of New York. He's given them career goals and their own incomes and shapely legs and college educations and amazing wardrobes (with personal styles to boot) and sprinkled them with book smarts and amazing powers of deduction. So you would think that the men would take it upon themselves to not necessarily admire, but at least respect these women in turn. But no. Oooooh, no. It is (I think) actually impossible to walk more than five blocks without at least one heebee-jeebee inducing incident, no matter what part of town you're in.
In New York the sexual predators actually fit very neatly into a few categories. I'm making it a priority this summer to photographically offer evidentiary support of the existence of each particular type of douche that troubles the women of this city. It's on.
THE ELDERLY PUERTORICAN
Found in: alley behind the bar, stoop in Brooklyn, Puertorican Day Parade
If you could draw a cartoon of what a Nuyorican Puertorican would look like, and you added about 20 years and a short stint with methamphetamines, he would be this guy. He wears a two-tone doorag (no hat) and has the Reeboks with the embroidered little Puertorican flags on them. He also has a little flask of Ruble inside a paper bag sitting in his jacket pocket. And he leers in the kind of way that makes you start walking faster. It's not even worth yelling at this guy because it will just make him more aggresive.
THE ELDERLY PUERTORICAN'S ILLEGITIMATE PUERTORICAN SON
Found in: seat across your on subway, smoking in front of Lincoln Tech at lunch
He's still not old enough to drink, but that's all he talks about doing because (duh) he doesn't have a dad. He bought his Jesus piece on Canal Street (it's nickel with plastic rhinestones in it - he didn't spring for the CZ because it was an extra $20, and he wanted to spend that on the fake Rolex). All his clothes are a generous three sizes too big - he wears the t-shirts that look like dresses. He loves anything with a picture of Al Pacino as Tony Montana on it, and especially covets his best friend's leather jacket with the black/white Scarface poster on the back in whiteout. Like the dad he never met, he also has a two-tone doorag, but he uses it to matte down a frizzy ponytail over which he wears a baseball hat that has all the stickers and tags still on it. He doesn't actually have the balls to approach a woman, so when you walk past he utters, "God bless you, Ma" under his breath. He's staring directly at your ass as you walk away. These guys are easy to spot because they wear red, white, blue and black almost exclusively.
THE DRUNKEN DAY TRADER
Found in: Hiro at 3 AM, Lower East Side on Saturday night
While he's the most kempt, he's also the most dangerous, because his very important day job gives him an inspired sense of virility - probably why about 35% of his sexual encounters qualify as date rape. The good news is that he only comes out at night, so chances are good that you'll have about five guy friends around who are drunk enough to give this guy a beatdown if your honor needs defending. When he's in hunting mode, he looks like a toned-down version of a BNT import: ton of gel, diagonally-striped dress shirt (collar pop optional), a smart pair of slacks, and the same shiny pair of Gucci loafers that he's been replacing since his mom bought them for him for Christmas in 1995.
G-UNIT
Found in: selling own CD in Union Square, buying Swisher Sweets at the bodega
While this guy has probably actually shot someone before, he's not nearly as threatening because he's used to a different brand of woman (the kind that will scream bloody rape and/or sue you for child support). Like the young Puertorican, he's a mutterer, but while the young Puertorican will try to appeal to your sweeter side with his God bless yous and Have a nice day Mas, G-Unit will straight up tell you that that ass look good in them pants. You may think it's sexual harrasment, but to him it's 'holla-ing.' He won't mess with you if you tell him to back off, although he will call you a nasty ho and then (duh) mutter into oblivion. He's got the kind of menacing stare that looks at you, looks you up and down, then looks through you and inside you, and knows exactly what you look like naked. Do not make eye contact with this guy, or you'll be taking Crying Game showers for a week.
I'll be the first to admit that every once in a while, like, say, on a very hot day, my boobies are a little on display, and while the harrasment is never deserved, and I don't agree, let's say... I understand. (Insert Chris Rock clip: "Now, I'm not saying I'd ever hit a bitch... But I'll shake the shit out of one.") But on a day like today, when I'm buttoned into a wool coat from throat to mid-calf, there is absolutely no reason for me to get catcalled at. I'm terrified at the prospect of the impending summer heat, when I'll stop wearing jackets and the hemlines will go up, and it's just gonna be, eh... Pandemonium.
Now, God loves the women of New York. He's given them career goals and their own incomes and shapely legs and college educations and amazing wardrobes (with personal styles to boot) and sprinkled them with book smarts and amazing powers of deduction. So you would think that the men would take it upon themselves to not necessarily admire, but at least respect these women in turn. But no. Oooooh, no. It is (I think) actually impossible to walk more than five blocks without at least one heebee-jeebee inducing incident, no matter what part of town you're in.
In New York the sexual predators actually fit very neatly into a few categories. I'm making it a priority this summer to photographically offer evidentiary support of the existence of each particular type of douche that troubles the women of this city. It's on.
THE ELDERLY PUERTORICAN
Found in: alley behind the bar, stoop in Brooklyn, Puertorican Day Parade
If you could draw a cartoon of what a Nuyorican Puertorican would look like, and you added about 20 years and a short stint with methamphetamines, he would be this guy. He wears a two-tone doorag (no hat) and has the Reeboks with the embroidered little Puertorican flags on them. He also has a little flask of Ruble inside a paper bag sitting in his jacket pocket. And he leers in the kind of way that makes you start walking faster. It's not even worth yelling at this guy because it will just make him more aggresive.
THE ELDERLY PUERTORICAN'S ILLEGITIMATE PUERTORICAN SON
Found in: seat across your on subway, smoking in front of Lincoln Tech at lunch
He's still not old enough to drink, but that's all he talks about doing because (duh) he doesn't have a dad. He bought his Jesus piece on Canal Street (it's nickel with plastic rhinestones in it - he didn't spring for the CZ because it was an extra $20, and he wanted to spend that on the fake Rolex). All his clothes are a generous three sizes too big - he wears the t-shirts that look like dresses. He loves anything with a picture of Al Pacino as Tony Montana on it, and especially covets his best friend's leather jacket with the black/white Scarface poster on the back in whiteout. Like the dad he never met, he also has a two-tone doorag, but he uses it to matte down a frizzy ponytail over which he wears a baseball hat that has all the stickers and tags still on it. He doesn't actually have the balls to approach a woman, so when you walk past he utters, "God bless you, Ma" under his breath. He's staring directly at your ass as you walk away. These guys are easy to spot because they wear red, white, blue and black almost exclusively.
THE DRUNKEN DAY TRADER
Found in: Hiro at 3 AM, Lower East Side on Saturday night
While he's the most kempt, he's also the most dangerous, because his very important day job gives him an inspired sense of virility - probably why about 35% of his sexual encounters qualify as date rape. The good news is that he only comes out at night, so chances are good that you'll have about five guy friends around who are drunk enough to give this guy a beatdown if your honor needs defending. When he's in hunting mode, he looks like a toned-down version of a BNT import: ton of gel, diagonally-striped dress shirt (collar pop optional), a smart pair of slacks, and the same shiny pair of Gucci loafers that he's been replacing since his mom bought them for him for Christmas in 1995.
G-UNIT
Found in: selling own CD in Union Square, buying Swisher Sweets at the bodega
While this guy has probably actually shot someone before, he's not nearly as threatening because he's used to a different brand of woman (the kind that will scream bloody rape and/or sue you for child support). Like the young Puertorican, he's a mutterer, but while the young Puertorican will try to appeal to your sweeter side with his God bless yous and Have a nice day Mas, G-Unit will straight up tell you that that ass look good in them pants. You may think it's sexual harrasment, but to him it's 'holla-ing.' He won't mess with you if you tell him to back off, although he will call you a nasty ho and then (duh) mutter into oblivion. He's got the kind of menacing stare that looks at you, looks you up and down, then looks through you and inside you, and knows exactly what you look like naked. Do not make eye contact with this guy, or you'll be taking Crying Game showers for a week.
posted by Attica Wolfcastle, Esq. at 9:32 AM
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