Someone Thought I Was a Whore Once

Yeah, I wouldn�t believe it either, except it actually happened to me. I was 20 or 21, and I had just moved to Philadelphia with my then boyfriend. Not knowing much better and having few other options, we moved to a corner of the city known mostly for its stripper bars (both gay and straight), its �smack� � as the kids like to say, and its adult bookstores� as well as the best Sunday brunch whipped up by the most outrageously butch lesbians at the girl bar around the corner.

My boyfriend was this good-looking, heavy set Italian. He was 6�2� and over 300 pounds with jet black hair. He usually wore mainly black, and he never left the house without his black leather coat, the kind with the zippers and buckles common amongst both Hell�s Angels and giddy homosexuals. Inside he was a furry kitten with a propensity towards high-pitched giggling when tickled just so, but from looking at him you�d never have guessed it. Even the toughest in the city would look away when confronted with him in a dark alley.

With his favorite boots on, he was a good 12 inches taller than I was, and he had 200 pounds on me as well. To complete our odd-couple appearance, he wore a stern face by nature, but this was back before I fully developed my cynicism and chronic grumpiness. Where he was typically donning a scowl, I usually walked around with a grin on my face and sparkle in my eye, the kind of boyish fascination that unfortunately intrigued the creepy old men haunting every gay bar.

We had planned to meet after work and head out on the town one particularly warm December evening. I left my coat in the apartment and took the elevator down to the seedy streets of our neighborhood to enjoy the weather and wait for him to get back from work. Still in my grungy phase, I was in tattered hightop sneakers, worn jeans with holes in the knees, and a plain white t-shirt. I leaned against the brick corner of our high rise apartment building and felt the unseasonably pleasant breeze blow through my shoulder-length hair. I bent my leg and positioned one foot on the wall behind me as I arched my back and balanced my elbows on the little ledge behind me, as I stared up and blew smoke at the tops of the buildings and the starless sky beyond them.

I was snapped out of a daydream by a dark skinned, jittery man who talked too fast and too quiet for me to understand every word. I assumed he was asking for spare change or a cigarette and didn�t give him much attention until I heard a more distinct question. �Why are you on the streets?�

After a little cajoling, I got him to verbalize more completely. He wanted to know why I was whoring myself for money. I was shocked. Where in the hell had he gotten that idea? Then I looked around and noticed the old men in the coffee shop across the street glaring at me with unusually creepy lust, and the tourists walking by sheepishly glancing at me with disgust written on their face. Apparently, I managed to become a male prostitute and didn�t even know it. My shock suddenly and inexplicably grew into amusement, and not having identified any other option at my immediate disposal, I decided to run with it. Realizing I had already stalled long enough to grasp the situation, I blurted out a delayed answer to his question, �I�m a student � and � and I really need the money.� I shifted my weight and moved my hips awkwardly as I tried to be convincing.

I had never, ever, considered myself to be sexually appealing to the opposite sex, or the same sex � to any sex. Even with shoulder-length hair and dingy clothes, I have always been little more than a geek stumbling through life from one speed bump to the next. As sick and depraved as it is, knowing an entire group of people were looking at me and thinking I had what it took to be paying my bills based entirely on my face and body was oddly flattering. So I played along, knowing I would go back to being my geeky self in a matter of minutes, but for now, I was someone I never dreamed I would be.

The jittery guy admitted that he was a little low on cash, but he did have some crack he�d be willing to share with me if I would like to go back to his place. Suddenly, I panicked, remembering that this guy wasn�t a part of the play, he now expected me to continue acting my part, and do what whores do. I nervously glanced around and pawed at my hair, not having any clue as to how to get myself out of this. Then, I saw my boyfriend coming towards me, his trademark scowl accentuated with a question mark as he saw his shy and innocent boyfriend chatting with such a shady character on the street. He strolled up on his boots, the zipper pulls jangling on his jacket, and looked into my eyes with a bit of contemplation. Jittery guy looked him up and down and, intimidated, he stood back a little. My boyfriend didn�t say anything at all, which allowed me to finish out the play gracefully.

I slipped my arm around him and looked up into his face as we walked off. I turned over my shoulder to my would-be John to explain, �I�m sorry, but I already have a date for tonight.�