Grossness Abounding

Before I begin this story, I would like to begin with a few basic facts about me, in case you didn’t know/forgot.

I am not a morning person. I am a lesbian. I do not eat red meat.

If you’re wondering how the three of these things could possibly all be related, stay tuned.

I was living in my Brooklyn apartment at the time, a quiet little block in a quiet little area. Not much going on before 9am in those parts. So when I left my apartment at 8am to leave for work, there was usually little going on besides the men on the sidewalk waiting for the job truck to show up and perhaps a delivery guy or two.

This particular morning, the sidewalks were fairly deserted as I groggily stumbled out of my apartment, squinting in the harsh light of the early sun, still longing for the bed I was just in not 15 minutes ago.  Head down, eyes barely open, I crossed the street and headed towards the subway. As soon as I stepped onto the next block, I heard a whistle. Not unused to such a thing happening in New York (aforementioned worker men have no standards), but not remembering seeing anyone, I looked in the direction of the cat call without breaking my stride.

What I saw was a delivery man leering at me. He was large and round and old and quite sweaty. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I quickly noticed he wore a butcher’s apron and it was quite bloodstained. Before I knew what was happening, my eyes darted to his wares: lamb carasses he was flinging from the truck to a shopping cart. The two bodies in the cart stared unblinkingly at me as I passed and the butcher continued to smile creepily as he plucked another corpse from the vehicle.  Despite the obviously disgusted look that involuntarily crept onto my face, his smile didn’t fade before I broke my appalled stare and focused only on the ground in front of me until I got to the subway.

It would have been disturbing no matter who I was, but the three characteristics I listed made this whole scenario that much more absurd.

If I was ever going to be successfully picked up on the street, it would most definitely not be by an old, sweaty man who was flinging lamb carcasses at 8 in the morning.

All I could think was, on WHAT PLANET did he POSSIBLY think that whistling at me was a good idea? What was going through his head??

“Oh look, there’s a girl! She is young and female and the only person I can see at the moment! I think I shall whistle at her, even though it is the crack of dawn and she barely looks awake. Here, let me just put down this slimy body before I…*whistles*. Ah, yes. That’ll do it. She’ll probably come over and want to chat about my big arms and how they’re so good at flinging dead animals around. Then we’ll get married in bloody aprons and live happily ever after. That’s so going to happen. Aw, she’s so cute when she’s horrified.”

I always think it’s weird enough when construction workers or other random lingering men feel the urge to holler at a girl passing by, or guys in cars decide to beep and whistle at them. As if they’re going to stop, dead in their tracks, and slow-motion run towards them, obviously the man of her dreams.

As if.

“The boys around the way holler at me when I’m walking down the street. Their machismo pride doesn’t break my stride, it’s a compliment so they say. The boys around the way holler at me every day, but I don’t mind, oh no. If I’m in the mood, it will not be with some dude who is whistling ’cause he has nothing to say. Or who’s honking at me from a Chevrolet.”


~ by Valerie Anne on 02/07/2012.

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