Men have stopped me on the street, and more often than not, it’s to sell me their goods. They don’t flex or wave their full head of hair at me, or turn to show me their ass. Instead, they begin with a question, “Do you live in New York?”
Immediately you think he wants to date you because he’s not holding a clipboard. “Yes…” you say as you await his next probe.
“You have amazing hair. Who does it?” The way he says amazing you know he’s gay. He says it like it’s three words: A-maze-ing. Then you know. You know he’s trying to sell you some hair salon package at a no-name place where the stylists don’t know from highlights, undercuts, or long layers. They average everything.
I must have the “don’t even think of coming over here” face down because as soon as his mouth parts to ask me a question, he shuts it quickly as if I’m about to feed him Rocky Mountain Oysters. He pivots and preys on his next victim.
This is obscene. Gay man is on his knees, smiling stiffly, feigning interest. This is not a seex move. It’s a sale. I’m in Barnes & Noble, and he’s preying on single women who want attention and beauty. He’s selling salon services. Oh my god. It’s killing me. Cucumbers. Mud Masks, that kind of thing. You get a makeover to always look your best. All for $60, I just need $10 and your signature now. He says, “Tell all your friends,” as he does the chirp chirp move from a Chicken Dance. What the hell was that? I would love to squeeze his balls and hear what kind of screamer he is. “I’m so excited for you” he says to her as he waves good-bye. I hope he trips.