To be fair, coming home at two a.m. wearing fishnets and high heels might throw ’em off but c’mon—the working girls on my street mostly wear sneakers and track pants! (The cops have no trouble figuring it out.) And more often than not, the cars are crawling alongside in the afternoon while I’m laden with grocery bags.
Maybe I should feel anxious or insulted, but mostly I’m just angry, especially when they circle around, as if I’ll change my mind the fourth time they pull up alongside me. My instinct is to confront and hurl insults, but I honestly don’t think they’re worthy of my attention. Would you mind explaining that not every single girl walking alone in a “bad” neighbourhood is working? And any tips for the next unwelcome advance?
Dear Not,
When I asked certified etiquette consultant Leanne Pepper her thoughts (to get an idea if there was any established way of dealing with insistent and unwelcome questions) she said, “Unfortunately, she lives in an area that attracts these people. She should have thought of this before moving to the neighbourhood. Start an association with the neighbourhood to drive them out. Contact the police to help set it up. Or she might want to consider moving. When waiting at the bus stop, don’t make eye contact. Stop wearing the fishnet stockings and the high heels. Unfortunately, these men have no idea. They’re only looking for one thing. I also consulted my husband and he said if you can’t beat them, join them. Make some money and move out.”
Oh.
Well I guess you could take Leanne’s suggestion to ditch those slutty stockings and start up a vigilante group, but the next thing you know, you’re dealing with an altogether different menace. The neighbourhood busybody with her petitions for more speed bumps and prettier recycling bins and for homeowners to paint within a certain range of colours because now you’re living in a neighbourhood that attracted people whose ideals are defined by development billboards featuring heterosexual couples cradling steaming soy lattes, not (proffers photographic evidence) by picking condoms out of their ornamental birdbath.
I have always believed the etiquette in this situation rests on the shoulders of the person requesting the service but, as you’ve described, they can be infuriatingly persistent. I’ve lived in high traffic neighbourhoods nearly all my adult life (thanks for keeping the rents low, crack whores!) and my personal method for dealing with unsolicited johns has changed over the years, kind of in concurrence with my politics around sex work, actually.
In the ’80s, I used to kick peoples’ car doors in; in the ’90s, I seethed silently and now I turn to the vehicle and say loudly and cheerfully, “I’m sorry, I‘m not a prostitute.” I’m not insulted by the request, it’s the doggedness that is vexing and this method has proven quite effective in dealing with that, as the calm, forthright acknowledgment of what they are attempting to procure seems to take them aback and send them on their way.
Fellows, when a woman says she’s not working, leave her be. Just so you know, she does have options that can really fuck things up for you. For example, many girls who live in these still affordable areas are friends with Web designer types and it wouldn’t be any trouble at all to cook up a site featuring your faces and licence plate numbers.
It’s also easy as pie to call your plate in to the local constabulary. Some of us choose not to take these measures because we believe that prostitution should be decriminalized and, moreover, would rather live with hookers than yuppies. Just know that and behave your damn selves.
