Working in the Mission has been an eye-opening experience after living in the gay gay Castro for three years. Suddenly, every man wants to be friends with me, or at least with some part of my body. Now in theory this is flattering but in practice it is obnoxious and sometimes threatening — I blame my inner seventh-grader, who just cannot stand it that anyone should notice she is a foot taller than everyone around her and is growing breasts of alarming proportions (though their proportions will not turn out to be nearly as alarming as she had first hoped).
However, the Mission is a place for experimentation, a place to make yourself heard. Lately I’ve been trying a few admiring shouts of my own at gentlemen I find especially notable on the street. You might hear me yell things like:
“Hey, gorgeous! I like your BELLY! I like your little POT BELLY! Baby, that sloping little belly is HOT!”
“Ooh, honey, why don’t you bring that BALD LITTLE HEAD over here? Lemme check my teeth for spinach in the sexy reflection coming off your SWEATY BALD HEAD!”
“Sugar, your 1982 DODGE DART is looking so good! I like your DUCT TAPED DOOR PANELS! Baby, I like that CRACKED WINDSHIELD! I bet we can’t even GO AROUND THE BLOCK WITHOUT THE ENGINE FALLING OUT, right? Sexy!”
Or my personal favorite for its directness: “Hey, SMALL PENIS!”
Needless to say, I am becoming a real favorite around these parts.