Last week, I was mistaken for a prostitute. I will now use this as an excuse to post what I was wearing.
I knew what the man in the sedan was looking for. He was driving obviously slow, and there’s a new hooker in my neighborhood. There have been quite a few creepy old dudes driving slow down my street this summer. Still, I didn’t expect him to stop next to me.
He rolled down his window, and I moved far back on the sidewalk. He asked if I needed a ride to St. John Street. That’s specific, I thought. I must have misheard him.
“St. John Street? It’s right down there,” I said, pointing.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “Do you need a ride there?”
I played dumb, told him I didn’t live on St. John Street. He looked embarrassed, and he wasn’t driving slow anymore when he drove away.
The funny thing is, I wasn’t even wearing my sluttiest outfit.