GIVE ME YOUR MONIES

I have been masturbated on in the subway.  Twice.  In the past year.

Okay, ONCE I was masturbated on, once I was masturbated AT.  But, just the same, it's weird and creepy, and I'm the writer here and I reserve the right to use a smidge of hyperbole to make my stories more interesting.

After this happens, you have to start wondering if there's something you are doing wrong.  Is there a secret signal I'm giving out?  Do I simply look fun to masturbate on?  Or maybe it's just being in the wrong place at the wrong time... more than once.

In addition to attracting self-satisfying pervs, I have also had to clean blood off of my boots after watching a guy tweaked out on PCP beat up a nerdy little guy who made this mistake of looking at him, was picked up by a seemingly normal guy who turned out to be a recovering coke-head, had my wallet stolen out of my purse, had my baby toe stomped on and broken by a pair of steel-toed boots, was called a "n****r-slave loving honky" by a strange Indian man that started a fight with several large black men on the A-Train in the middle of Harlem (I have to say, I really enjoyed watching him get slapped in the face), and I'm not even going to how many offers I've gotten from orthodox jewish boys to take over the part of "shiksa play thing" in their lives.  Are any of these things that uncommon for any New York straphanger?  No.  Is it uncommon for all of these things to happen to one person within the span of a year?  DECIDEDLY SO.

A friend of mine hypothesized that the reason that so much of this happens to me is that I spent a lot more time on the train than other people.  I live in, what one friend so affectionately dubbed, "Upstate Manhattan" (Inwood).  Before I became a woman of leisure I would spend a minimum of two hours a day on the train.  But, really, that isn't THAT much more than other people.

I'm pretty much convinced that there is just something about my personality that attracts the odd and not normal.  Sometimes it's terrible and sometimes it's great!  Just last week a little boy told me I smelled like a cookie and asked if he could touch my hair.  I told a friend this and she thought that by little I meant "skinny" and not "age four"... and assumed that this "little" boy was on ecstacy.  And oddly, with my history, that makes more sense.