So here we are.
...or were, about a week ago. It was a hot day, and now it was a hot night.
I trudged to the subway, homeward bound, lugging my life in my shoulder bag. Not wanting to bob and weave through the throng of tourists on 42nd Street, I took 43rd, tumbleweeds by comparison. I was sticky and tired and just plain done.
And that’s when he stopped me. He, him, the nondescript one, appearing seemingly out of nowhere but actually from behind a parked car.
“Excuse me. I need to talk to you.” But I wasn’t foolish enough to actually stop. Granted, he kept his distance, and I saw no weapon. Still.
“No, wait,” he persisted. “You don’t understand. I’m a submissive.”
It was as though I suddenly turned stupid. I had no idea what he was talking about. I heard words in English but there was no registering them whatsoever. They just pinged off of my forehead and landed splat on the sidewalk. If this encounter had been a screenplay, this is where it would have read, “cut to shot of Stephanie staring blankly.” If this encounter had been a Warner Bros. cartoon, the shot of Stephanie staring blankly would be accompanied by my giant Chuck Jones eyes blinking twice, underscored by two xylophone plinks.
“I see you’re carrying a whip.”
Oh, lord. I always knew I was different from the other gals. Tonight I was paying for it.
I grabbed the black handle that was sticking out of my bag-o-crap and said the words that I’m sure he least expected to hear, even in New York:
“It’s a parasol.”
“Oh,” he stammered, backing away. “I thought you were a dominatri---”
I can’t even finish typing the word without laughing.
Sorry, guy. Or... you’re welcome. Probably you’re welcome.
Yes, indeed. Welcome to me.
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