|What did I do to deserve this?!
A few Saturdays back New York City decided that even though it was September, it was just going to remain hot boots. Tragically, one of these Saturdays was one of the hottest days of the year and I had the poor fortune to run out of both drawers and sports bras. Now underthings on the bottom aren’t exactly necessary, however, one must not go round to the gym without some spandex keeping the girls together.
(No but seriously last week I was on the treadmill and the girl directly facing me on the elliptical machine had on NO BRA. She wasn’t a busty woman but still… I could never.)
Anywho, I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and loaded up my granny cart with a months supply of dirty clothes and trudged the three minute walk to the laundromat . As I loaded my washer, I felt eyes on my bottom. Now my bottom isn’t large by any means, but I have been blessed with the most thundering of thighs which, invite my shorts to constantly ride up. So I suppose in retrospect the boy had something to look at.
I went on about separating and loading up my clothes completely aware that this boy’s eyeballs were drilling holes into my butt, though entirely determined to ignore him and all of his niggadom. (I know this is stereotypical but just wait until I describe this poor unfortunate man-child. Also, what does it say about the society in which we live that I’ve come to expect sexual harassment anytime I step outside of my house, but that’s another post for another day).
As I locked the door on my final washer I hear a “Ey! Where you from?” I turn rolling my eyes and take the boy in.
He’s sitting but it’s obvious that he’s tall…that’s about all the glory that I can allow him. He was tatted from the neck down (and I typically enjoy ink) but his tats were a mess and the mess atop his head didn’t even allow my poor suffering eyeballs to absorb the tats.)
THE BOY HAD A TOPKNOT!!! Like he had gotten a relaxer and sat up between his granny’s knees as she took a pressing comb to his head. (Clearly I am unable.)
I’m holding my Tide pods in my hand and I give the boy my most uninterested look as I responded. “Around.” (Because people really travel far to go to the laundromat. 0_O) He then tells me that he lives on 150th Street like that information is going to somehow make me more loose-lipped about my home address. He asks me again where I’m from.
“Boy! I’m not about to tell you where I live!” I finally respond.
The poor fool looks generally offended but says nothing, quietly observing me.
Thinking about my impending trip to Starbeezys I quickly scooped up my bag and meandered off thinking nothing more of the incident.
Of course Monsieur Tatted Top Knot was awaiting my arrival some 45 minutes later when I returned to transfer my things from the washer to the dryer.
He observes me once again as I take my time transferring my clothes from one machine to another. Praying to the Lord above that I can escape unscathed, I had no such luck.
“Hey!” I hear. Irritated, I roll my eyes and cock my head to face him glaring at him with my filthiest look. “WHAT?!” I respond. (Usually if I’m being harassed on the street I mutter something and keep moving, However, since I happened to be alone with this boy in the laundromat, I decided it would be easiest to not outright ignore him.)
He grins like a loon and says “Come here.”
This is the point where I began to laugh in his face. “Boy! Can’t you see I’m doing my laundry? I don’t know you! Why the hell would I go anywhere you called me?!” Anyway you’re way to young for us to be having any type of conversation.”
Of course he was terribly offended when I said that. “Whatcu mean? I’m 22” he exclaims!
“Exactly” I reply trying to hurry along, as I continue conversing with this buffoon I can feel the brain cells melting from my head.
It’s quiet for a moment and I think that perhaps that was the end of it, I should have known that was not to be the case.
“Put your number in my phone!”, he demands, I whip my head around swiftly glaring at him. “I have a man!” I say. (In truth I’m as single as a dollar bill but that’s my go -to line for shiftless Negros….not that it matters cuz, that don’t stop them.)
He replies, “That’s cool I’m just trying to be friends.” (Typical) I stand gaping at him in disbelief. I guess he thought I was looking at his dusty pre-paid phone because he quickly added. “Oh don’t worry, this ain’t my real phone, my iPhone is getting fixed.” (Priorities my nig**, priorities.) I shake my head and go back to stuffing my clothing in the dryer.
As I begin collecting myself to leave he bellows, “We would make some beautiful babies.” I shake my head in horror and as I exit the last thing I hear is him yelling, “So you really not going to give me your number?!”
Just a typical late Saturday morning in Harlem World I guess.
xoxox Chocolate Girl in the City xoxoxoxoPS. But seriously though street sexual harrasment is a real thing. Men who do this need to leave women alone and let us go thru our lives unbothered. There is nothing wrong with a nice polite compliment. However, we do not HAVE to speak to you. We are not REQUIRED to smile. We do not HAVE to ACKNOWLEDGE you existence. For real though LEAVE US ALONE.