Hello my lovelies! I’ve taken the plunge, bitten the bullet, or something else that signifies that I’ve joined the slowly growing group of working girls who blog. And, as if Lady Luck has a sense of humor (she does), I even have a perfect piece of material for my first post in six months!
In Which Magdalene Encounters Mr. Italian:
I’ll set the stage: I’m walking the 1/2 block back to my car after getting a delicious latte (girl’s gotta have her vices). I am dressed in an adorable knee-length red skirt, and a black and white checked top that ties at the waist. My hair is done up in curls, and I’m wearing my customary red lipstick and black winged eyeliner. The crowning glory of my pin-up attire is my brand new, Italian red leather sling back heels. They are just… anyway I digress.
A very large man drives past me slowly, and shouts-
“I love your shoes!” Says he. “Why, thank you! I love them.” I reply. I begin to walk away from him.
“How do you feel about large Italians taking you shopping?” He asks, leaning out of the window. I pivot on my foot to look at him side-long. He has a woman and two small children in his very large extended cab Dodge Ram.
“I’m sorry?” says I, surely I’ve misunderstood. Oh, no, I haven’t.
“Give me your number, and I’d love to take you shopping! What do you do for a living?” The man is in the middle of an intersection, though blessedly there is no other traffic.
“I’m a model!” I say proudly (and it’s true! Diva Dollz uses me sometimes)
“Of course you are, looking like that!” He exclaims. The woman in the passenger seat is bearing her teeth in what might be a bemused smile or a frustrated grimace, it’s hard to say. “Give me your number! I’ll call you tonight. What’s your name?”
“Mag,” I venture. “Got a pen?” One of his children(?) gives me a pen. I can’t begin to think what is in these poor kids’ heads. I jot down my work number. I figure he won’t call, and if he does, well… all of you know I never keep the thing on.
“I’ll be sure to keep you in good shoes. No woman I’m trying to date will have cheap clothes!” He says, and with that, speeds off, revving his engine.
Now, I walk around in 1950s clothes a lot. I would eschew jeans entirely if I could. So I’m used to people asking me where I shop, am I going to a party, or (my favorite) if I’m shooting some kind of movie. But THIS is not how you pick up a lady. For all I know, he’s on the up and up and was suddenly taken with my beauty! But, as much as it pains me, this is P-I-M-P behavior. I can just imagine his rotund body trying to manage in Diva Dollz’ small store, talking me up about being a princess and kept woman. (I am in no way disparaging him strictly on his size. I have met and adored gentlemen in ALL sizes) How long until that gets turned around into “get the stacks or get the racks” (I heard this term once. It’s a threat to either bring home 1000, or get beat up) I walked away from that encounter bemused, but he didn’t know he was trying to pick up a working girl. I worry about the next pretty thing he comes across. I’m tempted to play his game, just to keep him away from girls who won’t see through his bullshit.
(Don’t worry, lovelies. Though this man may be dangerous, I’m not about to put myself out there to be hurt!)