I am not a hooker
And I leave the gallery. And it’s after midnight. And I pause at the bus stop to see if there might be one soon to arrive that’s heading my way; but there’s not, so I walk on. And I feel someone attach themselves to my trail. And I as move away, he’s on my tail in a way he shouldn’t be. But it’s a busy street: there’s time to ignore or work out what he is; what to do. Though he’s not touching close, he’s too close on my heel; in the space that, internally, I’ve declared is mine: stealing my shadow as he steps on it. And as I ignore him, I’m aware that the cloth of my dress might be too close to the curve of my arse, baring in mind my jacket sits above my hips. But I came in a car, and I’m dressed for the mildness this autumn has wrapped us up in; sparing big coats for the cupboard. It’s a long time since I’ve had to take account of walking home: I usually cycle; but I will NOT be scared from the streets.
So at the corner, I slow down, just to see what he might do; if he’ll keep his rhythm and pass me by. But instead, I hear a soft voice spout, “Hello, lawvely. How are you?” with a ring to it of a man not born to here and slightly timorous of what he’s attempting.
I take a determined stride onward, saying confidently, “I’m quite fine, thank you very much,” then suddenly stop and turn hard on my heel to face him, “don’t you realise how rude that is?” I punch at him with words. I can feel him cower. “You really shouldn’t follow women down the street who you haven’t spoken to earlier in the evening.”
“OK; sorry,” he apologises, furtively glancing at others in the street to see how he might stand in the public eye.
I give him a hairs breadth of time to think that’s the end of it. “No,” I snap, “It’s not OK. I hope you know never to do that again: it’s fucking RUDE.” I look down the inner brim of my hat at him, and see him almost petrified and slightly cowering, not knowing where to look, and lean into his space, making him smaller, so he knows I mean everything that I say, “Now, I’m not worried, ‘cos I’m taller and stronger than you and I could Kick… Your… Fucking… Face in,” I almost spit at him, politely adding, “but if I was some woman who was smaller or more timid, I could have been scared or upset by your behaviour. I’m telling you this so that in future you know how to behave. It’s not acceptable to follow women. It’s Fucking Rude,” I repeat. Then I tell him more harshly than any teacher ever would, “Don’t do it again.” I walk off, leaving him standing there, a little lost and ashamed; and, hopefully, a little enlightened, throwing out a contemptuous “Understood?” over my shoulder.
The walk home from here is short; but there’s one stretch past industrial buildings: close enough to King’s Cross to get the York Road overflow. I’m aware of every car that passes me; not scared, just noticing: it’s a part of my empowerment that, tonight, has been catalysed to killer by the fucker I’ve already kicked into touch that evening and the booze in my blood. I will not be driven into taxis by his like. I stride out, feeling added safety in my comfy boots, with their steel toes, while very aware of the beer bottle that has somehow ended up firmly clasped in my right hand, beneath the leather of my jacket. I notice a car slow down as it passes me. It parks up ahead; thirty feet on, on a near deserted street in which there can be no reason to stop. I’m so not afraid; but I’m alert and I’m watching and breathing and taking it all in. I pass his parked car, looking ahead, looking away, not a trace of interest can be seen from me; but I’ve noticed his driver’s window is down. “Ha, ha, ha,” I think, “he thinks I’m a hooker! How odd.” Dressed in a demure black dress, bronze leather jacket, big scarf, cord trilby, orange mad patterned tights, and brown clog boots, I’m neither wearing clothes that say ‘for sale’, nor the tired and self protective jeans that the working girls in my old manor used to wear, to make sure that no one ‘stole’ the goods too easily. He remains parked there long enough after I pass him that I think maybe I’ve got him wrong; maybe he has reason to be there? But then he pulls away, and as he passes me, he sloooooows riiiight down. I turn and GLARE, hard enough to make him drive fast away. “Kx109xxx”. I say to myself the numbers of his car plate, and quickly cross the road to the ambulance centre, open into the night, only moments ahead. “Kx109xxx, Kx109xxx, Kx109xxx.” I repeat over and over to myself, and then to the woman who stands at the entrance. She writes it on her arm.
Indoors, I tell them I’m not scared; but I want to make sure that everything’s safe for others. They insist on driving me the last stretch home: Mister Curb-Crawler has now driven past three times, and may be upset that I’ve reported him. I don’t argue with them too much and head home with the paramedic, passing the curb-crawler, who’s now parked up just along from ambulance station, faking a problem with his car. I’m glad his number’s on record. Fine if you want to pay for sex; but don’t pin a price on my ass as I walk down the street.
Tonight, no fucker will mess with me.*
*I wrote this, drunk, on Thursday night when it happened, but sleep stole me before I posted it. There should be other stuff coming shortly.