Write On Grrrl

Voice of Empowerment. Not reason.

Call Me Ashley

So, there was this one time that I got mistaken for a prostitute.

Every parent's dream, right? More like a sad commentary on our society.

It was February, 2008. Andre and I had tickets to the Freestyle Extravaganza 3 at Mohegan Sun Casino in Connecticut. Basically, it's a rare opportunity for stars of the 1980's dance scene to reemerge in public and perform their hit(s). Kind of pathetic, but Stevie B is still the man.

Andre and I were early, so decided to kill the fifteen minutes or so before the doors of the arena opened, standing beside the iconic blue and white Dale Chihuly glass sculpture. It's two stories tall. You can't miss it, which apparently explains why it works as a good meeting spot.

For everyone.

It's also located, conveniently enough, at the entrance of the casino's hotel.

On a Saturday night, this joint is jumpin'. Space is at a premium--even in the loitering spots. So, Andre winds up standing slightly behind me. We're still plenty close enough to communicate we're indeed together. But apparently the vibe we're throwing off is more along the lines of business associates, as opposed to romantic partners. We're engaged in a bit of people watching--when then this super nervous middle-aged guy comes up to me out of nowhere.

"Ashley?" he stammers.

"What?"

"Ashley?"

"Uh, no," I reply, but he's already long gone--practically sprinting back into the crowd.

Yeah, it could have just been a simple case of mistaken identity. But the sheer panic exhibited by this dude, combined with a complete lack of 'sorry, thought you were someone else' and assorted other context clues, turned our focus in another direction.

That's right. Hookerville.

What was I wearing? Trust. It wasn't anything that even whispered 'pay me for sex'. Truth is, I'm kind of a sucker for classic lines, with a hint of sass. That's sass. Not ass. It was winter, so I was sporting layers. Literally a fitted brown cotton blazer and jeans. No fishnets or red vinyl in sight.

Regardless, it should not matter. For me, or for writer Sarah Kathleen Peck, who blogged about her latest indignation here:  http://sarahkathleenpeck.tumblr.com/post/23583589056/the-one-about-the-elevators. Similar story, but she didn't have the protection of her buff black pimp, ah, husband to wrap up the situation before it really got going.

Seriously dudes--what are you thinking?