There’s a story about my father that involves prostitutes. I’ve always liked it. Want to hear it? Sure you do:
When I was a kid, my family visited New York. We were had dinner someplace in Times Square so as to have easy access to the Broadway show we were going to see. As he was settling the check, my father glanced some prostitutes outside. He promptly returned to the table and told my mother we could not leave just yet as “there are some women outside.”It was clear they were sex workers, If they had just been say, a large and angry mob of women attacking the restaurant, he would have said ladies.
“Well, for heaven’s sakes [my father’s name]” my mother replied, “that’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think? We’re all adults.” (I was, perhaps, 8, but my parents persisted in treating me as though I were a very slow, semi-literate 42 year old). “We know what they are. We all know what they are.”
“Of course I know what they are,” my father replied indignantly. Then he dropped his voice to a near whisper, “they are ladies of the evening.”
I always think that story sums up a lot about my Dad .
And when I moved to New York, I thought “every time I see a prostitute in Times Square, I’ll probably remember that moment.”
Yeah, there are no prostitutes in Times Square. At least I’ve seen one maybe… once? I think it might just have been Peaches Geldof, though. They’re all on Craiglist now, and Taylor Momsen has had no one to trade clothing with.
Well, not anymore. Guess they’ll be back, and I’ll get to be all full of nostalgia, like Don Draper. Yay, I guess? Well, not yay for the prostitutes who have to wander outside.