Slutty Slut Slut

As seen this week on flipcollective.com – the piece…not my legs.

‘Twas the night before Halloween, and all through my brain, not an idea was stirring, not even a slutty maid…

I looked around for inspiration..

A picture of Courtney Love circa “Doll Parts,” paint smeared across her face like a panda bear playing The Joker.

My friend had invited me to be a part of her ET themed costume partnership, playing Elliot for an evening, but honestly, I dress like a boy often enough that this didn’t sound remotely enticing.

I could go nouveaux-retro; an Eyes Wide Shut look.  After all, I had recently purchased a skanky leather dress with an underwear-length hemline and a hollow-to-hem center-front zipper.   That, in combination with a hooded cloak and a fabulous mask could really work out nicely.

But, alas, I couldn’t round up the accessories that would make this outfit shine.  All Ricky’s Costumes had to offer were horrifying capes in nylon or cheap crushed velvet.  And it might just be the shape of my head, but none of the masks were to my liking.

The countdown continued.  Still, I had nothing.  Just me…me and that leather dress…that leather dress…hmmm…what could I do with that leather dress…I could…

EUREKA!

I could be a beaten and raped (inferred) prostitute!  The visuals came to me while on the subway – the black eye, the scraped collarbone, the smeared lipstick, the leaves stuck in my hair from a rough-and-tumble evening.  Most girls dressed like sluts on Halloween (Slutty Nurse, Slutty Cop, Slutty Firefighter).  Why not go all the way?

I got to work.  I was soon struck with how easy it was to assemble my suiting, or lack thereof: I had the gray fur jacket (Russian whore).  I had heels (standard whore). The rest of my supplies were purchased from Rite Aid: tights, purple eye shadow, Barbie Corvette Pink nail polish.  Done and done.

I thought about getting some gigantic gold hoop earrings but changed my mind; that seemed too Pretty Woman – too fun and not dark enough.  I was going for an expensive escort sort of vibe.

For further guidance, I watched a YouTube video of a horrid-looking wench who taught me and three-thousand other viewers how and where to smear on my purples, reds, and blacks so as to give the appearance of broken blood vessels, swelling, etc.  When I was finished, I examined my work in the mirror.  Through my abused face, a smile showed through; I’d done a hell of a job creating a beaten-up, defiled prostitute.

I was so proud of myself, in fact, that I sent a picture of myself to my mother with the subject line “Beat Up Hooker.”  My mom didn’t seem as enthusiastic as I about my artistic abilities.  She responded only with a “No comment.  Love you.”  One can assume that she longs for the days that I dressed as a ballerina sans the blood and bruises of physical violence.

Before leaving for the night, I looked at myself in the mirror one last time, noting ruefully that the outfit worn by my version of a prostitute was not so different from what I might wear on any given night.  There was one difference: the reactions garnered from this night’s look, when said look was combined with smeared lipstick and a bruised face, my torn tights and my gigantic fur, were something I had never come in contact with as a respectable lady.

It wasn’t until I arrived in Manhattan that I realized the downside of dressing like a hooker is that you get treated like one.  “DTF!!!” someone yelled at me as I walked down 14th Street.  Thank God my friend had given me a tutorial on the meaning of that particular acronym just a few hours ago.  [DTF translates, in the language of The Jersey Shore as “Down to f$c*”]

Once within the safe confines of the Jane Hotel bar, separated from the trashier, drunker heathens whom I now apparently appealed to, beaten and whorish, I overheard “something something prostitute” and I looked up to find a boy and a girl staring at me less than a foot from my shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m a prostitute,” I responded with a dry enthusiasm meant to be funny, though probably not interpreted as such given their humorless reaction.

“Oh, we thought so,” the girl said.  Then her male counterpart asked me if I was really a prostitute.

“Like in real life?” I asked, sort of confused as to why the hell a prostitute would dress like a beaten up prostitute on Halloween, something I believe would take a brazen sort of depressing self-awareness no one attempts to act out on such a holiday.  Prostitutes want to dress like Grace Kelly on Halloween, not abused versions of their daily selves.

I didn’t clarify my position, choosing instead to spend the rest of the night winking at the both of them uncomfortably.

The evening continued with regular run-of-the-mill staring.  Benjamin Franklin toasted me.  The Chilean miners were fans.  As was a man with a camera who later instructed me to get on top of a silver mustang and pose lying down – a decision I vaguely regretted the next morning.

On the way home, however, I found the late night crowd to be a little more liberal with their lascivious comments.  As my friends and I walked through the meatpacking district en route to the subway, two blonde douche bags stood on the corner.  One announced his intentions to my friend and I as we approached.  “Yo!  I’m going to slap your girl’s ass,” he said.

Um, thanks but no thanks?  We yell something while navigating the cobblestone streets in heels, receiving a typical “Fuck you, then” from behind.

Next up was the subway where, while waiting for what seemed like an eternity for the train to leave the station, a drunken man stared at me with unwavering eyes and an open mouth.

The highlight of the evening was saved for one last verbal accosting, delivered while walking through Williamsburg attempting to find a cab in a land of No Cab.  Standing outside a bar was a gentleman in his forties, sporting a white shirt straining around an over-developed beer gut.

Leering at me, he said, “Hey, you.  Wanna f*c$?”

I grabbed my friend’s arm, sending us faster down the pavement.  “No thanks,” I yelled without looking back.

“Best three hours of your life,” he retorted.

Apparently, he was dressed as a Delusional Asshole.

When I got home, I peeled my 100% Genuine Imitation Leather skank wear from my body and removed my shredded tights.  And when I looked for the mirror for the first time in quite a few hours I was confronted with a vision of myself that wasn’t even remotely attractive, not even in a funny away.  The makeup bruises had faded into dimensionless black rings and my lipstick looked sloppy in a purposeless way.  I didn’t even look like a good version of a bad prostitute.  Why the hell would anyone want to f$#k this? I thought to myself as I wiped the night off my face.  Even if she was DTF, I wouldn’t stoop that low.

 

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