I’m sitting on a bench (Rittenhouse Square) when a good looking and nicely built man passes by. Without even thinking (a mode of communication I consistently employ) I ask:
Excuse me but are you a porn star?
He stops and I get nervous. What have I done? If he isn’t a porn star what will he think of my assumption? If he is, I may have just blown his incognito status as I imagine porn stars aren’t recognized like Demi Moore is. I picture a crowd with flashing lights and Demi in a floor length tight black designer gown greeting her fans. Porn stars probably don’t get that reception. I mean their wardrobe is likely minimal at best. Definitely their work clothing.
But he looks familiar to me. Now I’m not exactly an avid enough consumer of porn that I’d be on a first name basis with this guy standing in front of me, frozen in his tracks by what I’ve said.
After an awkward silence, he responds:
Wow that’s probably the most interesting thing anyone has said to me in months. I’ve been labeled a homeless person or drug addict but never a porn star.
He’s not agitated nor bothered by my question which means … which means what?
Maybe he is and I’m now the president of his fan club? Maybe he isn’t but doesn’t mind the assumption he could be? That I have a severe case of Tourette’s?
Probably the third.
What gave me away?
I’m now thinking he is one. So what happened next caught me completely off guard.
You think I’m a straight porn star or a gay porn star cuz I’m assuming you’re gay. Are you?
To buy some thinking time (something I definitely should have employed sooner) I ask him if that matters. He shrugs his shoulders indicating it probably does not.
But you think I’m a sex worker, right?
My head is spinning. Does he think I’m an undercover ICE agent? Does he think I’m hitting on him? I’m not. I’m just sitting in the park after I dropped Stella off at the vet to have her teeth cleaned and have nothing else to do but sweat in 90 degree heat. Stella’s procedure will cost about what a porn star earns in a day of filming. He said the question was a compliment or (wait) he said it was interesting which is not completely indicative of a compliment, though the question didn’t seem to anger him.
But apparently it did.
What the hell makes you think you can sit there watching the parade pass by (a Streisand reference that sways the sexual orientation needle toward gay) making assumptions about people?
Gulp. I’m suddenly calculating how I’m gonna get off this bench and floor it to the nearest exit.
Side Note: it’s a big park. In the middle of it there’s a frog on a lily pad and an idiot on a wood bench. Both are stuck.
I’m also thinking that since I moved here this is the first time I’ve been in public on my own. Stella’s always with me. Now granted she’s no Terminator II but she’s some sort of protection. People wouldn’t know by looking at her that she’s completely useless in the guard dog department. Like the day she pulled so hard on her leash that I fell in the middle of a busy street and was dragged until I let her go. She instinctively darted toward my building’s doorman. I was left behind scraped and bloodied in the middle of the street like yesterday’s road kill.
Anyway, she’s not here as a buffer between me and an agitated non-pornstar.
I’ll tell ya what. I’m gonna get back to my peaceful morning walk and try not to judge a person who thinks they’re entitled enough to spout out random shit in a public park. That’s what I’m gonna do. What about you? What are you gonna do?
Probably call my therapist, but he might find that a bit glib even though it’s true. I call her for anything. Grocery decisions. Cash flow. Irregularity.
Learn a lesson and don’t judge a … (thank god something stops me from finishing the sentence. By doing so I’d imply he looked like a porn star.)
I mean I’ll mind my business and not make assumptions and curb my public people watching.
Being from New York curbing people watching is hard. Everyone does it, usually to indicate they’re aware of dangerous situations. Philadelphians don’t acknowledge anything.
He nods and thankfully starts walking away while I melt in the 90 degree weather. He gets a few feet from me then turns and says:
By the way, you were right.
As much as I love being right, in this instance all I love is this ordeal being over. Lesson learned?
Controlling my non/filtered thoughts? Not a chance.
If ya ever met my parents you’d get it. They insisted I spoke my mind. If I didn’t, how would people know they could trust me? Twisted theory yet true. I know I don’t trust a person with a smile permanently plastered on their face. Even the salesperson at the perfume counter has a bad day, also why I avoid the South and Texas, bless their little hearts.
I’m beautiful in my way
‘Cause God makes no mistakes
I’m on the right track, baby
I was born this way
Don’t hide yourself in regret
Just love yourself and you’re set
I’m on the right track, baby
I was born this way