Pink Cadillac

People often ask my why I dress like an intimidating bitch. (I'm secretly a total sweetheart, but you couldn't tell from looking at me). You'll never find me in anything less than four inch heels, usually paired with a mini, a cape, or a massive necklace. My nailbeds ache a little without Lincoln Park After Dark. I'm ice-white blonde with pale-as-possible skin, and I rarely wear more than YSL liquid eyeliner and mascara.

I've created this look for a reason... It's my version of armor in this town. But, my friends kept pestering me to try some color and tone it down a bit... to 'look as nice as I am'. Blech. Yet, on Saturday night, I mollified the masses; stepping out in a pink silk button down dress with modest (shudder!) nude heels. I had scraped my hair into a ponytail & applied zero makeup.

Within the hour, I would vow to never listen to my well-meaning friends' advice again.


Not ten minutes into our walk from my apartment to a friends birthday, I hear a man yell out, "Hey, Pink Cadillac". My heart fills with dread and my friend moves closer to me. I can hear the man behind me, yelling comments about my body and following close behind. Mind you, I'm in a crowd of people on a Saturday night. I really would prefer for my physical characteristics to not be loudly announced as I navigate the crowd. It's kind of mortifying.

I start walking faster, and my friend lags behind to put some distance between me and the relentless airhorn. Then I realize, the man has picked up his pace as well. I start jogging, and I hear him yell out "Oh girl, shake that booty. I love it!" I turn about the same shade as my dress and break into a run, hoping to not excite him further. The man manages to keep up with me for a full two blocks-- pretty impressive for a presumably homeless guy-- but my years of training win out in the end.

My friend and I turn the corner, compose ourselves, and continue our walk to the bar, reflecting on the insanity we just endured. We decide to see the humor in it, and are laughing when we arrive at another friend's birthday. Birthday boy works for YSL, is seriously gorgeous, and obviously gay (as most men in our industry are). I've known him for a year, and I've brought along my oldest friend thinking they may hit it off. YSL, as I'll call him, scoops me up in a major hug when I arrive. He pulls his chair next to me and starts telling me about his ex, who's at the other side of the bar. He has a new boyfriend and YSL is upset. We chat a bit about our lives when I realize he has started caressing my legs. I laughingly tell him to stop. He then starts announcing to the whole bar how great he thinks my legs are (all the while still madly caressing them, alllll the way up and down). I'm getting seriously uncomfortable, but he's gay- right?

Things go downhill from there. My friend is obviously appalled as am I. I keep telling YSL to stop, but he remarks that he's drunk and this is how he is when he's drunk. He then starts grabbing my breasts and continues the barrage of body comments. The entire party is looking at me and I am- for the second time in twenty minutes- mortified. What is the protocol for telling your gay friend to stop molesting you in public? If he were straight, my answer would be clear-cut: slap him. But, he seems to think his sexual orientation gives him a free pass and I'm deeply confused...until he asks me to make out with him. Several times. I politely decline. He asks again, telling me that he knows it would be so hot. I see that the night is unsalvageable by this point and see myself out.


LESSON: When I 'dress like a sweetheart' I have the power to motivate the homeless to exercise, and turn gay men straight.

I much prefer BITCH.

*scorpio*