you: Prius guy; me: not a hooker (redhead in purple fishnets) - w4m
You: A guy driving a Prius who tried to hire me for sexual services.
There I was, biking along, thinking it would be smarter to ride down Shotwell than along the bigger streets at dusk because I didn't have my light or helmet. Now, I don't walk down Shotwell much because it's where all the hookers work and I don't want to interfere. But it seemed safe by bike.
So when you slowed down to pass me in your Prius, I was a little apprehensive. Sure enough, "Want to make some money?" you asked. I was startled, though. You didn't look like the usual sleazebags who trawl these corners. I said no, with a smile. I should've been more firm, I guess.
(I admit that my Folsom Fair getup was a bit more suggestive than usual, my mini-kilt draped over my bike seat, my tall boots making pedaling a little difficult. Nothing naughtier than you'd see street punks wearing anywhere, though. And who tries to pick up a hooker who's riding a bike? I am not a hooker, for the record, though I'm not offended. I have a science PhD, which might earn me less at first, but so far it's seemed to be the best use of my talents.)
Anyway, I said no. And I kept biking. And you kept tailing me slowly in your Prius. Half a block later, you asked again and I answered more firmly, though still (too) politely. And then again, further along. By then I had a plan in mind to keep you from following me to my house, but you gave up at that point.
So what gives? Do you come here often? In a city of yuppie geeks, why does a not-unattractive man with a Prius need to find a streetwalker on that particular corner of crack whores? Did the Folsom Fair inspire visions of kinky sex? Did I, with my messenger bag and commuter bike, look like the type to mete out exotic punishments? Are you just having a dry spell? And how much money are we talking?
I'm actually curious. (Not interested, but curious.)
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests