Words get all messed up sometimes. The best of them get corrupted. I thought of this walking through the village, when I flipped off a dude who called me “bella.”
If it was daytime, I would have smiled. I would have tipped an invisible hat and walked away. But it was late, too late to be stumbling in heels and hours earlier a man had stopped me on Houston and asked me, in a frank tone, if my ass was real.
In college, I wrote a sort-of-study on cat calls, but the writing was nothing more than cathartic. I still don’t know what to do with the nausea, or the guilt when I tell dudes who call me beautiful to fuck themselves.
I decided to ask some KGB bar patrons their perspectives on street hollerin’. Their philosophies, their stories, their commiserations. The Cat Call Diaries, if you will.
I really hope you enjoy.