Just Another Day in the Neighbourhood
Firstly, apologies for my shiteous blog schedule of late. Last week I had some pretty serious crap happen. I’m not gonna go into it, suffice to say, it was dramatic on a Jerry Springer outrageous kind of level and if I were to tell you about it, you’d think I was making it up. I’m OK, in fact, I’m great, all things considered and I’m looking forward to reaching the point where last week’s chapter of my life is a distant memory that I’ll be able to look back and maybe even laugh about at some point.
Breathe. Shake it out.
Let’s move on.
I live in the gay village. The upside of this is there’s a nine out of ten chance that I’ll be called ‘fabulous’ at least once a day. Those are some good odds. The downside is that after 10pm, my street becomes Transvestite Prostitute Central. I’m not judging anyone for their life choices. I’m just saying, it’s a little embarrassing when you invite people over and they’re offered a $20 blow job on their way.
Some of these transvestites are good, some not so good. I mean, if you’re gonna go through the trouble of donning fishnets and a wig, at least get rid of the five o’clock shadow. There’s a few I’d like to give a make over, because I find their interpretation of womanhood quite disturbing. But I don’t think that episode of ‘What Not to Wear’ would make it to air.
Living in Transvestite Prostitute Central makes for some interesting moments. Take last sunday morning for example. I woke up bright and early and drew back my curtains to see a large, muscular black man, wearing a bra and cut off jeans. He’d (heretofore referred to as ‘she’ because girlfriend was really trying) thrown her heels to one side. I smiled in recognition, thinking ‘we’ve all been there honey.’ She had a mirror in one hand, a comb in the other and was brushing out her weave like her life depended on it.
Ordinarily, my street gets all red light between the hours of 10pm and say, 5.30am. Before and after those hours, the hood looks somewhat normal. But this was 8am. Business is well and truly over. And it looked like it had been a long, hard night for this diva. I wanted to go downstairs, give her a cup of tea, ask her to put a shirt on and let her know that no amount of brushing would change the fact that the weave was a hot mess.
For a good half hour, she stumbled around outside my house, barefoot, throwing her head around, brushing from every conceivable angle. And then, some dude came out of nowhere, struck a deal with her and they went down an alley. Maybe the blow jobs go down in price after hours?
Either way, I doubt I would wake up like that in any other part of town.
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Tags: the gaybourhood, the gays, toronto
