HOLLA BACK GIRL.

The weather might suck, but one thing’s for sure: summer’s here. How do I know? Because the males of New York are telling me so, in all of their gentlemanly glory.

When I first moved here in 2007, I lived up in Washington Heights. If you’ve ever been up there, you know that it’s a colorful neighborhood, teeming with culture, diversity, and Gristedes. And, like the rest of New York, there are also lots of horny men.

Every day that balmy autumn, I was greeted with a symphony of hisses and whistles that could rival a cicada infestation.

“Tsst-tsst-tsst, girl,” they’d say, faux-drooling over my chest, legs, butt, and thighs. You’d think they were in line at a KFC: all I had to do was flash my chicken wings, and I’d be a combo bucket to go.

Strangely, this chorus of catcalls happened anytime, anywhere, and I could be wearing anything. Short skirt? Catcall. Long pants? Catcall. Full body cargo onesie with a ski mask and gloves? Catcall. (I never tried that last one, but given that this phenomenon continued well into winter, I might as well have.) Sometimes I had eye oogies and sleep drool still pouring from my orifices– they didn’t care. I could have been anyone, it seemed, as long as I had the basic bolt-ons. I’m guessing it had nothing to do with what I actually looked like– it had to do with what I had the potential to look like (most likely with the lights down low). Yes, it was marginally offensive, but one thing was for sure: those guys were going to boost my self-confidence whether I liked it or not.

Well, it’s skin-bearing weather again, and although I don’t live up in the Heights anymore, the feminine affirmations are being slung my way once more. It’s not like I wear particularly revealing clothes, either: an accidental inch of flesh above the knee or some red lipstick usually does the trick.

Though the feminist inside tells me to sneer, vomit, and reprimand these men for their crossing of boundaries, another part of me would probably miss the cats if they ceased to call. I can’t blame them for exercising their knowledge of odds: it doesn’t take a genius to know that the more bait you cast, the more likely you are to snag a fish (no pun intended). The callers not only herald the start of a new season, but also remind me of just how creative a compliment can be. Some of my personal favorites from this season and last include (in no particular order):

“Can I lick your ass?!”
“Bootiful.”
“Yo, if I owned that car, would you hop in for a low-low?”
“Marry me, mami.”
“Get over here, Cinderella! All in your skirt, Cinderella!”
“Quit lookin’ at me with them eyes! Ahhh! Quit it!”

With gems like those, who wouldn’t feel once, twice, three times a lady?

Well, me. But God bless them for trying.