I find myself being confused for a prostitute more than is normal.

I find myself getting confused for a prostitute more than is normal.

In the last few weeks, I’ve been mistaken for a prostitute three times, a drug dealer twice and a stripper once.

I’m not entirely sure why this is.
I think perhaps, it may have something to do with the fact that I have been spending an inordinate amount of time waiting on street corners outside of public toilets. Not for the purposes of selling drugs, lap dances or 15 minutes in the back of a 1986 Holden Calais. Usually just for Husband to finish pottering about and drive me home.

I don’t feel that I dress particularly prostitutey. I will freely admit that I have never known a prostitute, so am not the highest authority in prostitute couture and therefore may unwittingly be at the cutting edge of fille de joie fashion.

I was on the tram one Saturday and a man sat next to me and asked where I was going. I told him I was going to dance.
He looked at me sideways and said “Perhaps I’ll come and watch. I’ll have to go to the ATM first though. What’s the minimum amount for a dance?”

I had to tell him that he’d be sorely disappointed as it wasn’t that kind of dancing.

He gave me sad eyes and moved seats.

I don’t know the motivation behind walking up to a woman and asking if she accepts money for sex. Especially not in the way that I was approached by one particular gentleman.

“Ay... How much?” he said...

“For what?” I asked.

“Sex.” Said he. “Or drugs. Either. I have cash.”

“Oh... Well... I don’t have any drugs. I believe if you just follow this street down here though there’s some people leaning against the wall that might be able to help you out. As for the sex, I’m not a prostitute, but thank you for the enquiry.”

“Not even for...” he paused dramatically here, and whipped a note out of his pocket with a flourish. “... a fifty?”

As tempting as his offer was, I still had to decline.

When approached another time, I also declined the offer on the basis that I was not in fact a prostitute. I was looked up and down and asked in a skeptical tone “Ya sure?”

This last Saturday just gone, at around 11:30 in the morning, a man wandered over to me and said, not unkindly “You working this corner? The day shift ones are usually really desperate and manky looking... you look pretty clean though.”

I’m not sure what response he was after. Thank you? Actually, I am quite desperate and a little manky, but I just hide it well?

I don’t know why people confuse me for a sex worker and why they seem to be reluctant to believe that I’m not one, not even for a fifty.