Member-only story
I am walking alone down the street at my usual brisk pace and began to walk more quickly when I notice a group of men approaching me further along the sidewalk. I know they are straight because of how they are dressed (baggy shorts, plain t-shirts), carrying themselves (stiffly erected and widely swaying with arms not touching torsos), and interacting (loud and brazenly). I start walking more quickly because I am wearing pink lipstick, and have learned to anticipate interaction (e.g., jeers, taunts, stares) with groups of straight men whenever I wear makeup in public. I tighten my core as we near one another and see that our paths will intersect at a portion of sidewalk that is well-lit by the light of a pizza parlor. I feel the adrenaline churning in my guts. I see their gazes turning toward and averting from my painted lips. I notice the smirks percolating and I become terrified when one of them— the guy closest to me— makes eye contact and stomps his foot in my direction while proclaiming, “Yeah, I want a fuckin’ slice!” He could be referring to the slice of pizzas on display, but I know he is not, for my lipstick’d face is as brightly illuminated as the slices, and his statement is followed by collective laughter from the group. I feel the hooks in their laughter tugging at my back as we continue walking in opposite directions. I continue walking alone and take off my lipstick as soon as I get home.
I am not wearing makeup while on a train in Los Angeles. The train is at the station and is still filling up with bodies. There is an elder…
