Sugar Wanna Party?

The marquees over theaters got larger the deeper I walked into 42nd Street that first, bright Sunday. Flashing lights illuminated big X-rated movie posters, beckoning the curious and the horny. Puffy men with cigars called out, promising nirvana if you entered their theaters. I ignored them, walking closer to the curb to avoid direct contact. But I couldn't avoid everyone.

"Hey, Sugar!"

A woman's gravelly voice called out from behind me. When she repeated it closer, I knew I was "Sugar."

"Hi, Pretty Boy. What's your hurry?"

Now she was walking beside me, keeping up with my quickened pace.

I looked straight ahead and just shrugged. Do not engage, do not engage.

Her faded tank top hung loosely from exposed shoulders. Her collarbones popped up against each cotton strap. Her thick, dry hair -- or was it a wig -- had been straightened into a long bob and flipped up on the ends. Like Janet Jackson's when she was Willis' girlfriend in "Diff'rent Strokes."

I picked up the pace, but she matched it.

"What's your rush, Sugar? C'mon now, I just want to say hi."

I cleared my throat and chirped, "Hi, I'm late meeting my friend."

"A friend? Well, I can be your friend too. Yeah, a good friend. C'mon let's hang out a little."

I pursed my lips and just shook my head.

"Yeah, a real fun time. You look like you know how to party. Do you? Do you like to party?

Her eyes bored into the side of my skull, trying to telepathically turn my head towards her.

"C'mon, Pretty Boy. Which one was it? Weed? Craaack?"

I gasped internally. Crack? I was exploring Manhattan on my first afternoon as a New Yorker and a prostitute was accosting me to smoke crack with her. Just as my parents feared. Abort! Abort!

"Neither," I replied evenly. "I don't have any money."

The magnetic force that had drawn her to me dropped. She slowed her steps and fell behind, mumbling "Sh*t, boy got no money."

I sprinted ahead anyway. No, thank you, m'am. No, thank you.

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