It seems like cat calls were a lot more common a few years ago and I remember when just about no woman could ever pass a construction site or open manhole where men were working and not be subject to whistles and all kinds of…compliments. Well, today I was the one doing the ogling as I walked by a group of men doing road work (intersection of Houston and Bowery – which has been going on forever – so you can go see for yourself). One of the guys waving people through the traffic obstacle course was a gorgeous specimen of male beauty. Strong, good posture, sculpted muscles and smooth black skin that you just know would not be mushy to the touch. And he had a nice smile (I know this because he was amused by my jaw dropped stare). A hot black man. Something that to this day terrifies many people – especially Viagra popping old white men in positions of wealth and power. Maybe most white men, period. That made my admiration even more delightfully subversive.

I often wonder if the infrequency of cat calls these days has more to do with my being an invisible old woman or whether such behavior has become less tolerated in recent years. Like smoking. I would imagine that every company from utility, construction, sanitation and transit now provides mandatory training courses on how not to behave on the job. But sometimes there is a rogue who just can’t help himself. When this happens I will, out of curiosity, try to see the response or facial expression of the young woman and think back to what it was like when I was that age. My reactions ranged from mild annoyance to full blown rage if the comments were overtly vulgar – which too often they were. I found hisses particularly offensive. But occasionally an fashioned whistle could also be an affirmation of what you saw in the full length mirror before leaving the house – where you were making your own cat calls to yourself before strutting out the door.

Nowadays it’s rare that strange men make passing comments or noises to me. Usually it’s when I walk by the homeless shelter (we’re back to the Bowery again) on my way to the bourgeois institution that is Whole Foods. Yet I’m never offended by the greetings of these old, broken men. I will often banter with them – telling them they need to see the eye doctor or yeah, sure let’s go on a date, Mr. Rockefeller. And we’ll both have a laugh.