Listen Mary:
I occasionally go the The Monster on Christopher Street. There’s a piano bar upstairs where the pianist plays a lot of classic show tunes. The old queens cluster around to pretend it’s still 1975, and they’re still cute— or at least still cuter than each other. Even though I’m only 24, I like old show tunes, and I’m a trained singer. Sometimes I join in and give ’em a thrill with a sexy rendition of “Let Me Entertain You,” or something like that.
The problem is, even when I’m there with my boyfriend, some of the withered vultures can’t keep their hands off me. It’s bad enough when they get out their cell phones and start taking pictures of me. Of course I know what they will do with those pics when they get home and have the tissue box handy. When they start putting their hands on my ass and trying to give me those “friendly” kisses, I have to run. What can I do to still enjoy singing without having my audience trying to get inside my jeans? They can’t of course, because you couldn’t get a knife blade between me and the jeans— they are that tight—but they keep trying.
Unavailable in Jersey City
Dear Un:
There are lots of things you can do. 1) Go to a joke store and get two of those battery-powered palm buzzers that give a little electric shock. Affix them to your butt on both sides. 2) Dress your BF in full leather and chains. Tell him to never smile and to stare at the vultures like he intends to cut their dicks off if they make one wrong move. 3) Wear a T-shirt reading: “fuggedaboudit— you can’t afford me.” 4) Wear a T-shirt reading: “STDs are nothing to be ashamed of!” 5) Put broken glass in your back pockets (remember to not to sit down.) 6) Start a rumor that 3 or 4 over 50s have already had heart attacks and died while having sex with you. 7) Hand out business cards with your worst enemy’s name, address and phone number and the hand-written message “Call me for a good time.” Wink when you give the vulture the card and say, “Don’t bother calling, just come over.” 8) Get the vulture’s number and then give it to every insurance salesman, penny stock broker, powered wheel chair dealer and magazine subscription seller you can find. His life will become pure hell. The word will get around the geriatric circle, and you’ll be safe. This one is not an immediate solution but it will have excellent long-range results.
Mary welcomes other creative suggestions for this poor lad. Be in touch!
Love, Mary
Listen Mary:
I occasionally go the The Monster on Christopher Street. There’s a piano bar upstairs where the pianist plays a lot of classic show tunes. The old queens cluster around to pretend it’s still 1975, and they’re still cute— or at least still cuter than each other. Even though I’m only 24, I like old show tunes, and I’m a trained singer. Sometimes I join in and give ’em a thrill with a sexy rendition of “Let Me Entertain You,” or something like that.
