Southern Exposure

By Francesca

When I invited my stepsister up to the city to celebrate her twenty-sixth birthday, I thought I could show her all that New York has to offer—fantastic shopping, fine dining, and of course, the sights.

I didn’t mean for us to get an eyeful.

We were walking our dogs after a great dinner, when a man stepped out from between two parked cars and faced us. Let’s just say, he was not dressed for the weather.

“EW!” I shouted at full volume. “GET AWAY! YOU’RE DISGUSTING. BACK OFF BEFORE I MACE YOUR…”

You get the idea.

So did he. He zipped up and zipped out.

“Eyyucck!” I tried to physically shake the nasty image from my mind. “That makes me so mad. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

My innocent birthday girl was still trying to process the full-frontal affront. “Was he, was that his…?”

“Yes, and yes. Gross.”

“You reacted so fast. I didn’t even see it at first!”

“I know that guy.”

“You know him?” Her eyes widened.

“No, I mean, he’s flashed me before.”

In fact, this was the third time I had seen more than I wanted to of this un-gentleman. Each time, I tried to respond in a way that would convey my readiness to wake everyone in the five boroughs if he took one more step toward me. And I wasn’t kidding about the mace.

One time, after he flashed me and bolted, I spotted him again minutes later one block over, but this time, he didn’t see me. I yelled at him from across the street, “I recognize you! Get out of here before I call the police!”

At least I think it was him.

It’s harder to tell with his pants up.

So I’m an old pro with the perverts. Not only was this not my first time being flashed, this guy wasn’t even my first flasher. The first one happened outside of an ultra-chic, expensive restaurant in my neighborhood. This place is so exclusive it has an unlisted number; you have to physically stop in and grovel to get a reservation. Unless, of course, you’re one of the celebrities who frequent the it-spot—I’ve seen stars like Beyoncé, Madonna, Hugh Jackman, and repeat guest Salman Rushdie.

Unfortunately, the flasher was not Hugh Jackman. He couldn’t sexually harass me if he tried. I’d consider any amount of Jackman nudity a public service.

Rushdie, not so much.

Instead, it was a member of the kitchen staff who, when I walked by with my dog late one night, decided to offer dinner and a show—a 2 A.M. show of him doing the hand jive, wearing his apron as a loincloth.

The next morning, I told my mother, who was visiting, what had happened. We were both angry and creeped out, and I said I intended to march over there and tell the management.

She supported the idea, adding, “Maybe we’ll get a free meal out of it.”

“Mom! I don’t want to eat there now. That guy who did this works in the kitchen…”

I don’t have to make the joke, do I?

“Oh, right.” Still, my mother looked disappointed. Apparently star sightings are worth the risk of contamination.

To his credit, the manager was appropriately appalled and apologetic. I didn’t even have to say, “What if this had happened to Beyoncé?!”

I’m sure he was already thinking it.

I never saw the naked chef again.

This other guy has been harder to shake, no pun intended.

It was only a couple weeks after the birthday incident when I saw the Repeat Offender again. I gave my usual response, with added exasperation:

“EW! That is SO RUDE! I do NOT want to see that!”

Only this time, I think I got through to him.

Not that he put his not-so-shy friend away. No, he remained exposed, but he moaned, “So-oo-rrr-ry.”

And they say men can’t apologize.

I stormed off, and he slunk back into the dark, but for the first time, we both left satisfied.