What exactly is the proper response to be being mistaken for a hooker? I live in an area of Parkdale with a lot of street prostitution. The ladies don’t bother me, nor I them. However, they attract a lot of clients who seem to have a difficult time figuring out who is working and who isn’t. You know, like it doesn’t occur to them that a girl waiting at the bus stop might actually be waiting for the bus?
To be fair, coming home at 2am wearing fishnets and high heels might throw ’em off, but c’mon — the working girls on my street mostly wear sneakers and track pants! (The cops have no trouble figuring it out.) And more often than not, the cars are crawling alongside in the afternoon while I’m laden with grocery bags.

Maybe I should feel anxious or insulted, but mostly I’m just angry, especially when they circle around as if maybe I’ll change my mind the fourth time they pull up alongside me. My instinct is to confront and hurl insults but I honestly don’t think they’re worthy of my attention. Would you mind explaining that not every single girl walking alone in a “bad” neighbourhood is working? And any tips for the next unwelcome advance? NOT FOR SALE!

When I asked certified etiquette consultant Leanne Pepper her thoughts (just to get an idea if there was any established way of dealing with insistent and unwelcome questions), she said, “Unfortunately she lives in an area that attracts these people. Should have thought of this before moving in the neighbourhood. Start up an association with the neighbourhood to drive them out. Contact the police to help set it up. Or she might want to consider moving. When waiting at the bus stop, don’t make eye contact. Stop wearing the fishnet stockings and the high heels. Unfortunately these men have no idea. They are only looking for one thing. I also consulted my husband and he said if you can’t beat them join them. Make some money and move out.”

Oh.

Well I guess you could take Leanne’s suggestion to ditch those slutty stockings and start up a vigilante group, but then the next thing you know you’re dealing with an altogether different menace: the neighbourhood busybody with her petitions for more speed bumps and prettier recycling bins and for homeowners to paint within a certain range of colours because now you’re living in a neighbourhood that attracted people whose ideals are defined by development billboards featuring heterosexual couples cradling steaming soy lattes, not (proffers photographic evidence) by picking condoms out of their ornamental birdbath.

I have always believed the etiquette in this situation rests on the shoulders of the person requesting the service but, as you’ve described, they can be infuriatingly persistent. I have lived in high traffic neighbourhoods nearly all my adult life (thanks for keeping the rents low, crack whores!) and my method for dealing with unsolicited johns has changed over the years, kind of in concurrence with my politics around sex work, actually. In the ’80s, I kicked people’s car doors in; in the ’90s I seethed silently; and now I turn to the vehicle and say loudly and cheerfully, “I’m sorry, I am not a prostitute.” I’m not insulted by the request — it is the doggedness that is vexing and this method has proven quite effective in dealing with that, as the calm, forthright acknowledgment of what they are attempting to procure seems to take them aback and send them on their way.

Fellows, when a woman says she’s not working, leave her be. Just so you know, she does have options that can really fuck things up for you. For example, many girls who live in these still-affordable areas are friends with web designer types and it wouldn’t be any trouble at all to cook up a site featuring your faces and licence-plate numbers. It’s also easy as pie to call your plate in to the local constabulary. You’ve all heard of John School, right? Some of us choose not to take these measures because we believe that prostitution should be decriminalized and, moreover, would rather live with hookers than yuppies. Just know that and behave your damn selves.

Love bits
I’ve been curious for some time about rechargeable vibrators, so I requested a couple from Lelo, a recent addition to the sex toy biz. Lelo is from Sweden and, as such, holds fast to that country’s apparent national policy for sleekness in design.

OK, so their advertising is a smidge pretentious: they are not a fake shlong company appealing to the typical depraved demographic, they are a “sex life accessory label” that aims to attract “a modern women with high sexual integrity,” but hey, if you can get more stressed-out businesswomen jacking off for a relatively fair price, you’re doing us all a favour.

Despite the fact that I do not fit their target market at all, I have found a new girlfriend in Iris — we’re such a quirky pair, kind of like Dharma and Greg. Iris’ business end is medical grade silicone and is sculpted to look like a flower bud; she has not one but two powerful vibrator engines; and a three-hour charge gets you four hours of fun. They also sent me Nea, a small ergonomically designed vibrating pod to be held against the vulva either solo or during sex. This one I would recommend for a woman who needs less kick. Lelo, which is exceptional for a sex toy company, offers a one-year warranty on all their products.

And for Charlotte (a reader, not a sex toy) who asked where to get Betty Dodson’s vaginal strengthening barbell, both Good For Her (175 Harbord) and Come As You Are (701 Queen W.) carry it, along with the Lelo line, which also includes their own cleverly designed PC-strengthening system called Luna. I did some firming exercises with mine the other day while watching the BBC series Echo and Other Elephants. If there’s one thing that’ll get you wanting to do your Kegels it’s watching elephants give birth.