I was flirted with by women on four different occassions - twice they even struck up a conversation. The first conversant interaction happened while at a natural food store that I go to pretty frequently on lunch. Behind the counter I recognized the same cashier, who rang me up for the same chocolate chip cookie I get when my same sweet tooth starts tingling. But she didn't recognize the same old me.

SHE: "Do you work around here?" Bright smile. A flutter of eyelashes.

ME: "Uh...yeah."

SHE: "Are you Korean?" She was African-American.

ME: "No, Filipino."

SHE: "Oh, we have a lot of Korean food that I thought you might like. Enjoy your cookie." One more smile.

ME: "Uh...okay, thanks."

The next close encounter of the girl kind happened on the way from my office to the party venue. I was in a bit of a rush and probably looking all business-like and important as I zipped down the street. Suddenly, I got stopped when I was half a block from my destination.

SHE 2: "Do you know the way to St. Patrick's Cathedral?" As she turns me toward her with a light touch from her hand.

ME: "Uh...yeah. A few blocks that way."

SHE 2: "I'm a tourist, so I don't really know my way around. Is it far? Could you walk me there?" Her hand is still on my arm...

ME: "Uh...it's not far, and I, uh...can't."

At this point, I'm astounded. I get to the event and start making jokes with my co-workers about my new sexual identity.

CO-WORKER: "What are you doing there, Big Mouth?"

ME: "Oh, just contemplating the Super Bowl. Uh...when is the Super Bowl?"

For the life of me I can't figure out what it was about me that looked more straight. In fact, I'm fairly confident that I looked more gay than usual. My suit is a charcoal three-button Calvin Klein number with thin, thin, thin silver pinstripes. My shirt was a plum/pink color, and my tie was a delight of plum, silver, and espresso diagonals. My hair was American Crewed to death, and my loafers were slip-on Kenneth Coles. My co-workers said I looked a little Wall Street and suggested that rushing around Midtown as I was probably had the equivalent effect as wearing a flashing neon sign that said "Financial Security." But in bad ol' New York there are plenty of guys looking for financial security, too. How come I couldn't get any of the cute boys to trace their fingers against my palm as they handed me change or ask me to walk them to their far flung destinations?

The next day, with no questions answered about the links between my outward appearance and my inward self, I was walking from the subway station to my workplace in my puffy goose down jacket, plain blue and green sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes. My hair sported it's usual lack of combing. That day I looked like every guy, and, as we know, when people imagine every guy's sexuality, they imagine it to be straight. But what do I hear as I'm on my way into my office building?

RANDOM JERK ON THE STREET: "Hey, faggot."

It never felt so good to be treated so bad.