I am not your Habibi!

            Cupid is shooting his arrows at the wrong men. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse than being proposed to by a gas station attendant, now a pretzel and hot dog vendor was asking for my hand in marriage! FMSL! What made it worse....he asked me at a street corner in NYC.

    

No, I am not a prostitute (although I was working).

    

“Habibi!.....habibi!” (He whistles as if I will respond like a dog.) HABIBI!

    

I finally gave in to look out of curiosity to see what a habibi was. He could have been talking to a pigeon for all I know.

    

That pigeon was me.

    

“Hey, come here,” said the greasy, food vendor with a red bandana on his forehead.

    

I ignore him.

    

“Habibi! Let me talk to you.”

    

I keep looking away.

    

“Hey!” he said with a whistle.

    

“What?!” I shouted.

“I want to marry you,” said the rab, smiling with rotten teeth.

    

Repulsed, I said, “Ew!”

    

Marco, the food vendor, kept trying to talk to me as I was working. The only thing I kept saying was “no”!

    

He probably did not understand it. But then again, most men don’t. “No” is not in their vocabulary.

    

Marco kept saying some dirty things to me, both in broken English and in his native tongue to his coworker (or next door food vendor neighbor).

    

His neighbor knew better English and translated that Marco wants to marry me tonight and have crazy sex, in addition to other explicates that are too severe even for this blog. He swore that it would be the best I’d ever have…one I’ll never forget.

If that happened, I would hope to forget it!

“I’ll pay you $500,” Marco said, showing me a wad of hundreds in his wallet.

    

“No.”

    

Licking his lips, he said, “$3,000.”

    

I shriek and go back to work, feeling utterly disgusted. Why does this always happen to me? I think my seven years of bad luck for breaking that mirror expired five years ago!

    

Stuff like this always happens when the Disbeliever is not at work with me. I need that cock blocker at all times!

    

Then Marco offered me soda. I told him no. Of course he doesn’t take no for an answer. I asked for a Gatorade instead. Then he gave me a pretzel. I really did not want to accept them. I always think guys want something in return when they do favors. But I saw this as an opportunity to excuse myself to wash my hands first.

    

I took the pretzel and Gatorade and ran! I went inside to pack up and leave the joint before a food fight of pretzels and hot dogs starts over me.

     I saw him again the next day. Another day of harassment. Not only was Marco still on the prowl, but so was his neighbor! He offered me a two-for-one deal, $1,5000 “for a good f#%@^”. Just think, I could have walked home with $1,500 in my pocket! What a deal!

     But no deal!

     Keepin’ it real,

        Realist