Icky Old Men
We are about to meet Judy and Ruth Ann — two hawt gurlz who
work the same shift serving drive-through ice cream. They are not sexay chix,
but are both perky and kind of pretty. This may have been an unspoken
qualification for their being hired. They neither knew nor cared.
They have never given any deliberate thought to the perks of
being pretty. The blessed ease of acquitting their lives comes with the same
presumption of privilege as being free, white and 21, which they will be in a
few years, as well. On the other hand, they are well-acquainted with the
burdens of their pulchritude.
People look at pretty girls. People stare at pretty girls —
especially boys do. It’s usually kind of nice to be looked at by boys —
especially the kind of young men who exude virility and strut their masculinity
like a mating Greater Sage-grouse. The attention feels nice enough to move you
to join into this self-reinforcing behavior by wearing pretty-damn-attractive
outfits, holding and moving yourself with more than a hint of competitive
pride, and, you know, being preternaturally perky.
