It's the way that you do it.

I walked today, around the area that I work. I do this fairly often, book in hand, lost in my head, lost in interpretation and application. Sometimes I walk for a couple of miles before returning to the office. Sometimes only a mile, mile and a half.

I like to walk. I like to hear the sound of the traffic rolling by me, the trucks and the people on their way to the airport, always late, always rushing. Occasionally I'll pass other people walking, some solo travelers, some pairs. Most of the time, I don't even look up, just step to the side and keep walking. Sometimes they say hi. By the time their words have registered as not part of what I am reading, not part of the surrounding noise, but is almost an interaction with me, begging response, they're long gone.

Today I started Tropic of Cancer, and walked a little less than three miles.

In that time, I was honked or whistled at repeatedly. More so than on any other countless walks I have taken around this area. People in cars, with their standard horns, and then, more often than not, truckers attempting to honk and sometimes having the courtesy to tap the horn, as oppose to blast it as they launch past me.

I started paying a little more attention to my surroundings by the second mile, if just so the occasional blaring horn would startle the shit out of me, jarring me out of my pages.

This activity amuses me. These catcallers tend to fall into one of two categories:

1. The stupid. The ones who think that women actually find this sort of behavior flattering, the ones who consider it normal and a way of expressing appreciation.

2. The dicks. The ones who know it isn't flattering, the ones who know that a person walking down the street will be startled by their horns and whistles, the ones who enjoy objectification of women.

Not that I'm complaining about being objectified.

I just prefer it in the bedroom, not the street.

Either way, I prefer the latter. The ones with half a brain, the ones I would get enjoyment out of, if solely on a bantering level. It's always fun to sit there, innocent blue eyes, pink lips, and watch them play the asshole game before you rip them down.

The look on their face when they realize they're talking to someone who isn't offended by their behavior or ideas, who finds amusement in it, and revels in turning their cocky behavior into offended disgust.

Yes, I love those guys. I could entertain myself for hours with them.