All girls who live in the city are, unfortunately, very used to being harassed on the street all day er’day.  From the cliche cat-calling construction workers to homeless men telling you to “smile beautiful,” to street vendors calling, “I love you!” as you pass,  we’ve adapted to this.  Being hassled on the street has become so ingrained as a “norm” in my mind, that when I visit my Mom in her small town and no one on the street tells me I have nice eyes, I actually think, “Wow, I must look rough today!”

All of this just to stress how high my sexual harassment tolerance level has become since living in Philadelphia.

Which maybe explains why I never really gave much thought to the cab driver who offered me a free ride in exchange for sex.

The guy I was seeing at the time had flagged me down a cab after leaving the movies.  A few blocks into the ride, the driver decided to start chatting.  ”That your boyfriend?”  All girls know that in times of creeperness, it is best to say that yes, they do have a boyfriend, no matter what the truth is, so I said yes.  A few more blocks, then, “Ever been with a black man?”  Oh God, why am I still so far from home?  ”No.”  ”Well, I’m bigger than your boyfriend you know.”

Now, every girl in the city has been told by at least one black man on the street that he is “bigger than” her boyfriend.  I only wish that at those times, I could respond with the clarity of mind and wit of my friend Corey and quip, “Oh? Have you seen his penis?”  But in the moment, I wasn’t thinking very well on my feet and just didn’t respond.  Until he took it a step further, “I could slip in the back for a minute and show you, then I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go for free.”

Whhhhaaaaat? “I’ll just get out here, thanks, right here is fine,” I stammered.  Really? I thanked him?!  And c’mon, I’m pretty sure the going rate for some backseat sex is a little more than a $10 cab ride.

Turns out, after talking to my friends about it, creeper cab driver scenarios are pretty common.  Granted, all of my friends are gorgeous, stylish young women living in a major city, so my sampling is admittedly skewed.  But still.

One morning my friend H was running late for work, so she grabbed a cab.  When they got there, she realized she didn’t have any cash and pulled out her credit card.  ”The machine’s broken,” the driver barked.  Now, drivers say that a lot, just because they prefer to be paid in cash so they get their tips right away, but usually give in if you push it.  Apparently this guy’s machine was really broken.  ”I wish you’d told me that when I first got in,” H told him, “Could you drive me to an ATM?”  He refused and rested his arm on the back of the passenger seat.  ”There are other ways you could pay you know…” he winked, peering back at H through the plastic divider.  With that, H just got out and walked away, and her ride to work was  free – sort of.

Several friends recounted times a cabbie wouldn’t stop honking at them.  Honking at pedestrians is a common, and obnoxious, tactic drivers use to proclaim, “Hey, I’m here! Wanna ride!?”  Well, no, I don’t, because if I did, I would have flagged you down.  But some guys just won’t quit, going so far as to slow down to a crawl and drive along beside us as we walk.  ”Hey sweetie/honey/girl, you need a ride?”  ”No, I don’t.”  ”It’ll be freeee…”

Gross, I know, but it happens all the time.  ”Women’s Issues” are a hotspot right now, and alongside topics like birth control and “legitimate rape,” being harassed by cab drivers may not seem like such a big deal.   But it is one more reminder that, although women rule the roost in every sitcom, we are still far from equal in real life.

Oh God this is awkward.  You are singing to me.  Like really serenading me with a love ballad that I’m pretty sure you are making up as you go along.

We just got back to your place after dinner for what I was assuming would be a drink and some schmakin’ out.  I didn’t factor an awkward serenade into the equation.  If I’d known about it, I’d probably just have stayed home tonight.

Belting out a bar or two of “Don’t Stop Believing” when it comes on in the car is one thing – perfectly acceptable.  Picking up your room mates’s guitar and crooning a heartfelt tune to a captive audience (me) is quite another.  AKA don’t do it.

First of all, I really can’t understand why you would think this was even close to a good idea.  I guess you’re trying to be romantic, and soulful etc. etc. etc. and that I should appreciate this attempt to sweep me off my feet.

But secondly, and more importantly, this is really super awkward for me.  What am I even supposed to be doing right now?  Just sort of stand here and smile in appreciation until your song is over?  Should I be swaying?  Would it be rude to make myself a drink while this is happening?  Were you hoping I’d video this performance and tag you in it later with a <3?

Really, I’ve heard enough, you can stop now.  I’ll let it slide this once because you’re cute, but please never do it again.

We’ve had a number of day dates and have met for drinks a couple of times.  You send flirty texts all day, and whisper sweet nothings while we sip coffee in the park.  Things seem to be shaping into a Grade-A Premium real life boyfriend relationship and I am pretty excited.

There’s just one step we’ve skipped thus far, and I’m eager to remedy that.  We have yet to participate in the time honored tradition of the dinner date.  It’s not that I’m a stickler for tradition, no sir, but I would still like the opportunity to get all dolled up and eat some food that I didn’t unwrap and microwave on high for 5-7 minutes.

I pitch the idea to you.  I paint a lovely picture of wine and candle-light.  You don’t seem too in to the idea.  You grunt that restaurants are crowded and overpriced.   I say that I will wear high heels and maybe even some fancy underwear.

“Alright,” you begrudgingly agree.  ”You pick a place.”

Now, I would have preferred that you picked the spot, but I am willing to take what I can get here.  After spending quite some time on Yelp, and having my first few (6) suggestions shot down, you finally agree to meet me at a new Thai place.  ”I might have to work late that night though,” you precaution.  How could you possibly know that already?  It’s next week! That’s like saying, “Oh, I think I’m going to be sick that day,” – a crystal clear potential cop-out.

Any visions of you showing up at my door with a bouquet in hand are dashed.  Even so, when the night finally arrives I am still pretty pumped.  I shave my legs, paint my nails, and dust off my fancy shoes.  I’m ready to have a nice meal, laugh and gaze into your eyes, making it clear to the other diners that we are a hip young couple in love.

Nope.

Not to be had.  When you finally show up, you are grump grump grumpy.  You make it painfully clear that having dinner with me is the last thing you want to be doing right now.  No adoring eye-gazing here folks.

I feel like a lonely 50′s housewife who had to beg her business man husband to spend a romantic evening with her.  I feel like a 10 year old who had to throw her own birthday party and then no one even came.  I feel like an unwanted kitten tossed to the side of the road.

You don’t make conversation.  You answer my questions with one syllable.  You keep checking your phone.  When we’re done eating and I hesitantly suggest dessert you frown, saying you’re full and have an early meeting.

Well geez peez, so sorry for dragging you to this lovely restaurant and looking gorgeous.  This must have been really tough for you, you poor thing.

I don’t know what happened.  After weeks of you saying we have so much in common and how we’re so good together, how can it all go to hell simply because I wanted to wear a dress and have dinner?  I’d understand if you had a rough day and were just not feeling it. But you were against the idea from the start.

Dinner dates are supposed to be fun.  A nice romantic meal, some wine, and definitely followed by some shmaking out.

Why do you hate fun?

I hate a lot of things.  One thing I really hate is when people start a sentence with the words, “Give me,” or even worse, a rough “Gimme.”  As a barista I hear those words waaay more often than I would like.

“Gimme a large hot,” they grunt, throwing a couple crumpled up dollars on the counter.  Guys who address you with a “Gimme” are also at higher risk for calling you something like, “sweetie,” or “babydoll” when you hand them their drink.

All in all, it’s pretty gross.  Please, just put in the effort to utter a few extra syllables and form a full sentence when ordering your coffee.  Either that, or make up for your rudeness by tipping veerrryyy well.  You can call me anything if you toss a $10 in the tip jar.

“What’s that? She lost your thermos!? Well in that case, you’re free to go sir.”

Psh.  I bet that fool only used his fancy thermos to swig whiskey out of while he “looked for a job.”  And when he got tired of that, he’d join his pals at the bar, because job hunting is thirsty work.

From the looks of him, his old lady got a few good swings in though, so good for her.

None of the G&G Girls have a whole lot of boob going on.  We are all ok with that, as we do not have to wear bras.  We will write a tome of admiration to our tiny girls later (because we have a lot to say on the matter,) but for now, well, we just wanted to share this with you.

This book is making its way around the internet, after being posted on Reddit, and while we have to admit that it’s pretty hilarious, it also made us kind of sad.

At first glance, we were like, “The Advantages of Being Small Breasted!?” Awesome, we love to hear nice things about having no boobs, because we don’t have any! But then, upon closer inspection, we realized that the joke was on us.  From the “New Enlarged Edition!” to the authors names – Hugh C. Nothing and Ann A. Kupp…?  So clever.

As for the contents of this new “breast seller?”  Nothing.  Every single page is blank, because according to “Dr. Nothing,” the advantages of small breasts are just that…nothing.

So, haha, very funny guys.

But also…How Rude!

Halloween is rapidly approaching, and I know that you are all getting concerned about what food/animal/household object to be the sexy version of this year.  Well, as per usual, G&G is here to help.  We highly recommend that you head on over to Yandy.com  and peruse their extensive listing of sexy costumes.  Like the sexy watermelon over there, made out of (we’re not making this up,) “cuddle plush,” a fabric described as being “unbelievably soft, warm and cuddly.”  Who wouldn’t want to take a bite out of that?

Check out more of our favorites after the jump, then get shopping girls!

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Holy Moly we write about alcohol a lot.  But we just really needed to tell you about this.  A German liquor company is staying abreast (!!!) of the competition using just that – breasts.

“G-Spirits” (we thought it stood for “gross” or “gratuitous,” but the G stands for “gentleman”) has begun marketing an exclusive line of vodka, rum and whiskey that has been poured over the enormous breasts of young, attractive women.

Yes.  Poured right over their boobies and into a bottle for you to enjoy.  The rum is stored in a cask of French oak for 10 years before being poured over the breasts of 23 year old Amina Malakona, who has previously “graced” the covers of Maxim, Penthouse and Playboy.  G. Whiskey No. 1, a 12-year-old single malt, has been christened by the nips of Alexa Varga, the 2012 Hungary Playmate of the Year.  What a claim to fame.  And last but not least, G&G’s liquor of choice – the vodka – has trickled over the peaks and valleys of Miss Evelin Aubert, a “successful playmate,” and “Miss International Hungary” finalist.

While this definitely falls into the “by douches for douches” category, we have to admit…it’s kind of brilliant.  This booze comes with certificates of authenticity, and is pricey, with the rum, whiskey and vodka selling for $166, $179 and $153, respectively, and they’ll sell out for sure.  You can read more on their official website, just know that there are lots of nips over there.