I had just gotten back to my building when the rain started coming down in sheets. I hovered in the doorway, my back to the street, fumbling with my keys. I had just spent a half hour on the treadmill at the gym — I was soaked to the bone with sweat and rain, my hair sticking out in every direction, my cheeks red and burning. I was probably panting with exhaustion. Just then, a giant guy on crutches with a shower cap on his head slowly swings by, appraising me with his eyes.

“You know honey,” he says, in the best urban gay accent I’ve heard in a long time, “You ain’t all that.”