"What are you, a lesbian?" he prodded at the one girl to their three boys. His friend's girlfriend apparently didn't want his hand on her ass, so the slinging ensued.

It was simply by chance that we passed them at that moment, a moment they seized, thinking we were two who might be intimidated by three leering, snickering boys, on the cusp of being grown men, who either way should know better.

What is it, I wonder, that gives men this sense of entitlement? What makes this public place, this sidewalk, more theirs than ours? We are walking. We are not holding hands. We are aware of eyes on and all around us, whose glares reflect disgust and sometimes danger.

Still, we must walk like a threat because they immediately launch their attack. "Hey, which one's the man?" They spit word after word after word at us until finally, I'm sick of it.

There's a leader and I find him.

"Why don't you say that to my face?" I ask, charging him (as my partner later recalls).

He runs. He runs into the street and away from me. His friends are laughing nervously, a bit unsure what to expect. Satisfied he's backed down, we turn back to our walk, only to hear the insults resume.

"Well, I guess they're both the man. Or no, the one in the jeans. She's the man."

It's always when the taunts (inevitably) return to Gina that I become enraged, some protectiveness in me that's one part the "privilege" I have because not everyone thinks I'm a dyke and another part the love that cannot tolerate harsh words thrown at someone who means the world to me.

Again, I turn around. But this time I grab for his shirt. In my mind, I see myself pull him into my palm strike, knocking him dizzy, the way their words are dizzying in my ears. But he's quick and runs away from me. I look to the other three, who have now become quiet. "What makes you think it's ok to talk to people like that? If someone were here throwing racial insults at you, you wouldn't appreciate it. How is that any different from what you're doing to us? You need to shut the fuck up." I'm not so angry that I'm blind. And I don't speak for them as much as for myself. Because I'm angry and I want them to hear it from me.

They beg off. They point to their friend. They refuse to defend him, placing the blame for the jeering squarely on his shoulders. Suddenly, I hear another pack of people on the corner say, "Man, she's gonna kick his ass."

I look over to find Gina on the corner, fists clenched, the boy looking like a cornered animal. I laugh out loud at the sight of him--a deflated hot air balloon. All talk. Nothing to back it up.

I learn later of their confrontation. He runs from me a second time and she goes after him. "Come here and talk to me. Come on, I'm just a girl," she says, pursuing. He backs up and backs up. "What's your problem? I bet I'm getting more pussy than you are." (I can attest to that ;) They come close to going to blows. She's sure she'll have to hit him and sure that he'll be bearing the brunt of all of the thousands of eyes, the multitude of comments, a lifetime of people thinking they are entitled to more space on the sidewalk and in the world. But, in the end, he just keeps running. And we make our way indoors, adrenaline rushing and sit down. There are no tears for me this time, only giggles and high fives, tempered by a dose of righteous anger. I feel happy to be able to speak out against that. I feel glad I do not feel the need to shrink under his words.

We return to the night, to our play. We are in love and we are together. And tonight we feel like that's more than enough.

But there's icing on this cake. Walking back to our hotel room, we pass a group of people we don't recognize. But they know us. "You should have kicked that guy's ass," they tell us cheerily.

"What?" we ask, caught off guard.

"You totally should have kicked that guys ass."

We laugh at the exchange and as we walk home I respond to them silently, "You know what? We did."

August 7, 2002