Amber naked for steve phone who is bob whitfield dating
‘Man you need a chainsaw you shave that bush,’ wrote one.
The girl, around 7 years old, beams for the camera. The painted ladies of Times Square have become Public Enemy No. Then, in the middle of Times Square, they throw on a robe and strip underneath it. Chris draws a heart-shaped American flag design on my chest, stripes down my legs and the letters “NY” on my butt in red and white. Two of the women pose with me, everyone hysterically giggling as I turn around to flash my NY butt, and they get the message. Of course, lots of solo male travelers want a picture. At 6 p.m., when commuters supplant the tourists, I take a 20-minute restroom break with the girls.
” I say, crouching down so my feathered headdress and star-spangled painted boobs fit into the picture, her little brother also squeezing in. Just another happy customer for me, the Scourge of New York City. Andrew Cuomo says they remind him of the bad old days; Mayor Bill de Blasio immediately created a task force to try to ban them. A baby-faced rapper wannabe, Chris works as a combination artist and security guard. the following day with either a red, white or blue thong and heels. Chris told me how it works: First the girls (Saira and Chris’ girlfriend, Amanda, 23) go into Sephora to use the free samples to do their makeup.
That evening I purchased my outfit: white wedge flip-flops (Payless, $24.99) and a blue thong (Victoria’s Secret, $10.50), got a bikini wax and gave myself a red mani-pedi. I always wanted to end up on Broadway, but not like this. “The weird thing is that this doesn’t feel that weird,” I say to my fellow painted lady, Amanda. Like any other gig in New York City, it’s the constant hustle. A swarm of NYPD officers appears at 8 p.m., handing out red cards that read “Tipping street performers is optional” in five languages. Saira tells me that one or two painted ladies give others a bad name by shaking their booties, pretending to kiss people and being pushy.
Plenty of people look at me with disdain when I ask if they want a photo, but are happy to take free pictures from a distance. Another puts his arm around my waist and says, “You’ve got nice tits.” That feels gross. Chris points out an undercover cop standing near us — after years of doing this, he knows them all. The costumed characters mob clueless tourists, demanding tips in a way I never witness the other painted ladies — at least six of us — do.
Saira introduced me to Chris, who has been a painted lady “manager” for four years.