The Day I Found Out that I have a "Reputation"

One Saturday night, I was invited to a Victorian salon at a burlesque studio.  I donned fishnets and a short satiny one-shoulder red dress and pinned flowers in my hair.  I drank merlot.  I was wicked fancy.  (Haha)  In the torch-lit backyard of the studio whilst aerialists fluttered overhead, I met a very charming knife thrower who makes his own knives out of old saw blades.  (I should make mention that a large branch of the St. Louis burlesque scene has intertwined with sideshow carnivale acts, so it was not at all unusual that he should be in attendance of this soiree.)  I’d actually seen him perform some months before, so I sort of knew who he was. 
            As we conversed, he said he works in finance during the week, and does the knife show on weekends.  It occurred to me that I, too, have a corporate cubicle job during the week and play with knives on the weekends, and made mention of this.  Before responding, he first assured me that he was “safe” due to the fact that he has a girlfriend, then said “That is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” which for some reason seems to be a popular opinion.  (What is it about a woman who can maneuver a knife through meat, blood, gristle, fat, and bone?) 

Then a realization hit him; he asked where I worked, and said he’d heard of me.  Allow me to reiterate:  he’d heard of me.  Being a performer I’m sure people recognize him all the time; that’s what happens when you regularly put yourself on stage under a spotlight.  But there is no earthly reason why anyone—especially someone from the glittery burlesque world of tassels, pasties, rhinestones, and feathers—should hear about a girl who spends her weekends in the grimy back room of a meat shop up to her wrists in chicken goo. 

Apparently the knife thrower has a friend who was in the shop buying meat a few weeks prior, and had such a memorable experience he couldn’t wait to share it.  I think it was described as “A little family owned place with really good, really cheap meat . . . and then there’s this hot chick working there!”  I explained that I typically don’t help out in the front of the shop, so I don’t know how his friend would have seen me, and he countered, “All it takes is a glance.”  Granted, there could be any number of “hot chicks” working at the handful of other meat shops in the city, though he seemed pretty adamant that it was me to whom his friend referred.  But I suppose there are worse things a girl could be known for.