It’s ten-fifty when you get to Times Square. You come up on Seventh Avenue blinking. The sunlight is excessive. You grope for young shades. Down Forty-second Street, through the meat district. Every day the same spiel from the same old man: ‘Girls, girls, girls, — check ‘em out, check ‘em out, check ‘em out. Take a free look, gentlemen. Check it out, Check it out.’ The words and rhythm never vary. Kinky Karla, Naughty Lola, Sexsational Live Revue—-girls, girls, girls.