Red Light, Green Light

For the past two nights, I've had fleeting conversations with someone who I very much suspect is a sex worker, who's caught me twice on the street. (This is in addition to the fleeting conversations that I usually have, which go something like, "Hi SIR, massage?" "No, but thank you for offering," breathless, well-endowed stranger.)

The snag is that I also very much suspect that he is not eighteen and hence not CUREC-approved, which is why our conversations have been fleeting. On the off-chance that he is eighteen, though, I'm about to go out to hunt down a pineapple vendor, and that's a euphemism for skulking around his street with a copy of my survey in my shoulder-bag (but also hopefully finding pineapples). I'm like a Boy Scout, except there is no merit badge that I'm aware of for interviewing gay prostitutes.