I’m riding in a subway on New Year’s Eve in NYC listening to two dudes talking loud enough for the whole car—half conversation, half performance.

They’re not really debating “sexy.” They’re auditioning: trading punchlines, scanning the aisle for a smirk, trying to get someone—anyone—to look up from their phone. Totally New York: turning a moving train into an open-mic night.

By the time I hit my stop, I figured I’d try their idea—sexy armor. The images are my guess at what these dudes imagined.

Dude 1: No, I’m telling you—anything can be sexy.
Dude 2: Anything?
Dude 1: Anything. Sexy is just confidence with zero shame.
Dude 2: That’s not sexy, that’s a personality disorder.
Dude 1: Exactly. It’s powerful.
Dude 2: Okay, then make something "stupid" - "sexy".
Dude 1: Armor.
Dude 2: …Armor? Like knights?
Dude 1: Not knights. Like—tailored. Like you could fight and also get into the club.
Dude 2: You’re insane.
Dude 1: I’m right. You see armor, you think: “She’s not explaining herself to anyone.”
Dude 2: That’s not a thing.
Dude 1: It’s New York. If you wear it like it’s a thing, it’s a thing.