(continued)

Test Site:
New York Sports Club
Midtown
(tshirthell.com)

Results: In the weight room, I sashay up to a guy who looks like an NFL linebacker—a very heterosexual linebacker. With the arrow on my shirt identifying him as an enthusiastic admirer of the male sexual organ, I ask if he'd mind spotting me. "Not a bit," he says. After grunting through a couple of sets, I thank him while ostentatiously scratching the cock on my chest. "You're welcome," he replies, with what might be a wink or a spasm of ill-repressed anger. I shower at home.

Test Site: Bar Tabac
Brooklyn
(tshirthell.com)

Results: I approach a casually dressed cutie who's sitting on a stool, alone. (Perhaps her fat friend is in the bathroom sobbing about the media's cruel beauty standards.) "How's it going?" I ask, puffing up my chest. She gives the shirt a once-over, then replies with an inviting smile, "Good! What's your name?" Hers is Nadine, and she chats me up for 10 minutes before I start feeling guilty. I make an excuse and bolt. Maybe the age of irony has finally eclipsed the feminist revolution.