invariability

i'm going to relate something for you which probably isn't remotely surprising or shocking to anyone, but that doesn't mean it isn't noteworthy. it got me to thinking, at least.
you see, it pretains to stereotypes--what they are and what they mean to both us as a populace and them as the -typed. is it justification for the generalization when it manifests itself, often repeatedly? is it condemnation of the generalization when it does the same, because maybe that's just an inherent way of life, a wholly natural action that happens to be propagated by a marginalized group? is it in any way deductive to even define these "stereotypes," any more than it is to attempt to divine understanding simply from a person's diction or his hair color or his waist size? am i, as a member of a majority, often looking down my nose at the subjects, actually the one being manipulated--fooled into rejecting the presence of individuality by the recognition of a shared trait that is really in no way inherent but actually ascribed by me upon them? or are they unfortunate and unknowing actors in a play that's been scripted for them by someone else, relegated through time, circumstance, and repetition to merely doing what's expected of them? are they ignorant byproducts or are they beautiful naifs? am i an ugly definer or an enlightened discerner?
decide for yourself. what follows is as truthfully as i can relate something i witnessed on an F train this morning.

i was standing in the closed entrance well of the subway car when several people entered through the opposite door, including one black woman, perhaps 28-30, who stood in the other half of the entrance well to my left. also boarding the train was one large black man of similar age who ended up directly opposite the woman after the doors shut behind him. the woman was wearing a black overcoat and some kind of skirt/dress that left her whole black-stripe-stockinged lower leg exposed, and below that a rather garish pair of black, red, and excessively silver heels. it was this silver which briefly caught my eye. what caught the man's eye was neither silver nor brief. i'm not sure how long it took me to notice that this gentleman was doing some serious perving on the woman, but to say that he was "checking her out" is akin to saying that the bomb we dropped on hiroshima did "a little damage." the woman wasn't leaning against the doors like i was, instead standing about a foot in front of me, so i couldn't get her reaction to the man's leerish affrontery, but i can assure you that while i am in no way prudish, it was surely making me uncomfortable. of course, just as i had about reached my limits with his slow up and down rape-eyed stares, what did the man do but start to slowly lick his lips. i'm not sure how i kept myself from laughing. thankfully by this time we'd nearly reached bryant park and i didn't have to ponder if i'd have to intervene in a felonious assault by the time we got to queens. then, to my surprise both the woman and the man exited in front of me at my stop. here i became truly curious and lagged behind slightly to see what would transpire. of course, if you've been reading this whole thing, you can probably guess: the woman reached into her purse, scribbled what can only be assumed was her number on a card, and handed it to the man. sufficiently amused by this resolution, i passed them on the stairs went about my business, smirking and philosophizing.