Taxicab Depressions

I get propositioned by women for sex twice a month, on average. Most of the time, there is no diplomacy, no tact, no seduction, no grace or elan…    just a blunt, “Will you come in and do me?” Typically, it is a woman in her late thirties or early forties, attractive, moneyed, well-dressed, bored, with one or two (or four) too many glasses of Merlot in her…   she has struck out at the bar tonite, and this is her last chance to get laid this eve. I like to think I am a decent looking guy, but I tend to believe that it is the alcohol talking, and had this saucy little hunnee not ordered those last three Tequila Fannybangers at Wahoo Willie’s Tiki Bar, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Not that they want to get out of paying me; this is on top of their fares. They just want to get laid, and the alcohol has broken down any inhibition or obstacle they might have had to simply asking directly.

Now, before you start thinking that driving a taxi is a great way to pull some ass, don’t jump to conclusions. There’s at least ten different ways taxi pussy can go sideways on you, even if you aren’t married to a hot-headed redhead from Texas like I am. I just can’t come home covered in pussy and stripper glitter…    that will go badly for me, I’m certain of that. Nevermind all the guns in the house, my hunnee has a penchant for cast iron cookware, and I’m a heavy sleeper…   thanks, but no thanks…

I was talking to a guy that drives for another taxi company one night, and he told me about how years ago he picked up a hot girl in her twenties who wooed him into coming up to her apartment to have “just one drink”, and the next thing he knows, he’s nuts-deep in this drunken little trollop. Two hours later, his dispatcher is looking for him; it seems the girl called the cops and said she was raped by the taxi driver, and whaddaya know, there is taxi driver DNA all over the girl and all over the sheets and all over the apartment, and his fingerprints on a glass. In the end, after voluntarily returning to the “scene of the crime” and talking with the officers, and after grilling the girl a little more intensely on what actually happened, the cops believed his story more than hers and he wasn’t charged with anything, but there is a lesson to be learned there.

Don’t shit where you eat, as the old saying goes…   and definitely don’t leave DNA splattered all over the place. These women are invariably wasted, and a lot of them are psycho…   make no mistake about that. In any event, most of these bitches aren’t in their right minds, if they had one to begin with. And if she’s wasted, it doesn’t matter if you roofied her up or some douchebag in the club did, it is YOUR DNA that is the question here.

I once had a woman ask me, “Soooo…    are you happily married…?”

And my first thought was “Happily married”? As though if I said that I was unhappily married, we would have a lot more to talk about right now. I’m just astonished that they don’t even know my name, but are amenable to anonymous sexual congress nonetheless, right here in the back seat of a taxi, if need be. I wonder if the pizza guy or the pest control technician gets the same sort of propositions.

One woman in particular stands out in my memory…   one of my first. She came weaving out of the Yacht Club sometime around 2AM, clearly wasted. She was about forty or forty-five and honestly, very, very attractive…    well built, wearing a tight blouse, a fairly short skirt, hose and high heels, tasteful jewelry, perfect nails…   sexy, but not slutty. She obviously had some money; I somehow got the vibe that she not only married well, she divorced well, too. She tumbles into the car, and we are off to her rather plush condominium out on the beach. Ohhh, she’s wasted, all right…   and within 5 minutes of chit-chat after picking her up, she says, “Damn, you’re handsome. Are you single?”

I glance in my mirror and I think she has undone a button or two on her blouse. I can see a lot of cleavage and the lacy top edges of her bra.  Jeeeez….

“No, I’m thoroughly married…   got a brand new baby girl…   wanna see a photo…?”

“Yes, let me see”, she says, and coos over my baby’s photo for a few seconds…    maybe that was not a great idea, because I somehow get the feeling that a baby picture reminded her of something unpleasant in her past or present. She looks and sounds a little sad and depressed for the next few minutes.

We are getting close to her condo and I stop for a traffic light. She says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure…” I reply.

She says, “Look at me.”

I’m driving a van on this night. The back seat is a bench seat, and she is sitting in the middle row bucket seat on the passenger side. She has thrown her left leg over the arm rest, forcing her skirt open and revealing her thigh-high stockings and panties that match her lacy bra. It is obvious that she intended for this underwear to be seen tonight. Her finger is lazily tracing a line along her inner thigh, and she says, “Do you think I am attractive?”

This feels like a scene from a movie, like I’m watching it from a distance, rather than participating in it…   a total stranger that doesn’t even know my name is trying to seduce me in a taxi cab…   positively surreal…

“Yes, I do.” I said.

“Well, no one at the club seemed to think so.”

“Well, back in my single days, I’m certain that you would have had my undivided attention at the club. It’s a shame that I am married….” Not that I regret being married, mind you, I just wanted to remind her that I am indeed married while simultaneously trying to throw a little game at her, stroke her ego a little, and maybe get a good tip at the end of this ride. The light changes, and I turn back to driving. We arrive at her condo and the gate guard waves us through. I pull up in front of her door, put the car in park, and turn back to her.

Her fare is 15 or 16 bucks. She pulls out a stack of bills from her purse. She scoots up to the edge of the seat, legs open, and leans in close to me in the driver’s seat, showing off a lot of cleavage. She says, “Would you consider…   coming inside for a little bit?”

“I can’t…   bar close is coming up. I really have a lot of work still to do tonite…”

She stares at me for fifteen or twenty seconds, like she is waiting for me to change my mind. She then hands me a twenty and says, “That is for the taxi fare, and this twenty is for you…” and she counts out the remaining 7 twenty dollar bills…   “and this is 140 dollars for your time, if you will come in.”

“Really,” I said. “I gotta go. We are busy tonite…   I can’t get away from work because my dispatcher will be looking for me, and I told you I’m married. I can’t come in. I’m really flattered that you asked, but I really have to go.”

She looks a little disappointed, and she slowly gets out and walks away toward the rear of my car. I take a 30 second break to exhale. I was just about to fill out my paperwork when she pops up in my window. She’s still got the money in her hand, and she sticks her head in the window and breathes into my ear, “I mean it, this is yours…   just come in and fuck me…”

This didn’t come out erotic…   it sounded “needy”. Not like “I haven’t had sex in a long time and I’m really horny…”   it sounded more like she had some horrible stuff deep in the well of her psyche, and someone pretending to care about her for an hour would take the edge off of whatever it was that was eating at her…   it just came across as sad, rather than seductive.

And quite possibly boil-the-bunny crazy…

Every cost/benefit analysis I have run on pulling a random piece of ass on the job has come up wanting…   just not worth it.