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Taxi Cab Confession

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 PERSONAL ESSAYS

Taxi Cab Confession


I used to have a certain predilection for cab drivers — particularly ugly ones. Generally, my taste leans towards young, good-looking men. Unless he’s a cab driver. Then he should be ugly. The fact of the matter is, if I’ve had one or too many drinks, I often wake up the next morning with a gritty, distant memory of leaning in towards my cab driver and asking, “So, did you just start your shift? Are you just wrapping up your shift  . . . ?” It’s idle small talk to camouflage the fact that I’m measuring the odds, seeing what the chances are that we might abruptly careen into a darkened alleyway to engage in either genuinely unsavory sex or physical abuse and murder, whichever comes first.

    

Occasionally, things would get a little out of hand. After some light prompting, a cab driver asked if I wanted to move into the front seat to suck him off. But all I ending up blowing were my chances to sleep with an ugly cab driver. I retorted “Why don’t you come back here and suck me off?” At which point, he slammed on his breaks and started screaming, “I kill you! I kill you! I am Pakistani!” This was enough to make me stop courting taxi drivers for awhile. And when things started to become very serious between my boyfriend and I, my fetish for sex with the meter running waned completely.

    

Only to resurface completely. My boyfriend and I had been dating for a year, and living together for six months. Things weren’t going very well; we didn’t seem to trust one another. We always thought the other was cheating. Therefore, we’d spend every waking moment together to make sure neither of us could get away with anything. It was great — great when he suddenly had to take a three-day vacation out to California (his sister had a baby). The first night he was gone, I went out alone and sat down to a relaxing Absolut Mandarin. “This is wonderful,” I thought. Six or seven Absolut Mandarins later, I began to feel incredibly claustrophobic and strange (where is my boyfriend? where is my boyfriend? I have to get out of here!). Next thing I knew, I was having a panic attack, clutching my chest and thinking I was about to have a heart attack. I staggered out of the bar, knocking over a chair, and went out into the street. It was around 3:45 in the morning and I had just staggered in front of a cab with my hand out.

    

First of all, this cab driver wasn’t ugly. In fact, he was quite good-looking and quite young. Second of all, I headed right into the front seat and barked out my address. A burst of mania can make you do amazing things. I have no idea how I got away with undoing his belt and having his pants pulled down by the time we were only three blocks away from the bar. I was alternately jacking him off and sucking him off, and he kept uttering this ridiculous plea in a thick Pakistani accent: “I am not a woman! I am not a woman!” Sure, he could whimper all he wanted — but seeing as he was sporting an enormous erection, I couldn’t take these pleas very seriously. Besides that, he parked right across the street from my apartment and let me finish him off. “I am not a woman!” he kept whimpering breathlessly. “No, I am not a woman!” He was actually saying this as a jolt of his come shot against the steering wheel. There was so much of it, I sometimes wonder if he’d ever had an orgasm before in his life. “I am not a woman . . . ” he sighed. “Like hell you aren’t!” I exclaimed, wiping my hand against the upholstery. I knew that statement would get him; he was suddenly embarrassed and utterly enraged.

    

“You must pay!” he screamed as I threw open the door. “You must pay!” He was still screaming this as I entered the apartment building, but I wasn’t too concerned that he would follow me; he’d have to do some serious cleaning up before leaving that cab. “You must pay . . . !”

    

He was right about that. I confessed my macabre tale to my boyfriend and we
broke up a short time after. It was probably for the best, anyway. Maybe it’s just something I needed to get out of my system. Since the incident, I haven’t had a single impulse to sleep with another cab driver — or, for that matter, a single impulse to find another boyfriend.


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Simon Zekely and Nerve.com