[back to Blush index]

A Free Ride

20-feb-2003

As a yellow cab pulled up to the curb, Dorothy turned to me— with the car lights shining in her dark moony eyes— and asked, “Are you sure you don’t mind?” We had called two cabs, since we were heading in opposite directions, and since she was a bio–girl, I thought it safer for her to take the first, despite my goth–inspired outfit. I was in a micro–mini dress (100% pleather), a messy black bob, with dark lips and goth–smeared eyes. We’d been at a party where she’d hoped a drag queen date would shake a few people up. Somehow, perhaps because I was still idealistic, meaning I was convinced drag could change the world one person at a time, I thought my outfit terribly clever and effective. By the end of the night while we were standing under the cold stars waiting for our rides, the suspicion that a vampy queen in a party of earnest leftie politicos wasn’t the best marriage made me eager for home.

The cabbie switched off the lit plastic box atop its roof. “You go first,” I said, authoritatively. I gave her a kiss and she climbed in the back door. We waved to each other as the cab pulled out.

Because I’m a starving artist with a healthy dose of punk–rock in me, I’ve been known to cut corners. “How’d you get here?” friends will ask at the bar, and I’ll say, “Bus.” By midnight, though, the streets are dangerous for hairy girls in tight dresses. I’ve had men threaten to kill me while I waited in something way too sexy to be standing at a bus stop. Times like that, I step confidently to the curb and call out my three favourite letters of the alphabet, the first three: C, A, B.

Finally, my cab pulled up. I climbed in the back seat, shivering, thankful for the heater. I was hoping my balls might drop back into place.

He said hello. I said hi, told him where I lived and, tired, watched the houses pass by. Before we’d travelled the first block, the driver asked, “Fun party?”

I said yes. He asked if I was going home. Yes, again. Then he asked if I was done for the night.

“Yah,” I said, knowing I was repeating myself, “I’m going home.”

He asked something then, with his voice muffled. Something, something blowjob. His eyes in the rear–view mirror were staring into mine.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“One more blowjob?” he repeated.

I got hard so fast I was afraid I’d made stretch marks on my dick. Cabby sex is one of my personal fantasies. I decided not to tell him I wasn’t a tranny prostitute because that might spoil his mood.

I asked where. He said my place. I said the car; he said no, it wasn’t safe pulling over. I said he could keep driving. He shrugged a yes. I told him to pull over. He did. Walking behind the car to the passenger side door, I wished I’d worn a longer coat. My dick was pointing straight out, ruining the line of my dress.

Once inside, I tapped the meter. “You should turn this off.”

He pulled out his sausage and I had a drive–through snack.

Luckily, he came faster than he drove. He was done before we pulled up outside my place. I noticed, though, that the meter read $5.60. Once parked, he tried to collect. I gave him a glare. “I’d told you to turn it off.”

“Just give me 5 dollar,” he bargained.

After so many bus stop death threats, this wasn’t intimidating. “Look,” I said, “a blowjob is 50 bucks. You’re 45 up. I’m not paying you.” With that, I ran out of the car. By the time I’d crossed the road, he was gone.

I was proud of myself. I got my thrill and the greedy bugger got his, but nothing more. There’s no such thing as a free ride, sure, but it didn’t cost me my self–respect.