A free ride

Because I’m a starving punk-rock queen, 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 at a bus stop. Times like that, I walk confidently and call out my three favourite letters of the alphabet. The first three: C, A, B.

One late night after a house party in residential East Van, I was standing on the curb in a micro-mini pleather dress, a messy black bob and goth-smeared eyes, when 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 voiced 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,” 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.