Taxi Driver Confessions

Are you flirtin with me?

I froze. "Uhhhhhhhh," I stammered.

"I guess that's a 'no,'" she giggled, as she bounced out of the car.

I was really shy growing up, and I've managed to overcome it for the most part, but sometimes I still feel so out of my element that I freeze up and don't know what to do—so I blow an opportunity like that one.

The main reason I usually don't take people up on their party offers, though, is the competitive nature of the taxi business here. Drivers lease their cabs for exorbitant amounts of money and have to work 12 to 16 hours per day to make a living. Most new drivers lose money the first few weeks. If a driver takes a few hours off to go party, that driver won't make money that day. That's the main reason I don't take people up on their offers—and I get a lot of offers.

I've gained 65 pounds while driving a cab, and women still flirt with me. About a month ago, I picked up two wealthy Newport women who asked me to take them to the seediest part of Orange County. They had me stop so they could buy beer on the way, and it was only midafternoon. I drove them to a motel in Stanton. They said they wanted to have a "wild time" all night and asked if I wanted to come along. I declined; I wanted no part of that dysfunctional duo.

But sometimes the offers are too good to pass up. One night, at about 2:30 a.m., I pulled up to a Jack in the Box drive-through in Newport. In front of me, standing at the menu board, trying to order, was a long-legged blonde in a black minidress. The guy wouldn't take her order because she wasn't in a car. She asked if she could jump in the cab, and I said, "Sure." The guys in the cars ahead of me and behind me were yelling, trying to pick her up. As we waited in line, she said she was a model for Sexsea, and she'd gone to a party after a trade show. She bought my dinner, and then her friend, another model, jumped in to scarf down her food. It's amazing how women will pig out when there's no one around they want to impress. They were both smarter and cooler than the stereotypical model. We talked for 20 minutes or so, and then they went on their way. It's not every day a model buys me dinner.

I see a lot of boobs as a cab driver. I'm not sure why, but I'm not complaining. One time, at an after-hours club, a couple jumped in for a five-minute ride home. In that short span of time, the woman's top disappeared. She had a trench coat on, but the front was wide open. She paid the fare topless, a glow stick hanging around her neck, illuminating her large breasts.

Another time I picked up a couple at Gallagher's Pub and Grill in Huntington Beach. They were only going about 10 blocks, and the fare was around $3. The guy realized he only had a dollar and some credit cards on him. I told him to give me the dollar and not worry about it. He insisted on going into the house to find some cash so he could tip me. He left his beautiful girlfriend as collateral and stumbled, drunk, into the house. The girlfriend was really cool, and we joked around while we waited for him. After about five minutes, he came back out, gave me 9 bucks, and shook my hand. As his girlfriend got out of the car, he said, "This guy's really cool, hon. Show him your tits." The amazing thing is that she did. You gotta love those new-school halter tops.

One of the crazier incidents I've witnessed started at Aysia 101 on a Friday night. Three very good-looking but very loud women jumped into my taxi, shouting at everyone around them and making fun of all the rich Newport guys. I had barely pulled away from the club when one of them yelled, "I want to suck some Orange County guy's cock tonight!" She paused a moment and then said, "Hey, driver! You're from Orange County, right?"

"Yeah," I replied. She slithered over the seat and started to tell me she was cute and I was cute. I tried to ignore her because quite a few women toy with drivers, and most jump out of the car like nothing happened when the ride's over. It's just a game to amuse them in the cab, I guess. But my indifference pissed her off. She told me she had great breasts. I gave her another cynical glance. Suddenly, she pulled her top up to reveal the most perfect pair of breasts I'd ever seen. "They're really big, aren't they?" she asked. Her friends roared with laughter. She told me to pull over in an alley, saying she had to get someone.

While we were waiting, her belligerent friends started yelling at some people standing nearby. The people yelled back, and I suddenly found myself in the middle of a nine-person, coed brawl. Some guy slammed one of the women down on my hood. Other women were clawing and pulling one another's hair. I got kicked in the head a few times trying to pull two women off one of my passengers. Within minutes, we were surrounded by five police cars and spotlighted by a helicopter. Miss Perfect Boobs had slipped off in the melee. The passenger who started the whole thing suddenly lamented that the incident might hurt her chances of getting into the FBI.

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