Taxi Cab Confessions

Even after all of my years spent in large and cosmopolitan cities, I still get a faint buzz from standing street side, hailing a taxi with my bare hands, stepping inside, instructing the driver and being whisked away to wherever I wish to go. There's a subtle erotic pleasure in submitting to the confinement, of being escorted and conducted effortlessly through the traffic and always the possibility that this car could be going just about anywhere. There is an aspect of power that appeals as well. Power in being the employer, however temporary it may be. Power in the anonymity. In the upholstered backseat of my car for hire and behind the smoked glass and tinted windows, I can be whomever I wish to be, albeit briefly.

It's addictive, the electricity of being driven, without question or judgment, toward something, someone that only I know. The not so subtle gaze out the window at other drivers, landmarks I've only glanced at in passing before serve only to whet my appetite. Anticipation and excitement bump up against each other, sparking a fire within me as the car approaches its destination.

It isn't just the anticipation or the empowerment, it's the sense of being taken away. Even for just a little while

Distinct Differences

Sex has intent, motion, emotion written all over it. Erotic is an impression, a preference, it just is what it is.

Who told you life was fair?

That unmistakable Virginia Slim smoldering lazily between fingers, tipped with long and immaculate talons covered in the dark, ambiguous shade of Rouge Noir, the heavy-lidded sapphire eyes rimmed expertly in grey kohl, the smoke curling sensuously around lush lips that still bear smudges of wineberry from last evening, she stares into the dawn of twilight with an air of insolent defiance.

Cheap pink wine in plastic held to a visage which takes on the semblance of badly kneaded dough thrown around on rough pavement, nostrils staring back at the world like a small pair of worn-out sockets, polo shirt a trashy shade of tangerine clashing loudly with badly-dyed, heavily teased, blonde streaks. The slack features take on an unsightly sheen under the unforgiving glare of sunlight. Her stare reflects her desperation far beyond any provocation.

Decadence clearly looks better on some people than on others

Divergent

You can't put me in a box... but I'd love it if you'd tie me up. Just a thought.

Incongruity

Interpretation of the handsome husband's likely inner dialogue whenever I've launched passionately into a new project: nice ta-ta's, man, really nice, can't stop looking - but are they worth the Mr. Toad's Wild Ride I endure every time she opens her mouth?

Just saying... it totally explains that dazed look, the glazed over eyes and the faint furrow of his brow... like he just can't seem to make sense of the incongruity of it all.

Irony

Painted neatly on a 4 inch square canvas, it made a profound statement. In the center sat the universe, painted as though one was looking at it from above. It was surrounded by the female symbol in gold and at the top off to a jaunty angle was a large diamond in a solitaire setting. It gave the appearance of having three layers but seamlessly being one unified symbol. Plain flat gray surrounded the image. So telling. I burst out laughing. First at the truth and wisdom of it's message, and second at it's creator in the midst of mad wedding planning.


And I wonder to myself: just how many woman have their entire universe defined by their marriage?

And then I wonder to myself: how many of 'those' women know that wedding rings were once a symbol of ownership. Yes ownership. Wow.

Super Sonic Evening

It's late evening yesterday and my love texts me his desire for the juicy goodness that is a supersonic cheeseburger, tater tots and a cherry vanilla dr. pepper. The flu crap has gotten the better of him and he feels like death. Only this combination that he clearly is not supposed to be eating will make it better.

I drive into the little stall, briefly peruse the menu to see if they've added anything relatively healthy and/or anything new that sounds better than a cheeseburger. Alas they have not. And there is no mention of the macaroni and cheese bites that the wee one has fallen head over heels in love with.

I order the Wacky pack chicken strips and tots for the kiddo, the cheese burger combos for my love and myself and then I inquire politely about the missing mac and cheese bites. They no longer serve them, but the order boy with his deep voice and deceptively mature sound introduces me to his utter lust for their new cinnabites. As he describes them as soft, warm, puffy bites of cinnamon and frosting, I see in my head the white dribbles of sweet frosting dripping from his mouth and fingers as he smiles and reaches up to lick his fingers rather than reach for a napkin. WTF? (me thinks I need to stop dreaming about it and start getting laid more often!)

I giggle and say no thanks. He repeats back the order to make sure he has it correct and I'm wondering what a man who has such a great voice and a fine attention to detail is doing working here. He should be working for me. He asks me how I 'll be paying for my meal and though I'm tempted to say something very different, I palm my visa and tell him I'll slide my card at the order station. He tells me it'll be out in a moment and that's when things get interesting... to say the least.

Order boy: Well... you have yourself a super sonic evening.
SD: Thank you, you do the same.
Order boy: I will...(hesitation) well... at least I'll try.... if you will
SD: Ok then... I'll try too, really.
Order boy: (soft laughter) wow... guess we're in for a great night.
SD: I certainly hope so. (cue more soft laughter)
Order boy: me too.

I sit in the darkened car waiting a moment listening to The Fray's "Over your head" and that makes me giggle. Order boy personally brings dinner to my car and the first thing I notice is that he's fucking hot. Dark tanned in the middle of winter always does it for me, that 5 o'clock shadow is sexy and those eyes... deep pools of shimmering chocolate. And he's about 15 years younger than I am. And he doesn't seem to care, as I'm juggling cups of soda and he's towering above me looking down at me, down my shirt, and then he's offering to take my empty starbucks cup to the trash. And I think I see a wink, as I tip him nicely and he thanks me and once again tells me in that low slow drawl to have a super sonic nite. You betcha boy... anytime.

Next you know I'll be turning forty and trolling cougar websites looking for boys half my age.

50 Words - Accessorize

She exited the bedroom in a shimmering cocktail mini-dress replete with twinkling rhinestones and shiny spangles, which caught the light of the nearest chandelier, blinding her waiting date. Without thinking, he asked if she planned to accessorize with a lamppost and public defender. She introduced him to the door.

50 Words - Advice to a son

Affairs without longevity still have purpose, he said,
smiling down at his young son. Test drive long distance
love for experience points and frequent-flier miles, or
date a reckless redhead just to taste the sweet
heartache and fat-lip she'll inflict upon you.
Don't believe me? Go ask your mother.

50 Words - Reassurance

Once in a while, in the middle of the night, I wake in a cold sweat after another dream of doom and gloom. A hand snakes the width of the bed, under blankets and through body pillows until I feel that familiar warmth; reassured again that he is still here.