Throughout our lives, we acquire through experiences the understanding that some ideas are universal and key to the continuation of our existence. Love overcomes hate, good wins over evil, and in the case of adult relationships, intimacy is vital to survival.
We also, over time, somehow acquire the understanding that sex, which unifies us all, is meant to be more than a means to procreation. Indeed, the cultural and sexual revolutions of the last century gave us the beauty to explore our souls and our partners, the freedom to get our freak on through ways found outside of a single position being maneuvered through a hole created in a sheet.
Like other members of the millennial generation, I appreciate the accomplishments made which allows sex to no longer be a complete taboo within society. Open dialogue and expression has made society more balanced and well-informed regarding issues such as pregnancy prevention and diseases. Yet even I in my most liberal state have difficulty appreciating the beauty of sexual intercourse when it presents itself in manners not asked for by myself. And for some reason, this situation frequently occurs within my car as I am driving for Uber.
Perhaps I just have incredibly excellent luck, or perhaps it is my destiny to ensure that Uber riders who are in a weakened mental state arrive home safely. Whatever the reason, I have experienced numerous instances of sexual pleasures being met within the backseat of my Toyota Yaris thanks to Uber. I prefer them to not occur, yet as most instances occur so quickly the ability to cease these interactions remain limited, and I have established a rule that as long as no one is hurt, I do not interfere.
As expected, 90% of these interactions occur from a select number of riders: newly-acquainted adults seeking the ultimate pleasures of the night, partiers seeking to continue the beat of the night in a more intimate group setting, or young sexy ladies praying for a last-minute desperate attempt to latch onto the arms of men from Southern Charm (you’ve still got it, T-Rav). These encounters normally occur during times on weekends when the city most buzzes with excitement and hope.
The remaining few cases of encounters tend to be a married couples, who are attempting to locate the spark that united them in the first place. I believe these couple likely have children, and their brief banter is just from excitement of being “alone” for the first time in an eternity. When I picked up a young couple from East Bay St. on a late Friday night, this was direction I assumed our drive together would take. Nothing could have been further from the truth.
I arrived outside Southend Brewery at approximately 12:45 am in response to a request from a husband and wife. They seemed innocent enough: he was tall, average build, jet black hair styled to create a complete look culminating in a cross between Elvis and West Side Story, and a right arm tattoo sleeve that made him look serious yet hilarious at the same time. His wife, who I later discovered was a mere 23 in comparison to his 36, wore a Waldo-inspired striped shirt in addition to Express jeans she would proudly tell me where an altered size 2. For those familiar with my previous Uber story, you can envision yet another blonde-haired, pear-shaped body that would make Jesus eager to take on if he were on earth in more than spirit. Clearly from the way her husband oogled her from walking to my car until completion of their trip, he is happy with her. In honor of her shirt, I called her Wilma, which she loved; she’s a woman that would make Waldo happy any day.
The destination that pulls up is a hotel in the Patriots Point arena, so I tuck in for what is normally a 15-20 minute car ride. Yet this couple was different.
“We put in our hotel”, Wilma tells me, “but when we were waiting we decided we don’t want to go back there just yet”.
“Ok, where do you want to go?” I asked.
“Do you know a strip club here?” Wilma replies, bold as brass. “I mean one that’s open a long time,” she states while looking at her husband, who has become tentative during the course of this exchange.
We decide on her orders to go to strip paradise as she calls it, or the section of clubs located off Pittsburgh Avenue. As we turn onto Morrison drive, Wilma begins to explain their story.
“My husband and I travel a lot, because he’s in sales. What type of sales is it again baby?”
Her husband, whom I realize reminds me of Tony from West Side Story, pipes up at last.
“Medical pump sales”, which sounds to me like code for another product, but Uber doesn’t pay me enough to be the thought police and muddle over it extensively.
Wilma continues. “We’ve been married two months, and, you know, I trust him and he trusts me, but you know I don’t have big boobs, and you know I just think that, you know we’re close and all men like boobs you know? I mean, we’re not leaving each other, and i just want to give him all that he needs as a man to be happy you know?”
Displacing my desire to smack her you know butt, I notice Wilma’s braces glittering in the night as she continues.
“So I want him happy completely” she says. Tony is starting to open up more, seeing that his Uber driving is not halting the ride to issue red letter As or other form of admonishment. He replies “I love her so much, and she thinks this is important, but I don’t care either way”.
“Yes you do, all men like bouncing titties” replies Wilma.
We turn onto Spruill and proceed to the strip clubs. Tony takes out his e-cigarette, filling the car with bubblegum scent.
“I mean I know what my wife looked like, we weren’t virgins, but yeah I mean boobs are nice you know? You can hold them, tease them, make em feel good” he explains.
“I mean I know you’re our driver” Tony says to me, “but you got nice ones”.
“Thank you” is my curt reply, wanting the ride to end. We turn into Pittsburgh Avenue and Wilma instructs me to turn into Southern Belle. She wants to watch Tony receive a lap dance for their anniversary, she informs us. When we drive to the entrance, we are informed that the odds are not in our favor for the morning: with the club closing in less than an hour we are denied entry.
“Do you know anywhere else we can go?” Wilma asks. When I reply no, we pull over to the Kangaroo across from the strip for Wilma to call clubs while Tony “freshens up” inside. After he returns, Wilma has found success: there is a club off Ashley Phosphate that remains open until 5am. Tony and Wilma discuss and decide to proceed there, happy that their Uber driver is willing to see them through til the end.
“You’re an amazing driver” explains wilma. They appreciate the discretion and patience apparently, as we turn left from Spruill to get onto I-26.
The ethical debate over marriage and technicalities continued while on the interstate.
“I mean, I trust my husband, you know, and he loves me, and this is for him, and even for me, because I, you know love women too at times, and he needs this, he’s a hard worker, and if I am with him, it’s not really cheating I don’t think because we’re agreeing and I’m watching, and maybe even joining in, you know what I mean?” she asks me in a big breath. I get the impression as we pass by Tanger Outlets that Wilma does in fact believe what she is saying, but 20+ years of good ole southern teachings has scared her from acknowledging her true beliefs outside of a drunken encounter with her Uber driver.
Tony no longer remains silent on this either. “And, I mean I am so glad you’re our driver, I mean most people don’t get this” he says before another puff, “that I love this woman and we’re in this forever, it’s like my wife is hot and sexy and I love this booty, come here baby” as he makes her take off the seat belt so I can see him spank her ass, “this is as good as it gets, right baby, I mean I can’t lose this ever”.
“Absolutely” I reply, as we begin to get off onto Ashley Phosphate. It seems that among the catalogue of universal traits found within the human race, a modern addition is this: when humans get closer to an event that is not one normally accepted by society, nerves create a need to re-evaluate the situation. As with Barbie and Palace Hotel, when Tony and Wilma hear from me that the strip club in question, which will allow them plenty of time still to enact their fantasy, is less than 4 miles away, the magic duo suddenly become quiet, perhaps pondering their fate within the next few hours. With a $25/person cover, there’s no ability to back out of fantasy-time once entered. Apparently I have become their new BFF, because for Wilma “if you want to stay with us, I don’t want to have to worry about another Uber driver, I mean we will pay for you to come in and join us”. An offer that is intriguing but sadly not my cup of tea.
“That’s ok, I will likely make this my last ride of the night and head home” is the reply I offer, but Wilma’s hesitancy has taken over, and now it’s Tony’s turn to be in charge, something he clearly is not accustomed to. As we approach the turn, Tony instead asks me to find a gas station so that Wilma can pee. We pull into the Sunoco at Ashley Phosphate and Dorchester. When Wilma leaves, Tony expresses his doubts regarding their mission.
“I mean, I just don’t want her to be hurt, or upset. She’s so beautiful, and so horny all of the time. It’s amazing!” He states as she comes back to the car. They then proceed to discuss the plan. After a discussion that resembled more of an argument, a decision is made: they are tired, this plan is stupid, and they want to go back to the hotel in Mt. Pleasant.
“Final word” I ask, and Wilma nods yes. We turn back onto Ashley Phosphate, and proceed to Mount Pleasant. On the way back, Wilma gushes about my attitude toward all of this.
“I mean you know not many people can put up with this, these ideas, these peoples” she slurs as she puffs on Tony’s cigarette, “so you’re so awesome”.
But she has opened a Pandora’s box with Tony. His mind, and likely his little Tony, are in the mood for shenanigans, and there’s no stopping it now.
“So, what type of sex or things turns you on?” he asks me, and the very faint sound of what appears to be a zipper releasing its contents is heard.
It should be noted that as with all my rides, I am nice but curt in these situations. I do not desire them, but the easiest method is just to deal with it calmly and shutdown advances or inappropriate questions.
“Oh just the normal stuff” I reply, but Tony wants more. Or rather, Wilma wants to reveal more.
“Well you know, you can tell we’re not normal”, is her reply. Then unbuckles herself to lean into me and say “I like that rough shit you know. If I’m not being roughed hard it’s no good.” Meanwhile, it appeared that something was coming out of Tony’s pocket besides a cigarette.
“Oh that’s nice” I reply, and Wilma leans back with a smile. “She's the best ever” she tells Tony, then realizing quicker than I have what has been released in the back seat.
“Oh come on man, she’s been so nice to us, not here!!” she hisses as we turn onto I-26 again.
Tony replies, “oh I think she likes it, and wants it. Don't you?” he asks as Wilma plots her escape.
“No I’m great” is my reply, but Tony is unwaverable. “You know” he says to Wilma, “screw the clubs, it would be so amazing to just have some in here”. We approach Tanger Outlets again, and I again see the glare of Wilma’s braces, and quickly close my eyes in prayer to all deities to halt what I know will happen next.
As we pass Cosgrove Avenue, Wilma and Tony’s drunken stupor has empowered their lust restrictions. Once again, my beautiful car Koda has to play a part in marital bliss that for whatever reason can not be contained for just 15 more minutes.
Fortunately Wilma is able to remained clothed sans the exposure of her cliche butterfly tramp stamp, an appropriate visual to depict the evening. Tony, as we say in the South bless his heart, could not. My desire to focus on the road and not look has magically turned Tony on, and the once timid man has been replaced by a sexual beast in charge of his prey. Apparently he wasn’t lying when mentioned how “f-cking fantastic” his wife was at pleasing him. For the next 8 miles I am awarded for my slave labor with a visual of love intertwined with pleasure as the newlyweds affirm their unique bond for each other. No one else matters, no else can penetrate their connection.
Except for the cop that pulls us over as we get off of the bridge. Those damn cops, who clearly never get love. Apparently in the throes of ecstasy, Wilma has taken off her seat belt, a big no-no in Mt. Pleasant. the shiny blue lights pull us over, and for once reality has set in. The couple with the greatest connection in the world sits far apart from each other, stiff as stone. The fogged windows however give their game away.
The officer comes to my window, and I explain my Uber position of giving them a ride home from downtown. Clearly the cop sees messy hair and can smell the fear and sweat that has permeated my entire vehicle. He takes my information and returns to his car. At this point, the couple begin an argument perfect for divorce court. Who caused this, what will happen, and of course how the imbecile Uber driver wasn’t more careful (isn’t it great how I am always at fault?).
Fortunately the cop only returns with a seat belt violation for Wilma and a reminder to “be more careful” to all of us. With that done we proceed to the hotel.
Indeed love does conquer all, for as soon as we turn off Coleman Boulevard all is forgiven, and once again seatbelts are foregone in place of intimacy. At this point I take a tiny liberty and speed to their hotel, dropping them off. A simple thank you is returned, ending our special time together.
As with all Uber tales there is no moral to impart, no value to be gained. Yet I learned that love is a powerful thing. More powerful than evil, more beautiful than life. And that when a couple just wants to screw in the back of an Uber in search of strippers, it’s best to just look straight, keep going, and pray that lust allows seat belts to remain in position at all times.