The worst part about being ill is that it fucks with your day-to-day life. Blogging, gym and generally just staying awake had to take a back seat this week while the flu kicked my ass left, right and centre. So when I took a disco nap before hosting a midweek club night, should I have been surprised to have slept through my alarm and woken up at 1am? Probably not. But I obvs still was.
So I jumped in the shower, had a quick smoke and started walking to the bus stop (it was just all so glamorous). And as I’m street strutting to some Wynter Gordon, a car pulls up alongside me. And considering there was a stabbing at the end of my road a couple years back, naturally my heart is racing like Kerry Katona when she hears the word “Bailiff”. Omg this was it. This was how I was going to die. I was going to be the pretty young boy that got butchered because he was too stoned to run away from his killer.
“Where are you going?”
“Just up to the station.” Not even sure why I answered him…
“Get in, I’ll give you a lift.”
Hold up. You’ve just used the national kidnapper’s chat-up line and now you want me to get in your car? Was I wearing a giant sign that said ‘DEATH WISH’ I didn’t know about?
So I politely declined.
“No charge.” he chimed.
And suddenly I was listening again. Funny how every time a gay man hears the word ‘free’ his ears prick up. But I was still hesitant, considering our parents spend most of our childhood telling us not to get into cars with strangers. But I wasn’t a child anymore, and the bus stop was like a 15 minute walk away. And I was baked.
“I know you.” he insisted. Who doesn’t? “You are a regular customer I know, I will give you lift.”
Ok fair dos. I had been using the same taxi place for years so maybe he did know me. So I got in.
Firstly I was hit with paranoia that I was being taken to some abandoned warehouse to be gang raped and gutted. Why did I bun that zoot before leaving the house? Then I started thinking about ways I could break out of the car if this scenario should arise. Seriously though, a zoot after waking up at 1am?
“I know you.” He claimed again. Look if you want my autograph all you’ve gotta do is ask.
“You going to Vauxhall?”
“Yeah, good guess.”
Ha, perhaps he knew me better than I thought.
“You going to gay club?” Duh babes. A part of me was dying to say ‘cruising on the Hills’ but it so wasn’t about arousing the driver when I wanted to get there without crashing.
“And you are gay?” He went on to ask.
Suddenly I had the feeling I was less likely to be the pretty young boy that got murdered by a weedy little taxi driver and more likely to be the pretty young boy that exchanges blowjobs for taxi rides. Well, at least that’s maybe what he thought.
And the one time it had happened I was so drunk I couldn’t see, let alone decipher if the taxi driver was hot or not. And the crux of that story is that after noshing off this closet case in his car while parked in a deserted Sainsbury’s car park, he still charged me for the ride. Shame. Don’t attempt felatio when you’re 35 sheets to the wind, girl. Although I was only 19, so no judgement please.
Anyway, you make silly mistakes and learn that sucking off cab drivers is no way to get through life, so it certainly wasn’t happening tonight, much less to one that was dropping me 5 minutes away and looked like some ingrown toenail.
So he then goes on to ask me:
“Why do gay people do jiggy-jiggy-dancing at this time?”
Not really sure what jiggy-jiggy-dancing is, does he think we slow whine wheelbarrow like some Sean Paul video, where even though nobody is naked there’s still a high risk of pregnancy.
Like, it’s just a nightclub, relax. RELAX. Relax.
“They just do,” I laughed, “lots of people aren’t ready to go home yet, so there’s clubs that go on ’til morning.”
“But they like sex?”
From somebody that writes a blog about sex I can tell you this is 100% a mythical stereotype.
“Some of them do, some of them don’t. But yeah it is popular.”
Wasn’t really sure what he was implying. Was he expecting me to nod seductively while undoing his zipper? I’d rather pay the fare so he could use the money to buy himself a clue.
And that was pretty much it. I got out. I didn’t die. I wasn’t raped and nor did I give it up willingly. Although I was now a little paranoid that my photo was on the wall of an underground meeting place for some secret ‘closeted cab driver’ ring. With the words “Gives head for minimum fare” underneath. Later.
There are a few morals to this story,
a) being a socialite is everything. When you’re friendly, you’re memorable.
b) Being pretty pays. There was no way he was giving any old foot-looking loyal customer a free lift. Perhaps any gay one, but still youth helps. Basically, what’s on the outside is all that matters.
c) Don’t smoke da reefa on a journey that’s unnerving in the best of mind frames.