Three-Way on the Freeway - Part Three

Hello again. Thanks for stopping in for the conclusion to the "Three-Way on the Freeway" series. Here's a recap of the story thus far:

Part One: One Tuesday night in July of 2001, I was hanging out with a bunch of other cabbies, discussing things we'd like to see happen in our cabs. Someone mentioned that he'd like to see people having sex in the back of his cab. Several people agreed with this guy. I disagreed, considering this to be my nightmare. The very next night, Wednesday, my nightmare came true. Arriving outside of a suburban nightclub at about midnight, I discovered that my customers were waiting off to the side of the building. On the ground. Having sex.

Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 1"

Part Two: Before we even left the parking lot of the Tiajuana Country Club, the two lovebirds started going at it. Their passion became more and more intense. Meanwhile, I kept up an internal monologue designed to help me stay focused. This worked fine for a while. Then it happened. My personal space was invaded.

Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 2"

And now, the rest (truly) of the story...

So here I am, barreling down Interstate 10 at sixty-five miles an hour, with a couple of apparent sex-addicts in the back seat of my cab, humping like a pair of mad bunny rabbits hopped up on crack and Viagra. As if it wasn't distracting enough to have to listen to their animal noises of lust, and contend with the motion of the car in three dimensions (forwards due to the motive power of the engine, and back-and-forth, and up-and-down due to their wild sexual gyrations), now I had to deal with the additional distraction of the the nympho grabbing my seat. What next? Were they going to roll down the window and hang out, tongues flapping in the wind, like a couple of puppies on a Sunday ride?

I wish. At least then, with just a simple jerk of the wheel, they'd be hurled from the car, and from my life. Sure, I wouldn't collect the fare. But I was confident I could avoid manslaughter charges.

"Hey, Officer, I'm sorry they fell out of the car. Truly, I am. But everything happened so fast. They rolled down the window, started hanging out and before I knew what was going on, I had to swerve to avoid some road debris. It's a damn shame that they fell out, and died, and all of that. But what could I do? It was just so completely unexpected! By the way... did you happen to get a look at her rack? Niiiice!"

Sure, Joe Law might have his doubts about my sincerity, but what could he prove? That would be my story, and I'd stick with it.

Would I really do something like this? Well... probably not. But it's kind of fun to think about it, don't you agree?

Anyway, the Ballerina grabbed on to my seat back to steady herself while she rode the Convict like he was the last helicopter out of Viet Nam. Hard, fast, and low, dodging anti-aircraft fire all the way to the coast. This was really becoming tiresome. But I'm a professional. I just had to get these two sexual neutron bombs to the university, collect the fare, and move on with my life.

All at once, he bucked so hard that she was thrown up into the headliner, striking her head. Pausing momentarily to rub her noggin, I has a brief respite from the distraction of her yanking on my seat back. But a few seconds later, after she recovered from the blow to her melon, she moved to place her hand back on my seat.

And missed, grabbing my shoulder instead. And started to massage it. In the blink of an eye, I had gone from being in the car with them, to being part of their act.

I was part of a Three-Way on the Freeway.

Her hand upon my should started to meander. Towards my neck. Up my neck. Through the hair at the back of my head, to the hair at the top of my head. She ran her hand through my hair for several seconds, and then must have realized what she was doing, because she removed it. Probably because King Dong grabbed her, and maneuvered her around to the bottom of their personal dog pile.

"At last," I thought. At least that distraction was gone. With just a few more miles to go, it looked as if the coast was almost clear. But I still had to bring this train wreck in for a landing.

I pulled off of the freeway, and turned onto Mill Avenue, aiming the car straight at the university. Just two more miles to go, more or less. Things were calming down a bit in the backseat. Maybe they were through.

Almost as if they were reading my thoughts, and wanted to prove me a liar, things started heating up a bit. Switching positions once again, they renewed their energetic gym-nasty-ics. With a twist. She placed her legs straight up in the air. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I noticed that she was wearing boots. Black. Calf-length. With three-inch heels. Should she decide to kick someone, those things could be deadly.

Monkey boy started plunging up and down between her legs as if he was drilling for oil in the Saudi Arabian desert. Naturally, each time he went down, he displaced her legs to the side. The deeper he went, the further apart her legs went. Closer and closer her boot came towards my head. Would I survive the last three blocks to their destination? I was beginning to have grave doubts. But things had gone on too long. I had let events spin too far out of control.

Wham. Her leg hit the head rest on the top of my seat, jarring me slightly. Oh heck, that wasn't as bad as I had feared. Then it happened again, slightly harder. Again, harder. Again. And again. And again. The rhythm on my headrest became a steady staccato on the head rest. These boots were made for stomping.

Wham... wham... wham... wham... It was if some giant, insane woodpecker had flow into my cab, and was drilling my seat as if looking for dinner. Wham... wham... wham... wham... wham... wham... wham... WHAM!!

Because she had shifted slightly, her boot missed the head rest, and landed squarly on my brain-case. This was too much! I had to do something! Quickly, before her boot clocked me again.

Thinking fast, I did the only thing I could think of in the heat of the moment. Glancing at the side-view mirror, because the rear-view was occluded, I saw that the coast was clear. I slammed on the brakes, tumbling the lovebirds off the seat, onto the floor of the car.

They apparently did not notice that anything was amiss, because they kept going at it like a couple of frantics minks. But at least I was safe from a possible concussion. And only one block from the end of the trip.

And good thing too, as I had only one block left of my sanity.

Pulling into the driveway of the dormitory they had named as their desination, I was almost free from my nightmare. Just a few yards to go. The action in the back was reaching a crescendo. Mere feet from the entry to the dormitory, they both sighed their final sighs, groaned their final groans, and moaned their final groans.

How had they managed to time the climax of their passion play so perfectedly? Had they done this before? Surely I would have heard the rumor!

I really didn't care. Approaching the door, I slowed to a stop. I could hear them rearranging their clothes. Glancing at the meter, I was about to announce the fare. But, before the words were out of my mouth, the were both out of the car like a shot. They walked behind the car, towards the doorway. I knew that it was an automatic locking door. Should they get through it, I would be unable to follow. Were they trying to stiff me? As if!

I quickly unbuckled my seatbelt, and hopped out of the cab, intercepting them at the back of the car, between them and the door.

"Hey! How about something for the effort? This isn't a hobby for me. It's my living!"

Looking sheepish, as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Orange Jumpsuit reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. The Ballerina peered through the rear window, to look at the meter.

"The meter says nineteen. Give him thirty. He was a good sport," she said.

My heart began to melt. All of a sudden I was willing to forgive her for kicking me in the head, unintentional as it might have been. We both watched as he opened his wallet, sliding out a ten and twenty. She looked away. He slid the ten in with his thumb, and skinned out a five, as if he had practiced this grifters trick.

Sonuvabitch! I know I should have called him out on it, but I just wanted to be done with them. I took the money, and put it in my pocket. He looked at me, grinned, looked away, and headed for the door. She started to join him, but paused for her parting words:

"I hope we didn't distract you too much."

Sucking it up, I lied. At first.

"It's okay. There was no harm done. Up until the point when your boot hit me in the back of my head!"

She laughed, and headed for the door.

I couldn't resist a parting shot.

"Hey? How 'bout next time you get a room? I'm a cabbie, not a hotelier, for crying out loud!"

The door closed on their laughter.

I got in the car, sighed, turned off the meter, put the car in gear, and drove away.

Surely, the rest of the night would be all down hill. My nightmare was over.

Thanks for listening. I just had to get that off my chest.

Sincerely,

The Cab Guy

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Three-Way on the Freeway - Part Two

Hi there. Thanks for stopping by again. Welcome to part two of "Three-Way on the Freeway." Please allow me to recap the story thus far:

One Tuesday night in July of 2001, I was hanging out with a bunch of other cabbies, discussing things we'd like to see happen in our cabs. Someone mentioned that he'd like to see people having sex in the back of his cab. Several people agreed with this guy. I disagreed, considering this to be my nightmare. The very next night, Wednesday, my nightmare came true. Arriving outside of a suburban nightclub at about midnight, I discovered that my customers were waiting off to the side of the building. On the ground. Having sex.

"Take your time," I said. "I'll wait over by the cab!"

Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 1

And now, the rest (almost) of the story...

I really wasn't looking forward to this trip. Having spent a good portion of my adult life working in the field of Criminal Justice, I had learned a thing or two about human psychology. This enabled me to make some fairly accurate assumptions regarding a person's future behavior based upon a behavioral snap-shot taken at the moment I first meet them. Anyone can do this when the behavioral clues are screaming at them. But what if the clues are more subtle?

For example, that two people were having sex, in a relatively open place, is not the clue that needs to be examined. This is just an overt behavior, which in reality, doesn't really say much about the participants. The clue that needs to be keyed in on? How did they react when they were discovered?

When I came upon them, a more "normal" reaction might have been one of surprise, and embarrassment or shame. In this case, I would have expected an exclamation like "Oh, shit!", followed by a desperate attempt to cover themselves up, with maybe a "We'll be with you in a moment!" thrown in for good measure. This would have told me that they really hadn't expected to be discovered. A valid expectation on their part? No, but in the throes of passion, when the little head does the thinking for the big head, reality is often denied, and people do weird things in weird places. Like full bore, man-on-top-woman-on-bottom sex. On the ground. Off to the side of a nightclub in a white bread, suburban neighborhood.

But these two didn't react that way. They were nonchalant. They didn't care that they might be discovered, the proof being that actually being discovered was no big deal to them. I'm not saying they were hoping to be discovered, although that might have been part of their plan. They didn't care that they might be discovered because they really didn't care about what anyone else thought about them.

That they really didn't care about what anyone else thought about them also meant that they really didn't care about anyone else's feelings. What about my feelings of surprise, embarrassment and shame?

You might be saying, "So what's the big deal. Get over it. Don't be such a cry-baby. They we just having sex, for Pity's sake. Man up, and move on."

Fine. Your reaction is a valid one, unless you've put more thought into the situation, like I have. What about my other feelings, like the need to feel comfortable and safe with someone that I just met? Who's sitting behind me as I drive down the street. Inches from the back of my neck. How can I feel like I'm in control, in the presence of someone who's behavior is so clearly out of control?

Feel differently now?

I'm not saying I was scared, far from it. Just creeped out. But I would have been more comfortable with these folks if they had just waited inside the bar for me, like "ordinary" people do. Now, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I didn't have long to wait.

To my surprise, they got to the cab almost before I did, and hopped right in, as if nothing untoward at all had just happened. I got a better look at them. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, like people in jail might wear. She was dressed in a frilly, "foofy" dress, almost like a ballerina's tutu. Odd. It wasn't Halloween, and I didn't think that the nightclub was hosting a masquerade ball.

"Where too?", I asked.

"Over by the university," he replied.

I started the meter, and away we went.

The parking lot wasn't overly large, but there were a lot of curbs to negotiate before I could get to the street. Glancing in the rear-view mirror just before turning onto Ray Road, I could see they were already going at it, necking up a storm.

"As long as it's just kissing, and maybe some fondling, it'll be okay," I remember thinking. I wouldn't have to talk to them, in that case. Not that I wanted to, anyway. I accelerated east towards I-10. The university was about tewlve miles away, a fifteen minute trip, more or less, if traffic was light. Maybe it would be an uneventful trip after all.

But you already know what I was about to learn. It would not be an ordinary cookie-cutter trip. How do I know that I know that you know this? Well, obviously there would not really be a story if all they did was make-out the whole way. The title of this story isn't "Couple Found Humping Outside Nightclub." It's "Three-Way on the Freeway."

We weren't even a mile down the road before the floorshow started. Their fumbling and groping at one another became more and more frantic. It was so intense that the car was actually rocking. He pushed her down onto the seat, and got on top of her. Someone opened his zipper. He groaned, she moaned. She sighed, he grunted. The car started moving up and down, as if we were going over a series of speed bumps.

I started giving myself a pep-talk.

"Ignore them. You're a professional. Keep your eyes forward, and concentrate on what you're doing. This'll be over soon enough. Gut it out. This probably won't be as bad as the time you had to drive thirty miles with a woman in labor. Now that was a wild ride! Any stain they might leave can't even begin to compare with what would have happened if her water had broken!"

Thinking back on the experience with the pregnant lady calmed me down.

"This'll be a walk in the park, compared to that!"

And it was a walk in the park. If that park was named "Central." As in, 'Central Park in New York City.' A dangerous place to be after dark, and sometimes not very safe in broad sunlight.

Speaking of broads, as I got on the freeway, the two lovebirds switched positions. They rolled over, and she got on top. I knew this, because she was blocking my view of the rear-view mirror. He started bucking so hard, I wondered if she'd be able to hang on for the full eight seconds. They started to sound like two cats in heat.

Ten miles to go.

"You can do this! Ignore them. At least she's just making a baby, not giving birth to one!"

They switched positions again. And again. And again... They had more moves than the Kama Sutra.

"Forget about it. They're assholes. You'll be done with them soon, then they'll be out of your life forever!"

She got on top of him once more. Then it happened. To steady herself, she grabbed the back of my seat. What with his bucking, and her riding him like she was breaking a wild bronc, my seat began to be jerked back and forth. Shit. Just eight miles to go. But, it's very distracting to have your seat-back jerked back-and-forth. I did my best to ignore it. If this was the worst thing that were to happend, I'd be grateful and count myself blessed.

To be continued...

In Part One, I dedicated this story to my dear friend, Johnny Wraith, who had asked for me to write a story about women changing their clothes. Right now, even though he's over a hundred miles a way, I can hear his plaintive question.

"Hey, Cab Guy, you're on the Freeway. When do we get to the Three-Way?"

Patience, my friend, patience. All good things come to those who wait. Have patience. I certainly did.

Sincerely,

The Cab Guy

Click here to read "Three-way on the Freeway - Part 3"

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Three-Way on the Freeway - Part One

A few days ago, one of my loyal fans, and best friend, Johnny Wraith, left me a message saying, to the effect, that he'd like to see me post a story about women changing their clothing in the back seat of the cab. At that time I had to refuse, because up until that point in time, I'd never had the experience of having women, or even just one woman, change her clothing in the backseat of my cab.

So here we are today. Up until a few minutes ago, I was getting ready to go to work. My morning ablutions were complete. All I needed to do was get dressed, grab the keys to the cab, and hit the door, ready to start a new day of schlepping people around the Phoenix Metro area. But, for some reason Johnny's request kept turning over in my mind. He really wanted to read a story about women changing their clothes in the back seat of the car.

And I really wanted to give him that story! But, I didn't want to cheat. I didn't want to make up a tale, and pass it off as the truth. I'm just not built for that kind of dishonesty. (Oh, don't worry, I'm no saint. When a situation calls for it, I'll be as dishonest as I need to be to get the job done. But this wasn't one of those kind of situations.) And I couldn't just provide a fiction story of this type, because that would not have fulfilled Johnny's purpose.

You see, Johnny Wraith is a writer himself, and a good one. If he wanted to read a story about women changing their clothes in the back of my cab, I suppose he could have just written it himself. But he didn't. Not that he's lazy. If I asked Johnny to write me a story about women changing their clothes in the back of his car, he'd whip one out in about ninety minutes. Flat. So he clearly has the ability to produce such a tale. But like I said, such a story would not have fulfilled his purpose, which was to be titillated by a true story, one that happened to me, in the back of my cab, involving women changing their clothes.

You know, maybe titillated is the wrong word to use here, because it implies that Johnny was looking for some sort of sexual fulfillment by the reading of a story like this. Nothing could be further from the truth. He just really likes to read, or for that matter, hear, about weird situations that happened to other people. He says that they stoke his imagination, and make him feel more alive, as if he has had the experience himself, and has therefore received some sort of blessing from God in the form of an expanded consciousness. At least that's his explanation for what's going on, as near as I can tell. Whatever.

Frankly, I think that Johnny is a voyeur. Now, I don't mean that in some sort of a creepy, Peeping Tom, sort of way, skulking around bedroom windows at night, hoping to catch a view of some unmentionable goings-on. I mean that he likes to watch life, to experience it as fully as he can. He knows that he can't have every possible experience himself, but if he hears or reads about an experience, he is able to consume it, to take it within himself, so that he can have something of the experience. He says that this allows him to be more fulfilled as a person....

Damn it! Now I'm starting to do it! Here I am, making rationalizations for the behavior of another person, simply because that person happens to be my friend. Folks, it's time to face facts: my friend, Johnny Wraith, had a mild kink. He loves pornography, in all its forms, but especially the written word. I don't really think that he's addicted to pornography, though. His love of the genre is not debilitating. It is not all consuming. As far as I can tell, pornography has no negative impact at all upon Johnny Wraith's life. He functions as an otherwise normal person. Who just happens to like porn.

There, I've said it. It's out in the open: Johnny Wraith likes porn! Sorry, Johnny, for outing you! But it was inevitable. If not me, then someone else would have flung open the door to that particular closet. Don't you feel better, Johnny? I know I do!

So, anyway, with all of these thoughts in my mind, I sat down before my computer, still somewhat moist from my recent morning wake up shower, and began to bang out this post. Everything that I wrote up to now is a prelude to what will follow.

The story that you are about to read is dedicated to my best friend, Johnny Wraith. But, wait! Before you get all hot and bothered, keep in mind that it is not a story about something as mundane as women changing their clothes in the back of the car. But, this story might be just as good, maybe even better than a clothes-changing story. I call it...

The Three-way on the Freeway
About six years ago, in the summer of 2001, in those halcyon days predating the September 11 Attacks and the fall of the Twin Towers, I was working the night shift, driving a cab. Not that it's absolutely germane to the story, but I believe that it was late July when the events that I'm about to relate transpired. I had just started working for a large Phoenix-area cab company. But I wasn't a newbie in the biz, because I had just left another large cab company, for whom I had worked about four years. Because I had put in about five or six shifts per week over those four years, I had about 1100 to 1200 shifts under my belt. I'm not going to say that I had seen it all, because, even to me, it was clear that I hadn't. But I had seen quite a lot of "it."

So, on the night before the night during which the event that this story is all about occurred, I was at my favorite perch, a place where cabbies hang out waiting for fares. Several other cabbies were there with me, including a woman driver who at the time was a friend of mine. I'll call her Patsy. It's not her real name, but to prevent possible legal action (don't ask why; she's just that way), I've changed it.

I don't know how it happened, but we all started talking about things we either did, or did not, want to see happening the backseat of our respective cabs. I don't know who, but someone brought up the topic of people having sex in the back seat, while the cabbie drove. I don't remember if this person was pro or con, but I do remember Patsy's reaction.

"OH, I think that would be so cool!"

Do tell. I can't say that this surprised me in the least. I had known Patsy for about six weeks at the time, and had formed the conclusion that if it was weird, kinky or unsavory, she was into it. But don't get me started on THAT topic; it's the subject for another story. Or now that I think about, her story would probably fill a book. Yes, definitely a book.

I had to disagree with Patsy, and told her so, in a very pointed fashion.

"Let me tell you something. If there's one thing I hope I never see, it's anyone having sex in the backseat of my cab. And that includes all possible combinations and numbers of participants: man and woman, man and man, woman and woman. Man, woman and another woman. Man and dog. Woman and dog. Man, woman and dog. Woman, donkey and a parrot. Sixteen tiny reindeer and a horse that sweats. It just doesn't matter. I don't care who they are, in what combination, or what kink. Or no kink at all. If it's sexual in nature, I don't want to see it!"

Now I'm no prude. I have my preferences, and I'm sure you have yours, and I do not tend to make judgments based on those preferences. But I don't want an audience when I'm engaging in my preferences, and I don't want to be your audience when you're engaging in yours. Look: my cab is my office. Would you want me coming over and having sex in your office, on your desk? Messing up your paperwork? It doesn't matter what your answer is, you are not doing it in MY office, messing up MY upholstery. Frankly, to me, people having backseat sex were my nightmare.

Naturally, having said all this, my nightmare came true, the very next night.

On that fateful evening, at about midnight on a Wednesday, I got a call to do a pickup at the Tiajuana Country Club, a nightclub at the intersection of Ray Road and 32nd Avenue, in Ahwatukee, a Phoenix suburb. As luck would have it, I was only about five minutes away, so I was Johnny-on-the-spot. It turned out that it was a young, college aged-couple that had called for the cab. They must not have been expecting me to arrive so soon, because when I arrived to pick them up, the door host, a cute young thing herself, told me that they were waiting around to the side of the building.

"This can't be good," I said to her, as we both started walking to the side of the building.

"Why's that?," she asked in reply.

"Well, it's been my experience that when people are waiting for me around the side of the building, then trouble's abrewin'. Either they're drunk and passed out, or they're hiding something that they don't want me to see, or, they're puking their guts out. This last is usually not a problem. Better they puke on the side of your building than the inside of my car. But, sometimes they puke on themselves, and when that happens, then I've come all the way here for nothing."

"Why's that?"

"Well, when someone wears their bodily fluids on the outside of their body, I don't let them get on the inside of my car. If I don't let them in, then I don't make any money. So be it, the alternative is too gruesome to contemplate."

"Yeah, I see what you mean."

At this point we came to the corner of the building and looked around the side, but there no one was to be seen. But, I heard voices. Odd. Where were the people? I decided to solve this problem by asking in a loud voice,

"Did anyone call for a cab?"

A disembodied voice replied,

"We did!"

The door host and I both looked around, but couldn't see anyone.

"Down here!", said the voice.

I looked down. Where I saw my customers. On the ground. Both of them. A man and a woman. He on top of her. Doing you know what. Nice... But not really.

"Take your time," I said. "I'll wait over by the cab."

I turned and walked back to my car, the door host at my side.

"This ought to be an interesting trip, don't you think?." I asked her.

"I don't know, maybe it'll be fun!," she replied.

Maybe it'll be fun? Somehow, I had the feeling that we weren't EVEN on the same wavelength.

To be continued...

Sincerely,

The Cab Guy

Click here to read "Threeway on the Freeway - Part Two"

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