Uber Sex

Wow, times have really changed since I filled out my first Yahoo! Dating profile. It was all about being somewhat serious, embellishing where necessary, and sprinkling in the occasional brag. Then, it was off to the hunting grounds to find a mate who lied at a similar level.

Now, tap your Uber app, and in mere minutes you may find yourself enjoying the ride of your life while your panties fly on your big toe like a terrible towel. You may say this is my perverted mind at work. Perhaps. Yet, I have heard stories from more than one woman who has made a driver’s job quite marvelous.

It’s kind of odd, because “This taxicab driver picked me up, and he was hot, so we fucked,” is a true story that has never been told. Oh, I’ve heard accounts of people fooling around in the back seat of cabs. Sure. Every part of me except my inner germiphobe has no issues with that. Still, nobody is tossing a gratuitous fuck to Omar of What-the-hell-do-you-eat-ville.

Younger generation peeps speak matter-of-factly about encounters like this.

“Yeah, he was cute, so I made out with him.”

“The Uber driver?”

“Yup.”

“How does that happen? Weren’t you sitting in the back?”

“Yes, but we flirted a bit. He pulled over. I climbed up front, and we kissed.”

“Really?”

“Oh, don’t get a judge-y with me, mister. I’ve been single for a few months, and I needed to make out with a boy, so I did.”

“Did you have sex? Did you get his number? Are you dating now?”

“Maybe, no, and ew, no. I’m not going to date some boy who has sex with his Uber passengers.”

“But, you … um … right. Of course, not.”

This whole thing makes me want to drive for Uber. Yet, when I imagine myself in this role, I foresee a much greater likelihood of drunk chicks puking in my back seat. That’s a significant risk when the driver insists on hanging around clubs as they let out, hoping to pick up a jilted, neglected, low-ambition-having woman looking to get a few more miles out of those uncomfortable heels.

“Where to, Nancy? Or, should we just make out?”

“What?”

“I mean, you’re adorable, and there’s no high-haired, overly tatted UFC wannabe on your arm, so I assume you could use a ride with advanced features.”

“No. Actually, I just want a ride home, Creepy McCreepster.”

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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