car service

Sex and violence live so close together. Yesterday, I was both terrified and more turned on than I have been all summer, which, as you might know, is saying a lot.

I called a car service to come get me from the grocery store, of all of the most innocent places. When the car arrived, I loaded my bags in the back and got in the back, directly behind the driver. He was Russian, I think. Shaved head, tattoos, gold necklace. Loud, thumping music.

But here is the thing I cannot get my head around completely - I know that I have been very... well, I am sure I am sending out some signals, both in my manner and dress, to those who are keeping an eye out for it. But still, I am contantly surprised how just under the surface the darker side of eroticism really lies. And here is another example.

We are driving towards my house and I am reading a magazine. He is stopping and starting a lot - clearly agitated, trying to get around slow cars, running through yellow lights, etc. I don't pay much attention for awhile - typical taxi/car behavior. But at one point, he really puts on the brakes and I have to reach forward and grab the back of the seat in front of me to brace myself.

I look ahead and the guy in the car ahead of us is driving slowly and not letting my driver pass. At one point, the window of the car ahead opens and out comes a hand making a long series of obscene hand gestures, most of which I did not even know existed. At this point, I had to laugh. Wow, I said. Creative.

My driver did not laugh. But he glanced back at me. Ok, yes, I was yet again braless in the heat, my typically thin t-shirt damp against my nipples, my face flushed. But I really was not even thinking about sex at this moment, I swear! But he looked back and down several times until I realized, shit, when I was watching the show up ahead, I had scooted forward on the faux-leather seat and my knees had fallen open a bit.

I had a short skirt on with, also typical for me lately, no underwear on. My driver tilted his mirror to get a better view. This time I laughed. Sorry, I said, and sat back. He just shrugged a little, but I leaned forward just in time to catch him doing a quick squeeze with the hand in his lap.

I just want to say that I had such a rush of wetness to my cunt at that moment, I actually felt lightheaded. But at that moment, we came to a stoplight just behind the car that had been, um, signalling to him earlier. I thought something was odd when he put the car in park, but then he opened the door, went to the trunk and pulled out a baseball bat. I leaned out the window saying, wait, wait, what are you doing, but he ran up to the car ahead and kicked the side of it.

Needless to say, they rolled up all of their windows and stayed put. He made gestures as if he was going to hit the window with the bat several times, but didn't, thank god, do it. He just kicked the side of the car once or twice more, and then came back to the car.

I was completely freaked out. Who the fuck threatens someone with a bat because they were flipped off while driving? People with deep anger issues, that's who. And I am in the car with one. Fabulous.

We drive again. I am sitting forward a bit. Suddenly, he said, sit back, I can't see out my mirror. So I sit back. My legs are partially open. Then I see his shoulder and upper arm moving - I can't see over the seat to know exactly what he is doing but I can guess. So, forgive me, but I open my legs a bit wider.

And while we are driving down the highway, he gets more and more into it. The music was really loud, and I didn't do anything but sit there, heart pounding, cunt dripping, while his arm went faster and faster. This went on for about five minutes. He didn't say anything or show any sign that he had cum. Just, at some point, I noticed that he was zipping up, and then we were coming to my exit.

We just drove for a few minutes to my house, I paid him, and got out. That was it! I mean, how bizarre. The baseball bat thing ALONE would have been completely freaky.

I have to say, I was a little overwhelmed for about an hour after that. I think, mostly, I am nervous about the energy that I am drawing towards me and the fine line between the erotic and the deeply neurotic. The short version of this concern? I don't want to die. Not yet, anyway.

At the start of this experiment, I met a few people in person in indirect ways, but this will not happen again. Not unless I have come to know them over time and we work out a kind of arrangement that, frankly, compensates me for the risk I would take to meet in person. A risk that is hard to really understand if you are a man and have not seen life from this side of the gender line. As unbelievably hot and weird as yesterday was, in the end, it was an unsubtle wake up call to keep this boundary firmly in place.

I was reading through craiglist on the erotic services board, and I am sorry to bring up class issues, but for many of the women offering themselves that way, the financial need outweighs the risk, and I would bet that they put themselves into almost as much risk just walking down the street of their neighborhood in broad daylight.

I think that younger, more educated women who are doing this kind of thing tend to work for upscale services. I considered this briefly, but the problem is that I am too picky. Not everyone turns me on, and I am not interested in having to spend time with everyone who comes down the conveyor belt. The thought of that makes me feel ill.

So I am on my own to experiment through labor day. Thanks again for cumming along for the ride.