Okay, at long last . . .

The Tale of the Hot Arab Cabbie

A week ago Monday, I had been packing at the old apartment. As was my habit, after packing for a few hours, I filled two suitcases with things that I wanted to move myself (computer, writing, art, etc.). I went downstairs and hailed a cab.

The cab driver was a cute, young-ish (25 yrs. old), Arab. As we were driving down the West Side Highway, he began asking questions. What was I doing, where was I going, etc. I explained that I was moving into a new apartment. He asked if my wife was moving with me. I said I didn't have a wife. "How about kids," he asked. "Nope, no kids either," I replied. "But you've got a girlfriend, right?" he asked. "No. No girlfriend." "What, don't you like girls?"

Well, at this point, I'm getting some of the same vibes off him that I'd gotten off a lot of the jocks in high school. This guy had a bit more than idle curiousity going. Either that or he was planning to pull off the highway and beat the crap out of me.

I decided to follow my "high school" instincts and do what I used to back then. I explained that, no, I didn't like girls. I liked guys.

What followed was a bunch of questions about whether I'd ever been with a girl (no). If I'd ever wanted to (no). How old I was the first time I had sex with a guy (12). Then he started asking the big stuff. Did I like to get fucked (I told him . . . and in case you're wondering, you have to find out from me one on one . . . a girl has to keep some secrets)? Did I like to fuck? How big's my dick? How long had it been since I'd gotten laid?

Then he hit me with "What's the biggest dick you had?" I told him it was a Spanish guy in college who had right over 9" and was so thick I couldn't get my hand around it. He asked if the guy was Puerto Rican and I explained that he was Spanish . . . from Spain.

Then he asked if I'd ever been with an Arab.

Now, I'd sprung wood as soon as we started talking about the whole gay thing. At this point, well . . . I think I'd sprung steel.

"No. I've never been with an Arab, but I think lots of them are hot."

"And we have really big dicks."

"Really," I asked. "How big is yours?"

"About nine, too."

Then he floored me. "You want me to show you?"

I managed not to scream out, "Fuck yeah, whip it out." I just smiled and said, "Sure."

So he reached down to his pants.

At this point, I began to worry somewhat; I mean we were whipping down the highway well over the accepted speed limit. I didn't relish getting into a wreck and having to explain that the cabbie didn't see the car in front of him stop because he was busy fishing his cock out of his pants.

But, no fear. He pulled out his cell phone and opened it up. Clicked a couple of buttons and there was a picture of him, buck naked. The next picture showed his dick. And the next. And the next. Ten or so pictures.

And it was a hot dick. Big, thick, cut. With a head the size of a small apple.

Well, at this point, we'd missed my exit. He turned us around and headed to my apartment.

We had some more idle chatter about sex.

He pulled up in front of the building, told me it would be $11 (I gave him $15). Then he leaned toward me, smiled and said, "So you want to suck my dick?"

Well, duh, of course I did. And I nearly said that. 75% of my brain and 100% of my dick was screaming "Do it!!!"

Unfortunately, the other 25% of my brain said "One, sure he's hot, but you don't know him. You're going to invite a total stranger up to your apartment when you have $600 in cash lying around for the movers? Are you nuts? He could rob you. He could kill you. And if he kills you, you'll be found the next day . . . your mother's birthday. Don't you think that might put a damper on the celebration?"

And damn, if that 25% didn't put the kibosh on the whole thing.

When I told Mike the story, he reminded me that this guy said he slept with lots of girls he picked up in his cab. Chances are he had lots of strange and unusual diseases. He also said that if I was worried about inviting him up or getting diseases, I should have just given him a hand-job in the cab.

That didn't help.

I really wish I'd said yes. He was cute, there were no strings attached, it could have been hot.

But logic always wins out for me . . . unless I've been drinking. If I'd had a couple of drinks in me, this story would have had a much different ending. Hopefully not one where my head is found in a bag on Staten Island a week or two later.

So that's the story. Lesson learned . . . Crash is a pussy and this is why he never gets laid. Not exactly Aesop, but there you go.

And yes, I keep looking in cabs to see if he's driving them. Pathetic.