By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Village Voice staff
By Tessa Stuart
By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
Next to airplanes, taxis may be the most fun moving vehicles to make out in, and they are certainly more convenient. Stumbling into a cab on the way back to your place or their place usually means you're too impatient, drunk, or horny to wait for the train. You want action and you want it now. I have a huge phobia about cars and avoid them as much as possible, but sometimes I throw caution to the wind and slither into one. Recently, I did so with a cute boy after several drinks at the Hanger. We left the bar at 2:30 a.m., and he pinned me up against the side of a building and kissed me. He was so sexy and charming, I'd have been a fool not to follow him home.
In the cab ride over to the West Village, I kept my eyes shut the whole time we made out, our fingers fumbling to touch each other in that frantic, urgent way a taxicab hookup practically necessitates. There's no time for slow, gentle caresses: This is when buttons get lost and skin is grabbed, squeezed, and stroked with pure need. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to slide my hand under his shirt and tweak his nipple while licking the side of his neck. We scurried as close as possible within the confines of the cab and made such good use of the short ride that I was a little disappointed when we screeched to a halt. While I definitely enjoyed myself once we got inside, there was something extra hot about being in the cab, about the anticipation and frustration of not being able to get totally naked, of feeling his cock through his pants and knowing I'd made him hard.
My drummer friend Mark O'Toole, of the band Audio Fiction, appeared on the most recent season of Taxicab Confessions, and through him, I learned that people really are caught unawares by the show's cameras, even though they should know better. While he wasn't captured in flagrante (though he's had his share of cab ride couplings), plenty of other folks in that episode were, making them unwitting reality TV stars. Says Mark, "I'm just lucky my pants weren't down. Had they got me another time, I may have been pleasuring some young lady or vice versa." Clearly, the possibility of exposure doesn't deter us from getting down and dirty in cabs across the city; it may, in fact, spur us on to further naughty exploits.
Other friends have done their share of taxi touching as well, with entertaining results. A. lives in Park Slope, and loves to shake her ass on any number of Manhattan dancefloors. She gets all hot and bothered, working herself into a lather as she shimmies for hours, matching cute boys step for step. Often the hot dancers she meets are fun to flirt with, but that's all, and she leaves them in the dust before hailing a cab home. On those long rides, she touches herself, hoping the cabbie doesn't see her, but not really caring. I'll let her explain her sensuous taxicab masturbation m.o.
"That first time I slipped my hand down my pants, and all the times since, my clit has been extremely sensitive to my touch," she says. "I'm already wet, so I reach down deep into my pussy with my middle finger so I can draw up some of the juiciness and bring it to my clit. Then I rub my clit for a while and just enjoy my extremely turned-on state. I'll intermittently go down for more wetness, delicately rubbing my clit at a lazy but persistent pace. That guy I'd just been flirting with is still vividly in my brainI can picture his face, hear his voice, and smell his smell perfectly. I also find myself wondering if he's going to jerk off once he gets home."
The cabbie plays a bit part in her self-pleasuring, a peripheral presence who may or may not know just how bumpy the ride's getting. "My favorite is when he's being quiet and I have to be extra quiet to go undetected," she tells me. "I take pride in being able to stay silent but still get off. It's a challenge because usually I'm loud and make noises and even get talky when I'm masturbating at home. When I can come as we pull up to my door, I feel like a magician or a secret agent, or both. It rocks."
Another friend was making out with his girlfriend in a cab when the driver turned around, gave them a pointed look, and asked them to stop. They were shocked and promptly moved to opposite corners, barely even glancing at one another. Moments later, the cabbie told them to continue, and while they felt slightly uncomfortable at that point, they didn't want to disobey him, so they resumed their kissing with slightly less ardor.
A married friend surprised me with a particularly wanton tale (never underestimate the sexual prowess of married suburban ladies). She was 27, out with a female friend, and after several hours of bar-hopping, they finally hailed a cab back to New Jersey. Once inside, they eyed each other with deliberate sexual interest, even though neither had hooked up with a woman before. After only a few blocks, they were all over each other, making out like crazy. They continued their lesbian exploration at home. The next day, my friend discovered that she'd left her wallet in the cab. She had to pick it up at the driver's house, where he made lewd cunnilingus gestures as his wife handed over the wallet. Was it worth that slight humiliation? Certainly, and as she retells the years-old adventure, her face lights up with glee. That's another thing about taxicab tales: Like late-night benders and orgies, they make good stories you can dine out on, so to speak, for years.