Eugene Salomon - Confessions of a New York Taxi Driver

…and start all over again.

Okay, admit it. Sure you want stories about crime, hustlers, eccentric people and the gritty charm of New York City. But the first thing you want is sex. So let’s confront this like adults, shall we? Once we get this sex chapter out of the way we can all breathe a lot easier and then move on to loftier pursuits.

So, do people have sex in taxis?

Yes. Not nearly so often as you’d think if you’ve ever seen the Taxicab Confessions program on TV, but, yes, it does happen. There are three stages.

1. Cuddling – two passengers get in and sit quite close to each other in the back seat. A head may rest upon the other’s shoulder. There is some polite kissing. It’s all within the bounds of acceptable public behavior.

2. Foreplay – there is suspicious movement going on in the rear. The kissing is passionate. There is no interest in any conversation with the driver. You look in the mirror and, where there were once two heads, there is now only one. They’re doing something with their hands, but you’re not sure what. It’s time to adjust the mirror and turn off the radio.

3. Outright fucking – if there are three and a half million people in Manhattan at any given time, then there must be something like two million beds. But apparently that is not enough. When a couple assumes the ‘taxicab position’ – the guy sits facing forward and the girl straddles him, facing the rear window – then you know they’re adding ‘taxicab’ to their list of places where they’ve ‘done it’.

One of the age-old questions is how should the driver react when he realizes that, only five feet behind him, and separated merely by a Plexiglas partition with an open window, the cucumber is entering the salad bowl? Should he consider this to be the epitome of rude behavior and throw the passengers out? Or should he take it as a compliment that they would feel so – what’s the word? – comfortable in his space?

With me, I do find it offensive but my level of resentment seems to depend on the way the passengers go about it. While I’ve never thrown anyone out of my cab for this most out of place conduct, I do get annoyed if they’re pretending I’m not even there. I have two ways of dealing with the irritation: 1) take extremely sharp left and right turns in an effort to knock the female off to the side; 2) charge them an extra ten dollars for the ‘hotel room’.

So it’s kind of oddly refreshing when a couple has such balls (sorry, couldn’t help myself) that they make no attempt to hide the fact that they are intending to have sex right there in the back seat and they tell me so as the ride begins. It went down that way one night in the East Village…

A guy and a girl came out of the Bowery Bar on East 4 thStreet late one night and jumped into my cab. The guy gave me their destination, 24 thStreet and 2 ndAvenue, and moved halfway across the seat to make room for the girl. As she closed the door behind her she blurted out, ‘You don’t mind if we have sex in your cab, do you?’ in the same way someone else might ask if it would be all right if she smoked a cigarette. Then she pushed the guy down flat on his back.

Before I could get the quip ‘I charge extra for that’ out of my mouth, she was on him like a Fido on a leg. It turned out it didn’t matter if I minded or not, there was going to be a party on the back seat. Although I appreciated her outrageous effrontery, I wasn’t too happy about having to suffer the discomfort I was already beginning to feel. But it was a short ride and I decided it would be better to endure it for five minutes than it would be to raise an objection. So we were on our way.

I drove half a block and hit a red light at the first intersection. As I came to a stop, I noticed something – parked next to the curb, immediately to my left, was a police car with two cops inside. There was a male cop behind the wheel and a female cop in the passenger seat to his right. Both of them were staring with great interest at the spectacle occurring on the back seat.

The female cop looked at me as I was looking at her. The expression on my face said, ‘I am enduring the torture of serving in a professional capacity two animals who don’t have the decency to care how their actions are affecting other people.’

I rolled down my window. She rolled down hers.

‘Is this legal?’ I asked, the tone of my voice implying that it would be great if she could find a way to bring a little justice to the situation.

She was right on it. She picked up her microphone (all police cars in New York have sound systems) and, with a big smile on her face, went to work.

‘Hey, you back there in the taxi!’ her voice boomed, ‘What are you doing back there?’

My passengers remained oblivious to the proclamation and continued humping on each other. People on the street, however, had begun to take notice.

‘Hey, no sex in taxis!’

Now everyone within earshot was staring at them and beginning to enjoy the show.

‘Hey, you, lady in the taxi – get off of that guy right now!’

The girl looked up. Suddenly realizing that she was making the day of about a dozen people on the street and, worse, was under direct orders from the police to cease copulation, she dismounted in horror.

‘That’s better! Now behave yourselves!’

There were still about ten seconds left before the light turned green. People near the intersection were laughing and one man actually began to applaud. It must have seemed like an hour to my passengers before that light finally turned green and they escaped from the scene of their public humiliation. And, you know, that little jaunt up to 24 thand 2 ndturned out to be as calm and sober as a ride to church on a Sunday morning with the minister and his missus.

Funny how passion can turn on and then suddenly disappear, isn’t it? Go figure.

I was driving down Perry Street in Greenwich Village one evening when a pretty, blonde-haired twenty-something darted from the sidewalk and hailed me with what I noticed was an above-average determination. Most people just raise their hand and get in. This one was different – she had an agenda.

‘Could you wait here for a minute?’ she asked.

No problem. I pulled the cab into an open space near the curb and started the meter as my passenger-to-be returned to a townhouse and called out to someone. A second blonde emerged from the residence and was escorted to the cab by the first blonde. There was a brief conversation between the two of them and then, to my surprise, the front right door opened and the second blonde was ushered in beside me by her friend, who then walked back toward the townhouse.

‘You’re going to sit up here?’ I asked the second blonde.

‘I guess so,’ she said in what might have been an Eastern European accent. She seemed a bit confused.

I knew something was up. This never happens.

After a few more moments Blonde Number One, who turned out to be an American, returned, but she was not alone. She had with her a good-looking guy – dark hair, about thirty years old. They jumped into the back seat and sat together the way lovers always do – no distance between them and their eyes locked into each other.

‘We’re going to Brooklyn,’ the female voice from the back said. ‘Seeley Street,’ said the guy, ‘take the Prospect to the 10 thAvenue exit.’

I drove down Perry Street to 7 thAvenue South and made a right.

‘Do you want the Brooklyn Bridge or the Brooklyn–Battery Tunnel?’ I asked.