I have to admit, I truly love my job. Spending one's working hours behind the wheel of a car may not see that appealing to everyone, but it suits me just fine. You see, I am a limousine driver for livery service in Los Angeles. Our reputation for discretion and excellence makes us a popular choice for the "beautiful people" that live and work in the area. In my case, it has also yielded some sexual encounters with some beautiful women. These encounters run from mild to wild, but each is a treasured memory for me.
It isn't like it happens everyday, or even that they fall madly in love with me. It's usually a case of circumstances being just right. I spend plenty of evenings simply driving people from one place to another, but what would be the sense of writing about those times? I'd rather make known the tales of the tails I've known.
For instance, one evening my dispatcher sent me off to pick-up movie star Salma Hayek. She had hired out the limousine for the night. I had no way of knowing that it would become more than just another assignment.
In fact, it was obvious right from the start that things were going to be interesting, although not for any reason related to sex. When I arrived in Brentwood to pick-up Miss Hayek, she was accompanied by a male companion who was obviously drunk. As they got into the door and up to the time I closed the door behind them, Miss Hayek was quietly urging her partner to behave himself. She was visibly unhappy, in spite of the fact that it was her birthday and they were on the way to a celebratory party in Beverly Hills.
The ride to the restaurant was uneventful. We made good time and soon enough I was opening the door for them in front of one of the cities classiest restaurants. My male passenger stumbled as the left the car and I again noticed a look of desperation in Miss Hayek's eyes. I spent the next few hours waiting nearby and was back in front of the eatery at the requested time. When I pulled up to the entrance at the appointed time, the maitre d' came to the car and asked if I was there to pick up Miss Hayek. I told him yes and he waved his hand towards the door. Several busboys filed out, their arms filled with boxes, which I assumed where birthday gifts for the guest of honor. The maitre d' asked me to open the trunk and he supervised the loading of the boxes into the car.
While this was going on, he confided in me that the event had not gone well at all. Apparently Miss Hayek's date had continued drinking and been obnoxious and rude throughout the party. Because some pretty important and influential people were present, the maitre d' had been walking a tight line between offending the clientele and having to throw the offender out. He was obviously glad the problem was going to be going away and told me he would do his best to get Miss Hayek and her companion out to the car ASAP.
I stood waiting beside the car, the door already open to accept my passengers. Barely a minute had passed before she appeared on the sidewalk and came over to the car. She got inside and I stood next to the open door, waiting for her companion to come out. Only a few seconds passed before she told me he wouldn't be riding with us. I didn't show any visible reaction, simply swung the door shut. Just as it was about to close, I heard her muttering in Spanish, her anger obvious even though her words were not.
I walked around to the drivers side and slid into the driver's seat. I started the car and prepared to pull out into traffic when her companion rushed from the restaurant and stood at my window, pounding on the roof and screaming at me to open the door. Naturally I had no intention of doing so and simply sat there watching him, waiting for him to move aside so I could proceed.
He then decided if he couldn't get inside, he would block me from driving away. He stood at the right front wheel so I couldn't pull forward without hitting him and began to scream obscenities. Now, that is one thing you don't do in Beverly Hills, at least not out on the street. I don't know who called the police, but in seconds two patrol cars had pulled up and four officers stood in the street behind my former passenger.
He slammed the hood of the car twice with his fist before they restrained him. One of the cops approached my window and motioned for me to open it. As I moved to do so, Miss Hayek hopped out from the rear seat and began speaking to him as well. I remained my usual calm self and let the cops sort things out. His intoxication and anger created quite a commotion. It was a rather enjoyable scene to watch. The highlight came when Miss Hayek loudly told the cops her companion had a little dick and the shame sometimes made him crazy. While not the most ladylike of comments, I admired her ability to keep his anger at a level bound to get him arrested.
Soon enough, he was being hauled away and the cops told me I was free to go. There was a small dent on the hood and I couldn't resist asking the officers to contact my employer, as he would probably want to press charges as well. Finally things settled down to the point where Miss Hayek returned to her place in the passenger compartment.
She buzzed me on the intercom and asked me to take her home. At the same time, she apologized and told me her escort had spilled wine all over one of the other guests, insulted a table of studio executives and then tried to hit on a friend of hers who had also been present. She thanked me for keeping her safe, an exaggeration of events but nonetheless a nice gesture.
We returned to Brentwood without further problems. I offered to carry the gifts from the trunk into the house, an offer she gratefully accepted. This took only a few minutes and then I prepared to leave.
When I turned to say goodnight, I noticed that Miss Hayek was barefoot now and her reduced height, combined with her puppy dog look, made her look small and alone. Her eyes appeared brighter than before and I realized she was holding back tears. I was concerned, not just because of her emotional state, but also by the possibility of the newest guest of the Beverly Hills PD returning to her house and so I asked if I could call anyone or get anything for her.
She gave me a weak smile and shook her head. She handed me a tip (which I later discovered was a hundred dollar bill) and I turned to leave. I turned at the door, intending to ask her again if I could do anything for her. However, before I even spoke, she asked me in a tiny voice if I could stay for a little while.
She seemed pathetically grateful when I agreed and she practically tore my uniform jacket from my shoulders. Once she had stowed the garment in the closet, she told me she would be right back. I stood waiting for her in the living room and she came back a minute later with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses.
I explained to her that I can't afford to be caught drinking and driving. In response, she pointed out that I wasn't driving and wouldn't be for a little while. Besides, she added, it's my birthday and you have to do what I want. I agreed with her point and told her I would make an exception to my non-drinking policy. She grinned happily and tried to open the bottle. Her attempts were pitiful and finally I took it from her and opened it myself. As I filled the glasses she had brought, she told me to call her Salma and asked me my name.
