I've seen a lot of things happen in the backseat of the UberBLACK that I drive in between rehearsals and acting gigs. I had a feeling I might again when I saw the the attractive couple on the sidewalk who had hailed a ride to the airport that evening. Their two tall frames tilted toward each other in a way that suggested they were about to fall, hard.
"John?" I asked as he opened the door for her. He nodded.
They looked like professionals, in their fifties, well dressed. She was wearing a silk blouse under a black jacket, and a short skirt that rose up her long legs as she slid across the back seat. He was wearing a stylish blazer, a black t-shirt, and tight jeans. There are two types of black car customers. Folks like this. Or parties. I prefer folks like this. You usually didn't have to clean up after them.
"To the airport?" I asked.
"Yes, please," said John. "We'll drop her off, and then I'd like to get a ride home."
"Sounds good," I said. "I'll get that address from you when we get to the airport."
I pulled away from the curb as they slumped back into the comfortable seats. I had some chill electronic dance music on the radio.
"Music OK?" I asked.
"I love it," she said.
It was a nice night. The lights of the city made a kind of light show in time with the music as we merged on to the highway.
When I glanced at the back seat they were holding hands and looking in each other's eyes. "Thank you," she said. It looked like she was about to cry. Then they leaned into an embrace. I turned back to the road ahead, and when I glanced at the rearview mirror again they were making out.
I turned the music up a little. The pace of the rhythm increased, too, with a deeper beat.
It's amazing how many people think the backseat of my car is like a private room, especially at night. I try to give them their privacy, though nothing separates us really. This isn't a cab, let alone a limo. But it is a nice, big, black SUV. So people might feel like they're special and can slip away from it all back there.
There is a note on the back of my seat clearly advising passengers that I have a camera recording every ride for my own safety. Still, the things I have seen. Some quite sweet, like this, I thought as I glanced again. Her jacket was open and he was fondling her generous, well-shaped tits through her blouse. She had her hand on his thigh. This was soft porn, at best. And no problem as far as I was concerned.
Sometimes I would point out the sign if things seemed about to go too far and create a mess I might have to clean up. If anything looked coercive, I'd politely but firmly point out the sign right away. Not in my car. I can't control what happens when people get wherever they're going. But not in my car. Only once had I felt like I had to call 911 after dropping off a guy who looked like he was taking a broken young woman with him forcefully against her will. I gave the 911 operator the address and split.
I'm not a cop. I'm not into enforcing rules. I don't mind people sniffing a quick line in my back seat. But no smoking. Necking is fine. Touching is OK. A discrete drink is cool. I get that people hail black cars for parties. But sloppy obvious drinking is no good for any of us on the road, especially if we get pulled over. So I'll say something if a party is getting out of hand. Speaking of hands. Fondling is fine. Hand jobs are OK, if they're discrete. I'll even let the occasional blow job go without remark.
But if it looked like things might get out of hand, like the three guys who started with a circle jerk and then were blowing each other one Saturday night, I'll say something. I almost let them go on, too, though I was afraid of the mess three gushers might make all over the back of the car. Then they started fingering each other's asses. That's when I interrupted them.
