Thursday, 10:37 p.m., Pennsylvania Ave and 20th St.
There I was, a well-regarded Uber driver with an impeccable 5-star average rating, lounging in the back seat of my own car, sandwiched by a pair of buxom Russian lasses with unspeakable intentions. There was desire in the air, risk in the offing, breasts in my face, and I saw no reason to hold back. Promiscuity isn’t typically on the menu of an upstanding chauffeur just trying to make a buck, but when twin Eastern goddesses climb into your vehicle wearing less than Winnie the Pooh and demanding you take them to “Destination Pleasure Town,” you abide like The Dude at a bowling alley.
And you leave the meter running, because they insisted.
“Take me! Take me!” Natalya cried repeatedly, her long legs splayed on top of mine, her firm loins girding for gratification.
“You really are a shot of life, Natalya,” I panted huskily.
“It’s Tatyana,” she replied.
“Whatever,” I said.
Locked in the throes of passion, I barely noticed Ulyana — or was it Olga? — stop stroking my hair to reach down for her purse. She quickly produced a fresh cupcake, licking it seductively before offering it my way.
“It is from Georgetown Cupcake,” she muttered through a honeyed accent thicker than the chocolate frosting at her fingertips. “Have you heard of this?”
Even in the midst of copulation, I managed to roll my eyes in her direction, for I am a self-respecting D.C. denizen who dutifully avoids the products of overhyped tourist trap bakeries unless they are fed to me by naked Russian ladies.
“Feed me, Ulyana, my sweet!” I cried as she shoved the luscious confection into my face.
Suddenly a frantic rap came at the window, and I jumped for fear that the fun was coming to a swift end. Thankfully, it was only just beginning.
“Do not worry,” Tatyana reassured me. “It is only our friend, Svetlana. May she join as well?” Continue reading My time as an Uber driver in Washington D.C.