A few nights ago, after a date with a cute pixie, I hailed a taxi to go home.
“Hello pretty lady,” the young, swarthy taxi driver amiably says even before my itsy bitsy rear end is comfortably positioned on the seat.
Hmmm, he’s good, I think. He’s managed to cover up creepiness in his voice completely. So, what’s he up to? Is this just an innocent comment? Something he says to all the women who get into his cab?
He starts chatting. I learn that he is a full-time taxi driver and a part time student, and that he is 20 years younger than I am.
Then, somehow in the midst of talking about school and the courses he is taking, he turns on the overhead light, spins his head around to face me, flutters his long black eye-lashes at me and declares, “I prefer mature women!”
He turns back to facing the road, and turns off the light. I hear him chuckle.
“You prefer mature women? How mature?” I question.
He turns around again, the light goes on once more, and he presents me with a pout this time. “Your age.” he says softly.
I can’t help but feel that this young Don Juan pup has taken lessons from 4D in wooing women.
He returns to a safe driving position, the light is turned off again, and another chuckle is perceived.
“And why do you prefer older women?” I ask, determined to control the conversation.
“I like that they are experienced, that they do not have inhibitions, that they never have headaches, and that they take care of me…”
“So, are you married?” I ask, knowing fully well that he is. He wears a wedding band.
No chuckle this time. He is serious as he says, “I don’t know why, but I feel comfortable telling you this. I don’t usually tell women this (I don’t believe him), but my wife is cold. She is a good mother and a good wife, but she is cold. You understand what I mean, right?”
It’s a long ride and he continues, asking me directly at one point if I will consider being his lover. The overhead light is turned on many times, and many times he twists around and purrs, “Look at my lips… Don’t you want to know more about these lips? Don’t you want kisses from these lips?”
I am quick at deflecting, and getting him to talk more about his wife and children.
He starts laughing after a while, and resorts to chatting in a friendly manner. He stops pursuing me, and wants to know what kissing means to me. It is a serious question.
When we arrive at my place, he tries one last time, “Are you sure that you are not interested?”
“Yes, I am sure.” I repeat confidently.
“Listen,” I say, “think about this when you go home to your wife tonight. You claim that you like older women, correct? Well, that beautiful young wife of yours will one day be a mature woman. She will be the kind of woman you desire.”
He smiles at me. I suspect that I have made a point.
As I hand him the fare, he takes my hand and kisses it gently and says goodnight.
I am not offended. He has conceded defeat in a gentlemanly manner.
But, I am left to wonder about one part of the conversation… what does kissing really mean to most people?
