in Narrative

The Taxi

jesus_on_dash1It’s after two a.m., I’m wasted, and the rain’s just started to fall on little Alejandra, looking sexy at the curb. A taxi limps in. There’s a spectacular flash of lightening. Alejandra doesn’t even look, she just dives in.

I watch the driver’s eyes follow Alejandra’s epic slide across the torn seat, her short skirt up, her bare pussy exposed. He’s grinning and squeezing his junk.

“Calle Alberto Navarro, Señor,” she says.

“Como no, mi reina.”

He’s smooth, I’ll give him that. And handsome, in a swarthy, gold front tooth, ten inch dick kind of way. But his rig’s all twisted, knobs are missing, widows are frozen open, the steering wheel looks melted and partially crushed.

He catches my eye in the rear-view. He pats the Jesus on the dash. He proudly tells me his taxi survived the invasion of ‘89. There are bullet holes to prove it. I shake my head.

His foot violently punches the clutch as he shifts, like he’s trying to crush a scorpion. The taxi squeals and rattles. We bounce and shriek. Alex’s hair and skirt flutter wildly in the wind.

I give her a look. The -I think this lunatic just robbed a Pio Pio, look. Her nipples are hard. She’s got her legs open, she’s giving him a show in the rear-view.

Through the Thunderdome of El Chorrillo we fly, just missing a dazed man building a fire in the street. The taxi squeals, we turn down a narrow alley. We crater in a massive hole. My knees jam against the seat, and when we bounce back out my head hits the roof.

I’m dazed. Blood starts to flow. It seeps down the side of my head. And for just a second, I think: OK, take her Señor, fair trade, take your “queen.” Make Alejandra your little sex slave for all I care. Call it reparations. Call it a bribe. Call it bien cuidado.

Just get me back to the hotel alive.

-Cojito @ Panama After Dark.

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