David P. Bleistein
"The Latex Girls"
I drive a cab in the San Fernando Valley, Los Angeles, Los Angeles County, state of California, USA. I drive the nite shift, and something wierd's happened almost every night, since I've started. One fine Saturday nite, I respond to a radio call to a nifty apartment building off of Ventura boulevard in Tarzana, just up the road from where Michael Jackson used to live. Fare turns out to be this nifty pair of young ladies, wearing latex couture, high heels, fishnet stockings, and lots of attitude. For those who don't know, latex couture is where a lovely young (you hope) lady goes to a funky little shoppe and gets fitted with a rubber dress that fits her skin-tight, in all of her beauty. (Some guys do it too, but, thank heaven, that ain't part of this story.) They wanna go to this hot club in Hollywood, a nice long ride. After a few miles, one of the ladies starts to fidget, and moan a bit, pulling at her dress. After some muted conversation, the other says, "sir, please don't look back here; I have to help my friend adjust her dress." At first, I didn't look, kept my bloodshot eyes right on the road, swear on a stack of Bibles, Korans and pictures of Buhdda's butt. I heard a zipper: ZZZIIIIPPP! Then I heard the THTHTHTHTH sound of the dress separating from its owner. But then the second lady softly said to the first, "oh, damn, girl, you-all didn't wear any undergarments!" and my head swiveled around the back, for their safety, you know. Gotta monitor the safethy of my fares, I guess I'm in loco parentis or something (loco anyay). Sure enough, she wasn't wearing anything under her skintight rubber dress. Great thing about this job is that you get to be a good Samaritan, quite often, sometimes a couple of times a shift. I reach into my cabbie survival kit, and pull out a roll of Bounty paper towels (for the aftermath of sick drunks and barfy little babies) and toss it into the back seat. "Girl," I says, "wrap yourself with these before you zip up your dress." With the help of her friend, she did, like a mummy. Then, ZZZZZIIIIIPPPP the zipper closed again, and we were near their destination. Both thanked me heartily for my help, tipped me $20.00 and sashayed out of the cab towards the front door of this neon-lit nightclub, with a big line out front to get in. You could hear the thumpin and bumpin of the music from inside the cab. Damn, they looked fine! Spike heels, fishnet hose, swaying and laughing, like only beautiful girls can do. And only me and they knew that one of those lovely sexy, starlet-looking girls was wearing Bounty paper towels for underwear! They didn't even turn and wave, and I didn't care; I almost peed myself laughing on my way back to the valley. Dave from LA LA land