After a stunned silence, I gave a fake laugh, hoping he would understand this to mean, "No thank you, now we'll play this off as a joke, and you may salvage what's left of your dignity." But he was still looking at me, waiting for an answer. I had to think of an excuse with Olympic speed, so I told him my wife (I'm not married) would kill me, and besides, I had to go pick my (imaginary) kid up from the babysitter (at 3 a.m., apparently). What the hell my wife was doing in this fiction that prevented her from retrieving our hypothetical child is beyond me. Thankfully, the guy didn't ask.
The point is, sex is a bigger part of taxi driving than you think. I'm frequently asked to take someone to a "rub and tug" parlor, and I can't count how many times a guy's had me drive him to a bikini barista stand just so his wife won't see his car there.
Pictured: a bikini barista stand. Welcome to Washington!