This week’s topic is something a lot of us showgirls have to deal with all the time, and for those who live in the inner city it is usually once or twice a day.

As someone who has caught a taxi to and from work for the last 10 years, the stories I could release as Taxicab Confessions From The Eyes Of A Drag Queen would blow your comb-over all the way to your shoulder. Some of them are for this paper; others I would fill you in on if I was a bit boozy at the bar one night.

One that sticks in my mind happened one Mardi Gras when I had been working hard all month. I had arrived at the party having just finished work after many hours as a lady.

Deciding to stay as a lady for the entirety of the party, I didn’t bring a change of man clothes or make-up remover. (Yes, I am a man underneath. Crazy, hey?)

In order to catch up to everyone else, I decided to have all my entertainment at once and started to bop around. All of a sudden it just got too much and I knew I had to make a mad dash home to get changed.

Collecting my things and my thoughts, I jumped into the nearest cab and urged the driver on. I was met with a very heavy Indian accent: Good evening, you have nice titties.

Well thank you, sir, was all I could muster in my jitterbug state. Fanning and bopping in the seat beside him, I caught him out of the corner of my eyes, staring at my ample bosoms.

Still in a daze I thought nothing of it till he drove straight up the arse of the car in front of us. Yes, he rear-ended the car right there at the stop lights, all while I was having my own private little Mardi Gras party in my head.

I jumped into the next cab and was at home in the next few minutes, but that went down as one of my favourite cab rides ever.

As for taxi drivers and sex, I wish it was true but it is probably easier to pick up a root from a club. That’s not to say taxi drivers can’t be sexy, but most aren’t.

So whether they pump the brake on and off so you end up with whiplash, or drive you the long way, or round your change up, or don’t let you eat in the back, or drive past you because they think you’re a hooker, or smell, or stare at your boobs, or chat about absolutely nothing or, worse, how they used to drink at the Cross with Carlotta (they all think they have at some point), just think where we would be without them. Walking, I guess.

Oh, and tickets are still available atTicketmaster for DIVA 2006.

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