Oral Hygiene on the Half Shell

So, about the Naked Lady with the Toothbrush who hopped into my Uber…


Things simply “happen” to me. They always have. If you and I sat down over a bottle (or two) of Scotch, I could regale you with tale after tale, from the mountain jungles of Haiti to Sinai Desert monasteries to the underground tunnels of Washington DC. All true, I swear. While the Universe has not seen fit to heap piles of rare metals upon me, it has commended upon me more Experience than you can shake a toothbrush at.


Speaking of which, about that Naked Lady…


I’ve seen just about everything you can see while Ubering. Keep in mind, I only drive nights. One, I hate daytime traffic—I’m not a big fan of old ladies on the way to the proctologist pestering me about driving two miles over the speed limit. Two, I prefer the Confession Box-like aura of the nighttime ride share. Many a times has a person completely broken down in my back seat—weeping and pouring out their hearts and sorrows to me, a perfect stranger. But I’m not just any stranger—I’m someone who actually cares, and they sense it. And just maybe we can find the start of a solution between Five Points and Harbison.


Every once in a while, one of these sobbing passengers concludes the ride, “Hey, wait. You look familiar to me. Aren’t you some kind of poli—?”


“No!” I insist. “Here’s your port of call; I hope you enjoy your evening.”


I’ve had drug deals go down in my back seat. I saved one woman from a serial killer date. I’ve whisked Romeo away from the scene of a romantic crime within his Juliet’s bedroom—don’t worry, they both just got caught in flagrante by an enraged parent. I’ve even transported chickens from one coop to the next.


But nothing compares to the Naked Lady…


Once darkness has settled upon our, and every, metropolis, there are those who take cabs from hotel to hotel, practicing the oldest profession, as it were. I’m not one to judge. And, in fact, I have no real way of knowing what goes on before and after a fare.


That said, several months ago, I received an Uber call, over the river, to one of the Midlands’ most rampantly flea-ridden motels. A total cat litter box motel, if ever there was. I’ve picked up folks there before, often in a state of chemical experimentation that should land them in a national laboratory.


But this particular evening, I pulled up to Room 142—the “2” hanging lopsidedly from the gaudy, aquamarine door. And emerged from within…


a strikingly beautiful woman in all her glory. No top. No bottom. Not even shoes. Her only article of clothing was a baby blue bathrobe which hung loosely from her shoulders, more cape than covering. And she held on high a blue toothbrush, as if it were the Statue of Liberty Torch.


I admit, I stared. Actually, my jaw plopped into my lap. This was either the world’s most avant-garde dental hygienist, or—I shook my head. Surely, I thought, this woman will return to her room, put on some actual clothes, then reemerge for safe passage to the next destination.




She opened the door and seated herself—bush in the back seat—uttering not a single word. And, really, when one wields a toothbrush with such unabashed confidence, who needs words?


I certainly didn’t. I started the ride and just stared forward, trying to avoid the rear-view mirror as much as possible. Which, frankly, wasn’t terribly possible.


After several minutes, I couldn’t contain myself. I casually let fly, “So…what do you do for a living?”


Her sultry, Marilyn Monroe-like voice nearly threw me across the median. “I’m an adult entertainer.”


I made eye contact, more or less, through the mirror. “Ah, yes. Of course. Who could’ve guessed?”


I’m usually quite talkative with passengers. I’m accustomed to discussing Life, the Universe, and Everything. But I just couldn’t think of a good conversation starter—which is a bit disappointing, because a Naked Lady clenching a toothbrush would appear to be the ultimate tête-à-tête appetizer.


The ride lasted about ten minutes, and it wasn’t until we hit The Vista that it even dawned on me where we were headed. No. Couldn’t be. She couldn’t possibly—. Yes. The Sheraton. I mean, it’s one thing to emerge naked from a cockroach clap trap motel. But was she really going to enter one of the city’s nicest hotels like a dental Lady Godiva?


Yes, folks she did. I pulled up to the lobby, and the succubus emerged from my vehicle without a word. On the sidewalk, she adjusted her bathrobe so that it rested ever so on her shoulders, and, in all her full frontal glory, toothbrush aloft in her right hand, she attacked the front door like a runway model.


What I wouldn’t give to see the look on the concierge’s face. Then again, maybe this happens every Tuesday night at The Sheraton.


So there you have it: the Naked Lady with the Toothbrush who got in my cab.


And the moral of the story, kids: If you’re about to engage in some erotic hijinks, always come prepared for good oral hygiene.


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