Dating Stories: Taxi Home Lady

I did buy a drink for a woman. We meet in a pub. Her idea. When I got there she said, “I’m as dry as a dead dingo’s donga!”

Which was unusual. I mean, since when did that become a unit of measurement? How long has she been using dongas to grade things, and why is a dead dingo’s the driest? What about the arid appendage of an armadillo? Or a parched pelican’s penis? A thirsty turtle’s todger?

I didn’t understand.

She had other sayings, like “One drink and I’m anybody’s, two drinks and I’m everybodies. Ha ha.” and “I’m partial to a bit of bread.” I didn’t understand that last one.

So we had a few drinks, I mean, I had nothing else to do, and then we were going the same way so we got into the same taxi, and then she gave her address as, “We’re going to…” so, yeah, it was pretty clear I could have gone home with her. The taxi driver smiled and nodded, but, really, well, she covered her mouth to burp, so that’s nice, but I didn’t feel like breaking my record of no sexual transmitted diseases for her.

Mum said I should have. She said, “Every hole’s a winner.” She also said she could give me herpies if I was worried about that.

Which was weird. I asked, “Where’d you get herpies?”, thinking she had them in a box somewhere.

She said, “Probably your father.”

I don’t know why she said probably. Why not, before your father, or since your father, but why probably your father?

Anyway I got out of the taxi and she went home with the driver, obviously. She also sent me a text saying that she fucked his lights out and that I had turned down a great root.

So I guess that’s good for them. Not for the taxi. If the lights don’t work the car’s unroadworthy, so that’s a little bad news. Mostly good news I suppose.

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