Look. I was not planning a story. I was planning a Tesco meal deal and a face wipe. That is what I told Sophie in the queue for coats. Then this man put his mouth on my neck like he had paid rent on it, and the plan changed.
Rain was already coming down in that mean London way. Not pretty rain. The sort that ruins suede and makes every pavement look like a wet magazine. We spilled out of the club around two, my heels sticking, his hand already under the back of my dress like he was checking the weather. I let him. I had been letting him for an hour.
How we even got in the car
I met him near the bar, not on an app. That matters to me for some reason. He bought a round I did not need. He had that City-boy-off-the-leash face. Nice watch. Worse intentions. I liked the second thing more.
We danced badly. We kissed like we were trying to start a fight. At one point he said, in my ear, that he wanted to fuck me before we even made it home. I laughed because it was a line. Then I thought about it for the rest of the song and stopped laughing.
I ordered the Uber. Comfort, not a little city car. I am 5’5” but I am not folding myself into a Polo for this. He put the postcode in wrong twice. I took the phone off him. Rain on the screen. My lipstick on his collar. The map said twelve minutes to his. I already knew we were not doing twelve clean minutes.
The driver was a man in a dark jacket who said evening and then said nothing else. Bless him. Or curse him. I still have not decided.
The bit where I should have sat still
Back seat. Belt on for about four seconds. His hand went straight up my dress. I was already wet from the club, from the dancing, from the way he kept looking at my mouth like it had done something criminal. Two fingers. No warning. I made a sound I hoped the radio would cover. It did not. The radio was playing something mid. The wipers were louder than the song.
He asked if I wanted him to stop. I said no. Then he asked the other thing. The one people usually save for a bed and a playlist and a fake sense of privacy.
He asked if he could fuck my arse in the car.
I said yes. I said it too fast. That is the honest part. I have said yes to worse in better rooms. At least this had rain on the windows and a time limit. There is something clean about a time limit.
I keep a condom and a little sachet of lube in the inside zip of my bag. Sophie calls it the emergency kit. Mia calls it proof I am not right in the head. I call it journalism. Also I like anal. I am good at it. I know how my body works and I am not going to pretend I discovered this by accident in a poetry workshop.
What the driver could see
Not much, if he kept his eyes forward. Which he did, mostly. I watched his shoulders. They stayed very still. The kind of still that means a person has decided this is not their business and they would like to be paid and go home.
I climbed into his lap facing away from the front. Dress shoved up. Knickers pulled to the side because taking them off properly felt like too much ceremony. He got the condom on with his teeth and one hand, which would have been impressive if it was not also slightly grim. Lube on his fingers first. Then on me. Then more, because I am messy, not stupid.
The first push made me drop my head against the headrest. Tight. Slow. The car went over a speed bump and I swore. He laughed into my shoulder. I told him if he laughed again I would get out at the lights. I would not have got out at the lights.
He held my hips and let me sink. That is the part people skip when they write this stuff like a porno. You do not just appear full of someone in the back of an Uber on the Cromwell Road. You breathe. You wait. You feel ridiculous and hot at the same time. My makeup was already sliding. I could see my own mouth in the dark window, open, lipstick on my chin. I looked like I had been eating fruit. I had not.
Then it stopped being careful
Once I had him, I started moving. Small at first. Then not small. The car smelled like rain and his cologne and sex. Every time we took a corner I had to grab the seat. He had one hand on my waist and one over my mouth when I got loud. I bit his finger. He took that as encouragement, which was correct.
He fucked me properly after that. Hard enough that the whole back seat complained. My knees were either side of his. My dress was a belt. I could feel every bump in the road in a way that should be illegal to describe before noon. When we stopped at lights I froze. When we moved I went again. It turned into this stupid rhythm with the traffic. Green. Move. Brake. Hold. I came on a red light by Earls Court with his hand between my legs and his cock in my arse and a bus next to us full of people who will never know. Or maybe they will. I do not care enough to check.
He lasted longer than I thought he would. Club boys usually do not. He pulled my hair, told me to look at the window, told me how tight I was, all the usual script. It still worked. I am not above the usual script when it is delivered into my neck at two in the morning.
He came with this punched-out sound, both hands on me, forehead on my back. The car had just turned onto his road. We did not even make it to his door. That was the whole point, I think. The door was a later problem.
The walk of whatever this was
I climbed off him like I had been riding a badly behaved horse. Condom dealt with in a tissue, bag zipped, dress yanked down. My legs were shaking in a way I could not style out. He tucked himself away and looked suddenly younger. That happens. The second the sex ends they remember they have a hallway and a housemate and a life that is not this.
The driver said we had arrived. Voice flat. I gave him five stars and a tip that felt like hush money. He did not look at me. Fair.
Outside, the rain had gone thin. We stood under the little porch of his building and he asked if I was coming up. I said no. I had already had the part I wanted. Going upstairs would have turned it into a sleepover, and I have been reading too many pieces about how nobody stays over anymore. For once I agreed with the trend.
He kissed me anyway. Soft, which I did not ask for. Then I got another Uber, this time in the front, like a person with manners.
The morning after, which is always the real article
Sophie was awake when I got in. She took one look at my face and said, you did not just get a kebab. I told her the short version. She put a mug of tea down like she was placing evidence on a table.
I showered for a long time. I redid my whole face at 4am for no audience, which is either self respect or a problem. Probably both. There is a bruise on my hip the exact size of his thumb. I keep catching it when I pull jeans on. It makes me smug, which I know is unattractive. I am working on being a better person later.
Would I do it again? Yes. In a different car. With a better playlist. Maybe not on a school night, if I ever develop shame. I keep thinking about the driver more than the man. The way he never once turned round. The way London just keeps moving while you do something you will have to write down so it does not sit in your body unused.
Anyway. That was Friday. I have a lunch at one and a stain on the back of that dress I am not taking to the dry cleaner with a straight story. If you see me on the District line looking pleased with myself, mind your own business. I already paid the fare.