You can tell by the smell…

19 02 2010

I wrote this story a while ago and came across it one night while searching through my “writing folder”. I thought I’d share it with you lovely people.

It is a true story about a crazy guy. A crazy taxi-driver. I haven’t told too many people about this because it occurred on a night that I thought I had wiped from my memory. I went out to dinner with my bud Mark to an Italian restaurant in the Valley. We went with another mate and his former boss. What we didn’t know was that out of the 8 or so of us there, we were the only straight ones. The other 5 were as gay as the guys on the lead float in the Mardi Gras. Real fans of the cock. This isn’t an issue because no one knows how to party harder than a gay dude. It’s an irrefutable fact. But after about 10 seconds of sitting down we realised we were in Queen City. Two of the gay dudes were old wrinkly Queen fags. Just bitter, spiteful men who in between sexual innuendos (ooh calamari rings, I like rings…hur hur hur) basically slated the service staff and called their food rubbish. It was really embarrassing but we were stuck there, basically waiting for the now surly staff to deliver our food which had most likely been spat in. If we were lucky.

After about eleventy bottles of wine, Mark and I decided to call it a night and retire back to his pad to watch the footy, drink beer and tequila and perhaps play Tiger Woods on the PS2. It had been a horrific night and one that I hadn’t enjoyed despite being complimented numerous times on the colour shirt I was wearing and how ‘ruggedly handsome’ I could be if I used a bit more soap.

We jumped in a cab and the driver was pretty friendly. He asked us what we did for a living. I decided to have a bit of fun and told him I was an English teacher who worked in South East Asia 9 months of the year. I didn’t know my little jape would backfire so badly.

“Oh Asia! I love Asia. Do you?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s pretty tops. The people are so nice and the food is excellent” I replied.

He piped up “oh yeah, I love going there. I go once or twice a year. I fell in love with the joint after my tour in Vietnam. God I love the women. So beautiful”

“Yeah, the women sure are nice” I said. “But you need to watch out for all the diseases and such”

“Diseases?” he queried.

I should, at this point, have realised that I had started something that was going to end badly. Of course I was a little out of it so I continued.

“Yeah. You know. AIDS, the clap, all those nasty ones that make your cock drop off? You need to cover up your junk with a condom, don’t you?”

He turned around and looked me in the eye, all the while negotiating the traffic on the Story Bridge, and said “nah, you don’t need to worry about those. I’ve been going there for 25 years and have never worn a condom”

Silence.

The car was eerily silent except for the whistling wind coming through the partially opened passenger seat window and the insistant sound of Mark jabbing me in the ribs while he bit down on his hand to stop laughing. I started getting intrigued by our taxi driver.

“Never worn a condom? Aren’t you worried you’ll catch something?” I asked.

“Nah” said old mate. “I can tell which ones are infected. I can tell by the smell of their pussies”

Fucking. What.

I said “…….okay. Um…really?”

“Oh hell yeah, you can tell the sick ones just by sniffing their pussies. The clean ones have a beautiful smelling vagina. Oh god they smell good. Small, petite girls with great smelling lady bits. Yeah, every time I go over there I have a different girl every night for a month and I never wear a condom. I know they are clean. Just know by the smell. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes. Yes I do. Oh yes, clean smelling spadges. I shall remember that next time I am out sniffing for some poon-tang. Literally.”

We pulled into the driveway and Mark told him to keep the change. I think this is because he was scared he might accidentally touch his hand in the exchange of monies and develop some weird skin rash. To this day I have no idea how he went about his little olfactory experiment. Did he line them up in the brothel and sniff them each in turn? Maybe he had a list of brothels distributed amongst shell-shocked Vietnam War vets touting places where the ladies ‘smelt farking tops’? Perhaps he sat in the front row at a ‘show’ and snatched ping pong balls as they whizzed past his head, sampling each one with a hearty sniff? It is mind boggling to even think about it.

Weirdest drive home ever.

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