“APG?” My driver is leaning out of his window, eyeing me. He’s a younger driver. My age. Maybe a little older.
“That’s me,” I say, trying to balance in my heels on the uneven pavement while pulling open one of his rear doors. “Well, not really — APG is my boyfriend. I use his account.” I slip into his back seat and shut the door behind me, swiping through my phone to find the address I’m headed to. “Could you head towards SOMA, please?” I pull my pencil skirt down gently toward my knees, hoping it doesn’t wrinkle on the way to my destination.
“Sure. You off to work?” He pulls out of my driveway.
“Sort of. Kind of. I’m just talking on a panel for a little bit, and then I’m headed home.”
“Wow. All the way to SOMA just to talk for a few minutes and go home?”
“I know, right?” I laugh a little, disconnected from the conversation, browsing through my Instagram notifications while he drives me to my destination. I’m never the first to initiate conversations with my drivers. Not because I’m a jerk, but because I like to see if I can get away with sitting completely silently in the back seat with my nose buried in my phone. It never happens.
“So … What do you do?” He asks. I look up. I can see him looking at me through his rear view mirror. Obviously he wants to have a conversation. Fine. I humor him.
“I’m a writer. Sort of. Kind of an artist, I guess. Uhm, y’know, I don’t really know what I do?” I hate answering this question. Too many people ask me what it is I do, and I never know what to say. “I kind of just do whatever I want.” I laugh at myself.
“What? How do you do that?” He asks.
“Uh, I guess I have a shitload of people following me on the Internet or something.”
“Do you really??” He straightens up in his chair a little, then looks back at me, smiling.
“Yeah,” I reply. But I’m eager to change the subject. “What do you do?”
“I played baseball when I was in Florida,” he says, and I mentally note the baseball tattoo on his left forearm. “What I really want is to be a cop. But you know how it is. Everyone hates cops.”
“That’s not true. I always wave at police officers when they drive by,” I object, smiling. “I know that’s kind of dumb, but I always did it when I was little, so I figure, why not? They must think it’s funny or something, right? Like, who is this girl waving at us?”
He laughs at that. Our conversation wanders as we drive, and I keep up with it to be polite.
“Do you like the city?” He asks me.
“I love San Francisco. I think I’m just over it.”
“I feel like I’ve been here forever. Like I’ve done everything already. I need to have new experiences. Move to Los Angeles or something. New York. Travel a little, y’know?”
“Oh yeah? Do you go to any clubs out here?”
“Mmm, sometimes — but they’re pretty random. Booty, Infusion, Temple, a few places in the Marina, Haight, and Mission — I’m not really picky. Why? Do you have any suggestions?”
“You should come out and meet with me and my boys,” he says, and he’s looking back at me with one of those smiles. I can sense that he’s hitting on me. I sigh inwardly. I’ve lost track of how many Uber, Lyft, and Sidecar drivers have tried picking me up while I’m trapped in their car. Is this the new thing? Guys that masquerade as chauffeurs just to hook up with chicks and corner them when they can’t escape? I wouldn’t be surprised — I’ve heard enough stories from friends regaling me with their adventures in hooking up with drivers. “The first Saturday of every month, we go to Cellar,” he continues. “It’s a huge party. You should come out and meet me there.”
“It sounds fun,” I say, trying to be polite, but really just thinking about my boyfriend and how pissed he’d be that yet another driver he’s sent to come pick me up is flirting with me on his tab. We pull up to my stop. “Thanks for the ride,” I say.
“You’re welcome — will I see you at Cellar?”
“Sure,” I say, smiling and nodding.
“I hope so,” he says, smiling back.
I remember leaving his car thinking, doesn’t he realize I’m using my boyfriend’s account to ride with him? Does no one respect relationships anymore?! And while this ride in particular was pretty tame, you would be shocked at how some of my previous drivers have spoken to me. I swear some of these dudes treat cab fares like it’s their own personal meat market.
I love San Francisco, but this place is nuts.
I feel like everyone is single out here, and everyone just wants to get laid. And while on one hand that can be a good thing (especially if you’re single), on the other, it can also warp your opinion of people and the world around you. And it’s not just San Francisco, actually — it’s the world.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had guys with wedding rings on their fingers trying to get me to either go home with them, or trying to bribe me with flights out of the country or tropical getaways. I can’t even count how many men with fiancés have tried cozying up to me, only to slink away when their bride-to-be finally takes notice. And don’t even get me started on how many times guys in serious relationships have lied about their single status just for a chance to either hook up with me or with one of my friends.
What the fuck is that??
Are people really that desperate for affection?
Is no one happy being monogamous anymore??
And if you’re going to cheat on someone, why are you with that person in the first place?!
Where’s your sense of fucking decency?
I have trust issues for a reason.
How am I supposed to believe that there are good guys out there when there are so many wolves in sheep’s clothing running around? Even when I do meet a good guy, it’s hard for me to completely trust that he’s a solid person because I’ve had way too much personal experience dealing with total letches.
Sure, good guys are out there. And yeah, I’ve even met a handful of them. But I’ve also met a shitload of losers, and those are the assholes giving good guys a bad name. And I feel for you, nice guys. I really do. You’re a dime a dozen, and if you pride yourself on being a total sweetheart, really, hang onto that because you are a God among men.
And to the rest of you?
Stop being a douchebag — you’re contaminating the world.
If you’re married or have a girlfriend, don’t flirt with me. Don’t try to get me to sleep with you. Don’t tell me things like, “Well, we’re having problems right now, and she’s cheated on me before, so technically, we’re not really together right now, and we’re actually in the middle of a fight, and she’s not very nice to me and–” oh my god. Just shut up! I’ve heard it all! Do you not have standards?! And if I tell you I have a boyfriend, that’s definitely not an invitation for you to somehow win me over with your smooth-talking hoping I’ll either leave him to be with you or at least cheat on him to boost your sad little ego.
Keep it in your pants!
The world has changed, and I get that. Everyone is more sexually free. Sexually expressive. Everyone is more open to talking about what they do behind closed doors, and everyone and their mom is sharing on Facebook or Tumblr what their sexual kinks are. Miley Cyrus is practically waving her vagina around every day, and she’s done it so often that we now find it normal.
And that’s great! Good for you! Good for Miley! Good for everyone! We should all embrace our sexuality because there is nothing wrong with having desires and wanting to feel pleasure or wanting to feel proud of our own bodies — but the line has to be drawn somewhere. And I think that line starts with whether you are in an exclusive and committed relationship or not, or whether the person you are trying to involve yourself with is in a committed relationship themselves.
Respect the sanctity of commitment.
Cheating on your girl or your guy is filthy as fuck. It is the lowest of the low. It makes you an asshole. It makes you a creep. It makes me think you probably have STDs, and like I would really prefer not to catch them. What in the world makes you think I would want anything to do with you if you’re already dating someone else? I’m not going to be your safety blanket. Are you serious? I’m no one’s backup bitch — get real.
The hottest guys I’ve met have always been the ones who seem to worship their girlfriends and give them the world. Those are the classy ones. Those are the most attractive men. They actually stand for something. They represent what seems to be a minority, and their virtue is absolutely sought after. They’re special.
But where have they all gone?
I feel lucky. My boyfriend is great, and I’m holding on tight because I know he’s a good one. But I also have to work hard every day to dismiss that nagging feeling in the back of my mind that he might be just like all of those assholes out there who cheat on their significant others without so much as a thought toward how their actions affect and hurt the people around them. That thought absolutely devastates me, and it’s a challenge for me to move past my own doubts, but I can’t help it! When you’ve been hit on as much as I have by guys with wedding rings on their fingers, you lose faith in people.
Can we just quit it with the cheating, please?
It can’t be that hard to just break up with someone if you want to stick your dick in another hole.
What is wrong with you people?
Someone please tell me I’m not the only one this is happening to. Please. And please, if you’re the sort of person who actually values being faithful and loyal, speak up and be proud of it. I’d like to restore at least some of my faith in humanity tonight. Ugh.