My wife and I both have a taxi sex fantasy. We’ve never talked about it, but she’s dared my friend Mr. X to lure his wife or girlfriend into the back seat of one, and Mr. X has written to her with a four-wheeled fantasy of his own. Tragically for us both, my wife has a car (although she’ll occasionally take the bus) and I have a bike. Are you caught up now? Cursing countless missed opportunities like me? Well that’s why you go on vacation – for the taxis.

Madrid would have hundreds of them, I suspected, white SEATs, Audis and Peugeots zipping through crowds of drunk Spaniards at all hours of the night (also we have friends there and had decided to stop off for a couple of days – insignificant facts compared to those zipping taxis). Plus, with the sexual revolution still swinging in Spain 35 years after Franco, surely taxi drivers got an eyeful all the time. Hell, I’d been getting an eyeful all afternoon as we’d strolled through the Parque del Buen Retiro after some Velezquez in the Prado. It was sunny and hot and more than a few bikini tops had taken wing to land off in the grass next to the beach towels of bathing lovelies. As for the flocks of miniskirts twitching past, I figured Madrid must have ateliers every block or so, like hair salons, where they painted them straight onto pert Spanish asses so that foreign observers could study the Iberian anatomy without the obstruction of actual clothing. Ah, Spain. I was horny. Continue reading Getting Close to Santa Ana: the delayed result for The Taxi Experiment →