i am a creepy service magnet

A few nights ago, I getting into a cab in the somewhat wee hours of the morning and the first thing the driver said to me was, "So how was your date?"

I demurred, trying to let him know that my evening was not what I wanted to talk about (not that I particularly wanted to talk at all), but somehow that didn't stop him from asking me if I had found Mr. Right, if I thought relationships were as simple as banking transactions, and what did I do for a living?

"Oh Lord," I thought, "I've got a chatter. And I think he likes me."

We get stuck in traffic (gee, who knew there was construction on the Bowery approach to the Manhattan bridge?) and he pretends to not want to talk about himself and "this other thing I do -- I don't drive cabs all the time."

"Really? You don't?"

"Naw. I do something else. But you don't want to know about it."

"Oh Lord," I thought, "I've got a serial killer. And I think he likes me."

As it turns out, he's an aspiring cinematographer who spends some days working electrical tech stuff for small films and some nights driving a cab. And he's got some choice thoughts about actors -- mostly, that we're all in it because we want to be famous. Thanks, Dr. Phil, for your profound insight.

I had to tell him (at this point I've given up on the Silent Treatment -- traffic was a bitch, and my cellphone was dying) that some of us are in it because we believe in art, that all we want is to be able to do the work and that (gasp) some of us don't want to be famous.

At which point, I think he's going to pull over on the Manhattan bridge, cut me into small pieces and fling them one by one into the river.

So I change the subject.

"What makes you want to be a cinematographer?"

"blah blah blah blah," the familiar sights of Flatbush Avenue roll by, "blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah," thank god for Fourth Avenue, "blah blah blah blah blah blah bl--"

"It's that green one, on the right. Thanks! Good night!"

I slammed the door (yes, I slammed the door) and quickly locked myself inside my three-lock paradise of an apartment.

I was safe.

Until the next day, that is, when I met his lovely, large-breasted, heavily Eastern Euorpean accented cousin. At the hair salon.

I went in to get a haircut, and, since I'm a girl, they washed my hair. And that's always a nice part. Sit there, have someone rub your head, run warm water over you, scratch your scalp. Really nice. Really relaxing. Really terrific.

Unless it's not.

Irina, (I think that's what her name was -- she was either Irina or Olga, which was too Chekovian to be real) did the shampooing part with some skill. Not as great as that guy on East 57th street several years ago, but not as bad as my four year old cousin. A solid B+ /A- shampooing.

Then she started on the conditioner. And I'm just not sure I can explain this without having your head to rub. It was the most indecent, awkward, stomach-churning experience I've had in recent memory. She covered her hands with goo, and then very lightly, very delicately started caressing my head. Much like an amorous lover might run his fingers delicately over his beloved's breasts. Or as if she were sticking her fingers in the frosting of a cake -- heavily enough to get some frosting, but lightly enough not to leave any trace of it behind.

Meanwhile, her boobs were swinging (undelicately, unamorously) in my face.
I closed my eyes, grit my teeth, and dug my skull into the basin of the sink.

"Oh Lord," I thought, "I've got a large, foreign lesbian here. And I think she likes me."