Living for Disco

I had a mercifully brief conversation about my sexual availability with my taxi driver this morning that took me right back to the time I spent in Egypt, and the constant question “Do you have a boyfriend?”

When I worked as a tour leader, I led a number of different trips. For some reason, if you were ending one trip at a particular hotel in Luxor, the likelihood was that you should relocate to another hotel in town to begin the next trip. Cue extended lie in, followed by hasty packing of huge rucksack, dragging belongings downstairs trailing scarves and toiletries, flinging it all in a taxi and haring off to check in across town.

I used to have the following conversation about 20 times a day:

“Where you from?”
“England”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Yep, most certainly do, thanks for asking.”
“Egyptian boyfriend, or English boyfriend?”
“English.” (No choice but to answer this – if I said Egyptian, I’d be expected to provide name, addresse, shoes size and dental records)
“Aha. Then you need an Egyptian boyfriend too.”

Normally at this point, I’d laugh, and he’d laugh, and we’d all have a jolly old giggle, I’d pay him, and he’d bugger off to annoy his next client.

One guy took it a bit further.

“You like sex?”
“Excuse me?”
“You like sex?”
“I wouldn’t know”, I said. “I’m a virgin. And anyway, in my culture it’s considered extremely rude to ask a woman that question.”
“But all western women, they like sex. All the time.”
I told him that if he didn’t shut up, I’d get out of the cab and find someone else to take me to my hotel. He kept quiet for a blissful five seconds.

“I have a bed.”
“Gosh. How nice for you.” I sensed this was going to be an interesting discussion.
“Is in my flat. My bed. Is in my flat. Is nearby.”
“Lovely.” Getmeoutofhere.
“You come with me now, we have sex, I bring you to your hotel. Fifteen minutes.”

How could a girl refuse such an appealing offer? A hurried humping session with a toothless, unwashed cabbie on a scummy mattress in the sweltering heat of Luxor was just what the doctor ordered. Naturally I requested that he hightail it to his flat immediately to commence festivities. In fact, why not just pull into the nearest alleyway and go at it on the sticky plastic seats in the back?

At least that’s what I meant to say. What actually came out of my mouth was “No. You’re extremely rude and I don’t want to talk to you any more. Shut up, and take me to the Pharoah hotel, which is what I’m paying you for or I’ll report you to the police.”

A golden opportunity missed.

As I dragged my stuff out of the boot, the hotel porters rushed to give me a hand. I turned to pay the driver, and found him proffering a grubby piece of paper.

“My phone number. You change your mind, you want sex, I come, I pick you up. Fifteen minutes.”

Mute with amazement, I took it. I probably still have it somewhere. You never know when I might need it.