This week’s column for the S.F. Examiner is about a long ride, the green hell of suburbia, blowjobs, fast food and the semantics of meat when coupons are involved…

Before I’m even on the Central Freeway, he asks if he can suck my dick. I laugh it off, but he persists. Vehemently. No matter how many times I turn down his offer to suck my dick and try to change the subject, he doesn’t let up. Over and over, all the way down the 101.

“I just know you’re going to let me suck your dick…”

“Uhm, no.”

“Then shut up,” he says. “Your voice is turning me on.”

I shut up. Then he asks me a random question and returns to the topic of sucking my dick. When I reject his advances for the umpteenth time, he tells me to shut up again.

“Stop asking me questions then!” I shout.