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In San Francisco, you might need the right cab driver to get you to the right sex club…

In this week’s column for the S.F. Examiner, I write about getting misguided passengers where they want to go:

I’m cruising down Folsom Street on a quiet Thursday night at about midnight. An arm goes up in front of Powerhouse. I pull over. A man with a strong accent gets in the back of my taxi.

“Can you take me here?” He shows me his phone with the Google details for the Power Exchange on the screen.

As I head up 7th Street, I ask nonchalantly, “Not the crowd you’re looking for back there, huh?”

“Too many problems!” he exclaims. “I’m looking for women.”

“Well, you’re going to the right place now.”

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photo of the entrance to the Power Exchange courtesy of S.F. Weekly

Racing through the littered streets of the Tenderloin, I can’t help but wonder how this guy ended up at a gay cruising bar instead of the hetero sex club he was looking for. Poor communication with a cab driver? A mix up in a Google search?

Whatever. These things happen. A few months back, I had a similar situation, albeit in reverse, while driving past the Power Exchange …

A guy flags me down and immediately tells me he’s a tourist and has ended up at the wrong place.

“The doorman told me I should check out Blow Buddies,” he says. “Do you know where that is?”

Of course. I’m quite familiar with the place, I tell him. But instead of assuming that, as a night cabbie, I know where all the sex clubs are in San Francisco — gay and straight — he thinks I’m a regular and grills me on the details.

“It’s all gay, right? Is it OK to just watch? Do I have to take off all my clothes? Are there condoms available? Showers?”

“All I know is that, once you’re inside, they’ll explain everything.”

When I pull up to Blow Buddies, which is a shuttered storefront on a dark street, my misguided fare is understandably nervous. I assure him they’re open and that I’ll wait to make sure. As he enters, he turns to flash me a Cheshire grin and then recedes into the flaming red light.

Not all mistaken forays into the sex positive climate of San Francisco have happy endings though …

Two or three weeks ago, I’m heading back to the National yard, about to hit the Chevron on Bayshore, when a tall man runs toward my cab, flailing his hands in the air.

First thing I notice are his pink shorts, white shirt and topsiders. Did he just fall out of a J. Crew catalogue into the industrial part of the Bayview?

I stop. More out of curiosity than anything.

“I need to get to the Westin,” he gasps. “Don’t worry, I have money.”

“Union Square?”

“No, in Milanbay, I think.”

“What?”

“Hold on, I have a card.” He reads off the address for the Westin by the airport.

As I circle back to the freeway, I ask, “Why are you wandering around the Bayview?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We got a little time before we reach your hotel,” I point out.

“Well … I’m only here for one night on business. So I figured I’d head into San Fran, get something to eat and have a couple drinks. My cab driver recommended Polk Street. After getting a decent steak, I walked down to Jackalope. I was smoking outside and this hot chick approached me. She invited me to a bar across the street. A place called Divas. Everything was going great. We were totally hitting it off. Then she wanted to go back to her place. Awesome. We get in her car and start driving. At a red light, I lean in and …” He pauses. “That’s when I figured out something wasn’t right.”

His eyes are full of despair as they meet mine in the rearview, and I quickly stifle my laughter.

“I’m from Detroit, man! I was in the Marines!”

“What did you do after that?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

“I jumped out of her car! Just started walking. I would’ve walked all the way back to the hotel. I don’t give a fuck. I was a Marine!”

I’m inclined to tell him it’s not his fault he didn’t know Divas was a transgender bar, but would it even matter at this point?

“I just wanted to have a little fun in San Fran …”

Slowly, his voice fades, and I leave him to his thoughts. He’s got a long night ahead of him, and a long flight back to Detroit, which might be enough time to sort out all these new emotions.

Originally appeared in the San Francisco Examiner.

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Her rating is 4.2.

I accept the ride automatically, like I do with all my Uber requests. The ping comes in and I tap the flashing icon on my iPhone as quickly as possible before it expires. I don’t even look at the passenger name. I’m too busy fighting traffic to reach the pinned location. But at a red light, I press the link in the Uber app that opens up the passenger info screen. That’s when I notice Julia’s rating.

In the four months I’ve been driving for Uber, this is the worst passenger rating I’ve seen. Even though very few Uber passengers have five-star ratings, they’re usually around 4.8 or 4.7. So as I approach Hyde and O’Farrell, I can’t help but wonder why Julia’s previous drivers had rated her so low.

I pull into a bus stop, hit the hazards, and look around. Nobody in sight. Maybe that’s the problem. Making your driver wait longer than a minute will definitely cost you a star. In the Tenderloin, two stars. At least. I’m lucky I have a space to pull into. Otherwise I’d be double-parked in the flow of traffic, getting honked at by spiteful cab drivers or possibly rear-ended by a disoriented tourist. I wait five minutes, watching my side mirrors in case a bus approaches. Just as I’m about to cancel the ride, my phone rings.

“We’re on Jones, between Eddy and Turk. Uber messed up our address.”

A likely story. Probably doesn’t know how to use the damn app. Inputting the wrong pick up location is another way to lose a star.

“Okay. I’m right around the corner. See you in a sec.”

Fortunately, I don’t have to circle four blocks on the one-way streets downtown. Just take a left at Eddy and a right on Jones. Pull up behind a double-parked taxi. A woman and a man wave at me. I unlock the doors.

“Sorry about that,” Julia says, as she slides across the back seat. The man climbs in next to her.

“No worries.” I pull into traffic. Glance at the cabbie eyeing me wearily. “The app can be a little janky at times.”

“McCallister and Baker,” the man tells me. “Do you need the exact address?”

“Nah. We’ll sort it out when we get there.”

I turn right onto Turk and head towards the Western Addition. I figure they’ll give me the silent treatment. Like most Uber passengers. Which, in the ratings playbook, is another lost point.

“How’s your night going so far?” the man asks.

“It’s cool. How you guys doing?”

“We just came from the Power Exchange,” he says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Do you know the Power Exchange?”

“A club?”

“A sex club,” Julia says with a hint of derision.

I can’t tell by her voice if she’s telling me because they’d wandered in by mistake or on purpose. “Really?”

“Yeah. But it was lame,” the man tells me. “We were the only couple there.”

“Just lots of dudes jerking off,” Julia says. “Following us around and asking if they could join in.” She laughs. “It was so gross.”

“There was that one woman giving a blowjob,” the guy points out.

“Ugh. But she was so fat and the dude was covered in hair… I had to turn away.”

At a stoplight, I glance in my rearview. They are an attractive couple. She’s made up like a three-alarm fire and he’s got the international man of mystery vibe down pat. In a club full of dudes looking to wank it to people having sex in public, I can see how they would be popular.

“Was this your first trip to a sex club?” I ask, since they seem inclined to converse and I’m curious.

“Oh yeah. And probably the last.” Julia laughs.

“It’s not like we were able to do anything,” the man says. “Whenever we started making out, the guys would swarm.”

“We left after twenty minutes,” says Julia.

“I guess that was something we needed to experience so we’d never have to try again,” the man tells her.

“I mean, if circumstances were different…”

“Oh, sure… but they’d have to be very different circumstances…”

Their voices go lower. It’s obvious I’m no longer part of the discussion. I focus on driving. Watch for errant pedestrians and wobbling bicyclists. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel at the lights. The Pixies are playing on the iPod hardwired into my stereo, but the sound is barely perceptible. I keep the volume low and faded to the front speakers when I have passengers in the car. Nobody likes rock music anymore. It’s all about deep house, EDM and dubstep, which I had to google after hearing the term mentioned constantly.

When I get close to the couple’s location, I ask which street they’re on, Baker or McCallister.

“Baker,” Julia says. “About halfway down on the right. Next to that streetlight.”

I pull over in front of an Edwardian apartment building and end the ride. “Have a good night.”

“You too. Drive safe.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I rate her five stars. Like I do with all my passengers. Unlike most Uber drivers, I adhere to the philosophy: live by the rating, die by the rating.

I go back online. Head down Divisadero and wait for another ping.