By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
While you're at home
watching ER ...
Like a lot of his peers, Jason the Limo Guy—no last names, please—drifted into the business by serendipity. About 18 years ago, a friend with a limo-driving gig asked him to fill an empty shift and Jason, who had been working in sales and financial services, took it on a lark. By the end of his first day on the job, ferrying around a Saturday afternoon wedding party, Jason was hooked. Now an owner-operator, he typically works five or six nights a week. Shifts last about 10 hours. He has resisted the urge to expand his business because he doesn't like the idea of employees. "I can't relinquish the control," he explains. "I don't fuck up. I don't oversleep. I don't go the wrong way. I don't say the wrong thing to some guy's wife." Now 39, Jason is married and lives in Minneapolis. He says he can't imagine any other line of work.
When people ask me, "What's the wildest thing you've ever seen?" I tell them pick a category: sex, drugs, or rock 'n' roll. Or I'll say, What do you mean by "wild?" Chicks fucking chicks? Dudes fucking dudes? Dudes sticking shit up people's asses?
When I was about 22, in 1990, I got dragged into a swingers party. I was naive. I had no idea what was going on, but they kept hinting, you know, "we want to get you involved." I just didn't get it because I was so uptight and rigid. It was one guy, two girls. They were having fun. The girls were going both ways, the guy was getting a little action. He calls up to me, "There's a problem with the stereo. Come back and help me." So I pull over and hop in back and he's fingering one girl, going down on the other, and he has this gloss all over his face. I drove back to his house with a raging hard-on. When we got there, this one girl started crying. I asked, "Why's she crying?" and the guy says, "Because it's her birthday and she wants you to stick it to her and you're not going to give it to her."
So I'm thinking, "You people are fucking beyond belief." And the guy finally says, "Here's the deal: I'm not going to give you a tip unless you come in." I say, "I can't come in. I've got to get the limo back." So I drove to the shop, parked the limo, and raced back. There's a note on the door that says, "Jason, come on in. Make yourself a drink. We're in the hot tub." By now, there's about 12 people because they've called all their friends for a big party. They say, "Come on in. Get naked and join us in the tub." I was shy and awkward, but I got in the tub. The guy's wife says, "Why don't you guys leave for a minute? Jason seems shy." The second time around, I wasn't as shy. People who know me now can't believe I was that uptight. It was a shaping experience. I flash back to it once in a while because I think, "God, I was so innocent."
Some people talk a big game, but they need encouragement. They'll say, "Hey, we're going to hop in here and fuck around. You cool with that?" The guy will say it with a kind of swagger. And I'll say, "Yeah, that's cool. I'm just going to jack off and watch." You know, it's like they're trying to get a rise out of me. Trust me, I'm the last guy you're going to get a rise out of.
Why do people have sex in limos? Well, why do they have sex in their kitchen or on their washer or the dryer? Because it's different than their bedroom. I get some people who are freaks. I had a guy who liked to get whipped with a belt. He was howling like a wolf out of the moon roof. Then he tells [his date], "Hit me with the buckle!" So she hits him with the buckle and makes his ass bleed. Now to me, that's borderline behavior. But I'm not going to say it's weird because it's not my job to judge. It's their deal.
I get swingers. I get orgies. In most people's circles, that's not a normal Tuesday night experience. While you're at home watching ER, I'm watching six people fuck their brains out.
In this business, you get in the middle of a lot of weird shit. But you also get to the point where you know where you want to be and where you don't want to be. Me, I don't want to be in lower Phillips on New Year's Eve at midnight, when people are shooting off guns and thinking it's cool. And if someone calls me and says, "Hey, we're going to roll some house parties in the city for New Year's," I'm not gonna be there. I don't want that. But if someone says, "We're going to dinner at the Oceanaire and then to a party at my buddy's house in Kenwood," then I'm your guy. Eight-hour minimum. One hundred and ten dollars an hour. Let's do the damn thing.