I owned and operated a cab in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia, for many years. As I drove around Brisbane picking people up, I met many older and elderly Australians. A common refrain was, “Don’t get old, driver. It’s no fun!”

Well, I can tell you that observation is astoundingly accurate. I was in my mid-thirties to mid-forties in those days, and life was still my oyster. Those who spoke that line were over sixty.

These days, I am the one older than sixty, and nothing works as it used to. My thick, 7-inch cock, that used to stare at my chin when I shaved, now looks down in despair at my feet. My dodgy back, because of a kick I received playing rugby when I was seventeen, now freezes and prevents me from turning to look out the back window while reverse parking. Thank goodness for reversing cameras. Although, you know, being old and all, I can reverse using only the mirrors, so maybe not thank goodness for.

My knees hurt, my ankles ache, and arthritis and gout are constant companions. Worst is that my once upstanding dick doesn’t work well anymore. Viagra—another thing to thank goodness for!

My wife, Vicky, has aged much better than I. In her mid-sixties, her body is still banging and her breasts still firm Double-Ds, although they droop more than they did in her forties. Her ass remains round and firm, and her waist narrow. Her legs are still shapely and muscular. My wife’s hair colour may be from a bottle now, but it’s still the lustrous auburn-red of her youth. Her green eyes still sparkle with mirth, and her teeth remain white and even.

Older women are often compared to a fine wine, which improves with age. That observation holds true for my wife. I might be biased, but I think she’s aged better than any of our friends, including me.

Our sex life remains varied although we no longer play with others as we did in our thirties–fifties. We used to attend fetish events together, but now, other than catching the occasional drag show at The Sportsman Hotel in Spring Hill, we don’t go anymore. We’ve stopped attending wife-swap parties because my wife finds the fat guts and bendy dicks of the men who attend unappealing. She states that the rare occasions that someone young enough to have a rock-hard dick chooses her key is not enough to make up for the many times she gets a beer gut and Mr Wobbly.

Feminine-looking cross-dressers and trans-women have fascinated me since my cab-driving days. Often, especially if they were on their way home, I shared intimacy with these delightful people. Guys, trust me, if you want a decent, enthusiastic blowjob followed by anal, you cannot go past a CD or tranny! I have many transgirl friends whom I see regularly, but because we’ve stopped playing, I haven’t had sex with any of them for several years.

A story from my taxi-driving days. It was a wet and chilly night in the middle of August in Brisbane. In those days, the Brisbane Lions were named the Brisbane Bears and had moved to the ‘Gabba Cricket Ground the previous year. The Queensland Reds played at Ballymore Stadium in Herston and were called the Ballymore Reds. The Brisbane Broncos played at QEII Stadium in Nathan.

On the night I’m describing, all three teams had home games, and the need for cabs was high. I dropped a fare outside The Royal Brisbane Hospital. Because of the snarled traffic around that area, they decided to walk home. The Reds had just finished their game. Ballymore Stadium is near the hospital, and getting into it when the game lets out is nigh impossible, so I U-turned and drove to The Valley.

The first person on the rank was a Pacific Islander boy in his mid-twenties. All he wore was skin-tight black-leather trousers and high-heels. He had piercings along his ears and in his lobes. More adorned both eyebrows, his nose, tongue, and lips. Even more pierced the man’s nipples.

I thought, ‘Dear Lord, what have we got here?’ But he walked around the front of the cab and got in beside me. Doing that typically demonstrates that the person is harmless. I asked, “Where are we off to, chap?”

The man leant against the door, looked me up and down like I was a delicacy he just had to eat, and replied in the nasal lisp a lot of gay men affect, “Oh, dahlink. You can take me anywhere you want to.”

As a taxi-driver, you get propositioned by all sorts often, so it didn’t bother me in the least. I said, “You beauty! We’re off to the Gold Coast.” And hooked the car around into Warner Street.

“Oh, no, no!” The man lisped. “I need to go to Chermside.”

I did a U-turn, explaining the traffic snarl at Herston and suggesting we went up through Albion to avoid it. He agreed but continued to eye me suggestively. Although I adore having sex with CDs and trans-girls, I’m not particularly attracted to masculine-presenting men. This person was in between. His heels suggested femininity, but his bare upper-body and lack of makeup said otherwise. However, his lascivious looks didn’t affect me in either direction. They didn’t attract me, nor did they turn me off. They just were.

We’d just driven over the Albion overpass when the man said, “Cabbie, may I show you something?”

“Depends what it is, chap.”

With that, the man ripped open his trousers, and the largest cock I’ve still ever seen dropped out. It fell out of his pants like a toppling log and hit the car seat with an audible thump. I mean, this thing was as long and as thick as my forearm. I’m not talking about a fire hose here; I’m talking about a fire hydrant! Now, he’s gay, right? Where do you think he’s going to want to put that? Brings tears to your eyes just thinking about it, doesn’t it? But I’ve got to admit, I was impressed. And I’m certain that if I had one that big, I’d be dropping it out at every opportunity, too.

I’d be like, “Have a look at this!” Doinngggg! “Have you seen this?” Drop, thump! “Wanna see what I’ve got?” Zip, thump!

So, I’m staring at this trouser python wide-eyed and shocked. I wasn’t attracted to it, but I was amazed by its length and girth. I was: check I’m still safely in my lane, check the enormous cock displayed beside me, check the lane, check the cock, repeat.

The guy asked, “What do you think?”

“I’ve got to admit that I’m impressed,” I replied.

“Would you like to touch it?”

“Ahh, no thanks.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not quite my type.”

He looked disappointed. “What would make me your type?”

I pointed at his gigantic todger and answered, “To start with, you’d have to lose that!”

The man heard that and said, “Oh!” tucked himself away and zipped up. Then he muttered, “Why do all the cute-looking cab-drivers have to be straight?”

The rest of the trip passed without incident.

Returning to the present...

The year passed, and it was close to my wife’s birthday again, and I didn’t know what to buy her. It’s another effect of aging. We have money, so if we want something, we don’t need someone to buy it for us; we just buy it. We hadn’t had sex in over a month, and I was horny. If it were my birthday approaching, I knew I’d have at least a blowjob coming. But only rarely did Vicky want sex for hers.

Although we no longer play or actively recruit sex partners, I still maintain profiles on Biaustralia and Fetlife. I don’t visit them very often, but about ten days before my wife’s birthday, I logged on and found a message from a trans-woman named Ashley Keller. I checked her profile and saw she was in her early-thirties. She had natural, shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pretty face. So pretty I wouldn’t have picked her as trans at first or even second glance. Ashley has a divine figure with natural 34B breasts, a tiny waist, and shapely hips and legs. Her bottom was perhaps a little square, but it in no way detracted from her feminine appeal.

Thrilled with how she presented, I opened her email and read what she’d sent. Although her appearance said otherwise, Ashley had only begun to transition. She’d been on oestrogen for about nine months and only felt confident enough in her appearance to go out and seek companionship in the last month. Ashley wanted an older, experienced man to help her journey. She’s a tall girl, being just over 183 cm. I’m over 195 cm, and she teased it would be nice to wear heels for a change.

I showed her message and profile to my wife, and with her permission, returned Ashley’s message and asked when and where she’d like to meet. Ashley replied almost instantly. We exchanged a few more messages before progressing to phone calls and then to video ones. After a week of this, Ashley agreed to meet me at The Wickham Hotel in Fortitude Valley.

I like to be early to these meetings because, for a new girl, there’s nothing worse than sitting at a table in a bar or restaurant, waiting for your date to appear and not knowing if they’ve stood you up. Ashley arrived on time, and she looked as stunning in real life as she did in her photos. I stood to greet her, and we exchanged hugs and cheek kisses before we sat. A waitress came over, and we ordered drinks when she gave us the menus.