I Don’t Get to Be a Bitch – Being Nice Is a Precaution

It was around midnight when I left the pub, heels clicking on the pavement as I walked toward the taxi I’d just booked.

As I approached, three very glam girls were already there, chatting to the driver. He’d clearly told them the cab was taken, because they turned to look at me and asked, “Are you Ami?”

I said yes. They asked if they could share the ride.

I thought about how this could go.

If I said no, would they kick off? If they did, would I be safe? What would the driver do? Could I rely on him to have my back? Was I willing to risk it over a taxi ride?

So I asked, “Where are you going?” When they said Rayleigh (a little out of the way , but not too bad), I shrugged and said, “Go on then.” I got in the front seat and explained the situation to the driver. He was an older guy, warm, calm, clearly used to ferrying around tipsy girls on a night out. He let them plug their phones into his aux and pick the music, and we were off.

They were chatty, grateful, and clearly a bit drunk. I joked that they had to follow me on TikTok in return. Gave them my username, and next thing I know, they’re looking me up, saying lovely things, telling me I’m beautiful.

Then it happened… One of them, Ella* sitting behind me, said something that about me and said “he.” I don’t remember the exact sentence, but I turned around and said flatly, “Erm, it’s ‘she’. I’m a woman.” I followed up laughing, “F**ksake girl, I’ve got double D’s here!” They all laughed. Another girl chimed in, “Yeah, she’s got bigger tits than all of us.”

Then Ella leaned forward, touched my shoulder, and apologised.

Genuinely.

She looked horrified. I told her it was fine, she’s drunk after all.

*Name has been changed to protect identities – Ami & Dillon

I reached back and gave her hand a little squeeze and said, “Thank you, but we’re cool. Shit happens.”

From there, the conversation went on to other things. They asked how old I was and didn’t believe me when I told them. They paid their share of the fare when we dropped them off, and they all told me again how lovely it was to meet me, how gorgeous I looked.

After they got out, the driver and I laughed about it for a bit, the chaotic energy of drunk girls on a night out. We talked about women’s football on the way back to mine. He was a lovely guy; kind, calm, very chill.

And in the end, he even charged me less than the original fare would’ve been if I’d gone straight home.

I guess I earned him a double fare, so it worked out well for everyone.

That tiny moment of hesitation when they asked to share the cab. The way I had to correct the misgendering while keeping the mood light, keeping the peace. The way I had to manage their feelings about my identity, as if their comfort mattered more than mine.

Because the truth is: I don’t get to be a bitch. Not in public. Not when I’m trans. Not when I’m navigating strangers and alcohol and the dark streets at midnight.

And sure, this was a lovely interaction in the end.

But that little voice in the back of my head; the one that whispers, ‘What if they turn? What if this goes wrong?’…. never really goes away.