Sex and the Heavy Metal Scarecrow
Around 1989, I dated a bass player who drove a gigantic Oldsmobile—a hideous, hulking monster of a vehicle in the seasick two-tone hues of burgundy and corrosion, topped with a dirty white-vinyl roof. It was the ideal car for a wannabe rock star, since a charismatic musician was the only person who could ever hope to get laid while driving such a heap.
On one occasion, as the Saturday night gig gave way to Sunday morning, we ended up saddled with the unenviable task of driving the lead singer, Paul, all the way home to some random and forgettable little burg deep in the heart of the Garden State. Mercifully, my friend Stella—who had come to the show that night—volunteered to come along for the ride.
Miles rolled by, songs were sung, heated debates over lyrical accuracy—fueled by excessive consumption of Combos and Diet Mountain Dew—erupted; the stuff road trips are made of. Stella’s favorite song came blasting from the tinny speakers and I turned around to say something … but she was gone.
At least, that’s what I thought—until I noticed Paul.
He was centered in the vast void of the back seat, head back, arms akimbo—a heavy-metal scarecrow, his mane of golden brown curls fanned out across the dusty no man’s land beneath the sloping rear window. The horizontal lines of the defrosting mechanism cast shadows on his angular face, where the expressions changed at rapid-fire pace: Soft, serene smile gave way to furrowed brow, easing into tense, clenched lips, and finally, the classic gaping-mouth lockjaw—impressively coordinated with a slight back arch. If sex faces were an Olympic event, he’d have taken home the bronze, at least.
Mercifully, thanks to that high, single front seat, I couldn’t see Stella—but I knew she was there. And I knew what she was doing, too. Dirty girl.
Sex in a parked car, while undeniably fun in the right situation, is admittedly cliché. Cars have been a haven for horny people with no options since the days when Cole Porter was providing the Top 10 mood music. Even the apple-cheeked gang from Happy Days had Inspiration Point. But sex in a moving vehicle? With spectators? That’s still considered at least moderately ballsy in most circles. For some, it’s a predilection. For others, a matter of timing, circumstance and, oftentimes, controlled substances. Either way, it happens. And not surprisingly, I was able to find a few subjects willing to, er … kiss and tell.
On one occasion, as the Saturday night gig gave way to Sunday morning, we ended up saddled with the unenviable task of driving the lead singer, Paul, all the way home to some random and forgettable little burg deep in the heart of the Garden State. Mercifully, my friend Stella—who had come to the show that night—volunteered to come along for the ride.
Miles rolled by, songs were sung, heated debates over lyrical accuracy—fueled by excessive consumption of Combos and Diet Mountain Dew—erupted; the stuff road trips are made of. Stella’s favorite song came blasting from the tinny speakers and I turned around to say something … but she was gone.
At least, that’s what I thought—until I noticed Paul.
He was centered in the vast void of the back seat, head back, arms akimbo—a heavy-metal scarecrow, his mane of golden brown curls fanned out across the dusty no man’s land beneath the sloping rear window. The horizontal lines of the defrosting mechanism cast shadows on his angular face, where the expressions changed at rapid-fire pace: Soft, serene smile gave way to furrowed brow, easing into tense, clenched lips, and finally, the classic gaping-mouth lockjaw—impressively coordinated with a slight back arch. If sex faces were an Olympic event, he’d have taken home the bronze, at least.
Mercifully, thanks to that high, single front seat, I couldn’t see Stella—but I knew she was there. And I knew what she was doing, too. Dirty girl.
Sex in a parked car, while undeniably fun in the right situation, is admittedly cliché. Cars have been a haven for horny people with no options since the days when Cole Porter was providing the Top 10 mood music. Even the apple-cheeked gang from Happy Days had Inspiration Point. But sex in a moving vehicle? With spectators? That’s still considered at least moderately ballsy in most circles. For some, it’s a predilection. For others, a matter of timing, circumstance and, oftentimes, controlled substances. Either way, it happens. And not surprisingly, I was able to find a few subjects willing to, er … kiss and tell.
One time in high school I had sex with my boyfriend in his huge old car in the middle of a snowstorm at midnight in an industrial park. We were completely freaked out by silent flashes of light that kept illuminating the quiet snowfall. We finally got scared off and drove away, only to realize later that it was a rare instance of lightning while snowing. A for REAL snowstorm!
Thank you for sharing! That must have been quite beautiful.