SEX IN CARS
As I sat across the table from little brother counting the beads of sweat running down his forehead and deciding whether or not to fight back, or just let him kill me and get it over with, I harkened back to simpler times. Last week to be exact. I'd been invited to a quiet party in Brooklyn to celebrate the holidays, and although I usually avoided these things like a case of the clap, this time I hit "reply" and accepted the invite.
I hadn't cut my hair in over two years so it hung long, grey and scraggly down my back. I did trim the beard, squeeze into my one pair of expensive leather pants, and found a proper dress shirt from days long gone. I'd just purchased a new pair of tinted aviator specs so I could finally read a menu instead relying on the waitress' pitying recitation- "That says pene." I sucked my gut in and surveyed myself in the full length. Hmmmm. I looked like a pot dealer I once knew in SF in 1978. Satisfied with the getup I loaded up the woodstove and hit the highway.
As far as I could tell there was only one woman left on earth who did not find me repulsive (not counting relatives who viewed me through forgiving rose colored glasses). This woman I had met back in 1988. She was a girlfriend of a friend of mine and I was also involved, but that didn't seem to stop either of us from wallowing in mutually beneficial carnality. For some reason we needed and didn't need each other equally. Our affair started like they all do- a look, a brush against a pant leg, a giggle a little too loud. Before you knew it the clothes were off and fluids were being exchanged. Prerequisite guilt followed. For whatever reason, through relationships (hers and mine), we stayed hot for each other all these years later. These days hotter than ever. I called her.
We met for drinks in a dark west village bar as crowds of young revelers drank 10 dollar mugs of micro-brew and talked about their jobs on Wall Street and how they couldn't find a nice guy. I'd recently joined Equestriancupid.com as a way of meeting women with horses. I didn't have a horse so I cut out a picture of one and pasted it next to a picture of myself wearing a cowboy hat. So far my inbox remained empty. I thought of turning around in the booth and hipping the loud youngsters to this site but decided instead to lean into my friend's ear. "Let's get the fuck out of here." She concurred.
I had all intention of dropping her back at her front door, but she already had the cell phone out and was juggling the husband and kid as nimbly as she worked the tiny buttons of my dress shirt. Who was I to argue? "Do you mind?" she asked as I headed for the Manhattan bridge, her hand in my lap. "You know how small of a town this is?" I reminded her. "This party is probably full of people with kids in private school and gymboree or whatever the fuck grownups do with their little darlings these days. You or the hubby may know one or two." The info didn't seem to faze her, so on we drove.
I was right. All talk at the party was of St. Anne's or Pugett or Pachette or any number of highend kiddie education mills. Unbelievably she didn't know a soul. I went in the kid's room and let the teenage girls ask about my tattoos and eyeball the wierdo. Kids like me. She sat on the couch yammering with a matronly woman about gardening and bio-pics on the Turner network. I found enough beer to keep me from getting thirsty and floated. I can't tell you how many times i found myself alone staring around the room like I was invisible. I read the book titles on the shelf, looked at the tiny landscapes, ran my finger along the buffet table, stared at the tile floor..."You having a good time?" She was ready to go. Me too.
Most people stop having sex in cars when they're about 18 and old enough to get a room or have an apartment or even have parents chill enough to let them go at it in the privacy of a kid's bedroom, under the posters, with the music cranked up LOUD. That was me for a good many years. That was until the 21st century reared it's ugly head. A year short of my 50th year, pants around my ankles, car parked in a snowbank on 12th and B, a long legged vixen wearing nothing but stilletos and a fur coat barely wrapped around her milky shoulders, straddled my lap and rythmicly worked my joint, whispering into my ear. "Baby. I love you." No, it wasn't this woman I was about to defile here on this well lit Brooklyn street. This was another married woman. Let me tell you about her.
I hadn't cut my hair in over two years so it hung long, grey and scraggly down my back. I did trim the beard, squeeze into my one pair of expensive leather pants, and found a proper dress shirt from days long gone. I'd just purchased a new pair of tinted aviator specs so I could finally read a menu instead relying on the waitress' pitying recitation- "That says pene." I sucked my gut in and surveyed myself in the full length. Hmmmm. I looked like a pot dealer I once knew in SF in 1978. Satisfied with the getup I loaded up the woodstove and hit the highway.
As far as I could tell there was only one woman left on earth who did not find me repulsive (not counting relatives who viewed me through forgiving rose colored glasses). This woman I had met back in 1988. She was a girlfriend of a friend of mine and I was also involved, but that didn't seem to stop either of us from wallowing in mutually beneficial carnality. For some reason we needed and didn't need each other equally. Our affair started like they all do- a look, a brush against a pant leg, a giggle a little too loud. Before you knew it the clothes were off and fluids were being exchanged. Prerequisite guilt followed. For whatever reason, through relationships (hers and mine), we stayed hot for each other all these years later. These days hotter than ever. I called her.
We met for drinks in a dark west village bar as crowds of young revelers drank 10 dollar mugs of micro-brew and talked about their jobs on Wall Street and how they couldn't find a nice guy. I'd recently joined Equestriancupid.com as a way of meeting women with horses. I didn't have a horse so I cut out a picture of one and pasted it next to a picture of myself wearing a cowboy hat. So far my inbox remained empty. I thought of turning around in the booth and hipping the loud youngsters to this site but decided instead to lean into my friend's ear. "Let's get the fuck out of here." She concurred.
I had all intention of dropping her back at her front door, but she already had the cell phone out and was juggling the husband and kid as nimbly as she worked the tiny buttons of my dress shirt. Who was I to argue? "Do you mind?" she asked as I headed for the Manhattan bridge, her hand in my lap. "You know how small of a town this is?" I reminded her. "This party is probably full of people with kids in private school and gymboree or whatever the fuck grownups do with their little darlings these days. You or the hubby may know one or two." The info didn't seem to faze her, so on we drove.
I was right. All talk at the party was of St. Anne's or Pugett or Pachette or any number of highend kiddie education mills. Unbelievably she didn't know a soul. I went in the kid's room and let the teenage girls ask about my tattoos and eyeball the wierdo. Kids like me. She sat on the couch yammering with a matronly woman about gardening and bio-pics on the Turner network. I found enough beer to keep me from getting thirsty and floated. I can't tell you how many times i found myself alone staring around the room like I was invisible. I read the book titles on the shelf, looked at the tiny landscapes, ran my finger along the buffet table, stared at the tile floor..."You having a good time?" She was ready to go. Me too.
Most people stop having sex in cars when they're about 18 and old enough to get a room or have an apartment or even have parents chill enough to let them go at it in the privacy of a kid's bedroom, under the posters, with the music cranked up LOUD. That was me for a good many years. That was until the 21st century reared it's ugly head. A year short of my 50th year, pants around my ankles, car parked in a snowbank on 12th and B, a long legged vixen wearing nothing but stilletos and a fur coat barely wrapped around her milky shoulders, straddled my lap and rythmicly worked my joint, whispering into my ear. "Baby. I love you." No, it wasn't this woman I was about to defile here on this well lit Brooklyn street. This was another married woman. Let me tell you about her.
posted by mike osterhout at 10:31 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home