Sex & Cars
Fast and Hard and Slow and Soft
1999 Ford Explorer
Honestly, he’s a little bit of an asshole driver. I knew this from the very beginning when he told me about his bike — about how he likes to wheelie, and take it up to 100+ mph, and weave in and out of traffic. We talked about how he knew it was dangerous, but he thought the thrill was worth it. Given a choice between immediate death and being paralyzed, we both agreed death would be the preferable outcome. This discussion took place on our first date.
I guess we cut right to the chase.
A few weeks later, he took me for a ride on that bike. He told me in advance he’d try not to drive like an asshole. “I’ll keep you safe,” he said.
And he did.
There’s a moment when he steps on the acceleration and my stomach leaps into my chest, and I squeeze him tighter, but then I realize everything is fine. Just a little acceleration. Nothing scary. Then the panic passes and I can look around to enjoy the ride, knowing I’m safe with him. He’s in control. He’s got me.
It’s silly to say but I guess there’s something about the bad boy trope I find attractive. Yes, he’s smart and nerdy and, as I’d learn later, soft, but he’s also a little bit of a bad boy. A rule breaker. A boundary pusher.
“Put on your heels for me and get on your knees.”
It’s hard to put on heels when you’re tipsy so I try to do it without looking as wobbly as I feel.
But the ritual of putting on heels is itself kind of sexy. Similar to the anticipation of waiting patiently and quietly, as he wraps the rope around my wrists, tying my arms behind my back.
It’s like foreplay for the mind.
The boundary between pleasure and pain is not a thin one. Because it’s not really a boundary at all, but an intertwining. Like the part of the sand the tide washes over — in and out and in again — where there’s no clear delineation between the two and just when you think there is, it changes again.
“Ow” and “ooh” are simultaneous. “Stop” and “more” are the same thing.
He’ll often ask me if I like it, and my reply is almost always, “I love it and I hate it.”
The thing that I hate is the pain. The thing that I love is the challenge. The how much can I take and how far can I go.
There’s a moment when my first reaction is panic. Tension. Fight or flight. But then I see his eyes, feel his hands, taste his breath, and I realize everything is just fine. Amazing even. And then the pain passes and it melts into pleasure instead. I realize I’m safe. He’s in control. He’s got me.
I used to drive by his house sometimes. To see if his car was in the driveway. If it was, that meant he was ignoring my texts. If it wasn’t, that meant maybe he was still at work. Or maybe he was out with friends. Or maybe he was out with another girl. I don’t know. He could’ve been at the supermarket or bank or something. Any boring place. But of course, I mostly thought he was out with another girl.
“Oh shit,” he said, glancing at the rearview mirror.
I turned and looked at him as he put the blinker on and pulled off to the side of the highway. We were barely 30 minutes from home, the back of his Explorer packed to the brim.
“Are we getting pulled over?” I asked. I don’t know how fast he was going, but I’m sure it was faster than the 65 MPH posted.
“Yep…”
He reached in the glove compartment in front of me for the registration and then rolled down his window.
The officer asked if he knew what the speed limit was. I don’t remember what he said or any of the rest of the conversation, but I remember this:
After the officer ran his plates and came back to the car, he said, nodding in my direction, “Is this your girlfriend?”
“Yeah, we’re going up to New Hampshire to camp for the weekend.”
“Well, you better do something nice for her today. Buy her some flowers maybe. Do something nice for her because I’m doing something nice for you.” The officer handed him back his license, “Have a good day now.”
We got off with a warning: drive slower.
He rolled the window back up. We waited for the officer to pull away first and then we slowly pulled back onto the highway to continue on. We were silent for a few moments.
Then he spoke up, “Ya know, I only said that to make the conversation easier. I couldn’t just tell that cop you’re my fuck buddy.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. I did know it. I didn’t for one second think otherwise. But I did think it was pretty funny.
“I mean, just to be clear, you’re not my girlfriend,” he explained further, entirely unnecessarily.
“Yeah, I know!” I said it again but more firmly. “…But you could still get me flowers or something if you wanted,” I added jokingly.
He laughed, “Yeah, we’ll see.”
We passed out that night on the air mattress in the tent. I passed out first, actually. He came in later and passed out next to me. The campsite outside our tent was a mess of bottles and food and playing cards scattered about between our tent and our friends’ tents.
In the morning, it was hot and humid inside that tent. And it was quiet. So quiet. Everyone was either still asleep or also trying to remain super quiet. Our air mattress was deflated slightly, sagging in the center.
“I can be really quiet,” I whispered to him when I saw he was awake too, “I promise, I won’t make any noise.”
He smiled at me with his morning eyes.
We fucked as quietly and slowly as possible, he and I, on the sagging air mattress. There was no sound, except for maybe the sound of the mattress rubbing against the tent. We slowed each time we heard it. He was pushing the boundaries not of pain and pleasure, but of vulnerability. Because being soft is sometimes harder than being hard.
On the one hand, we were trying not to wake up anyone else in the surrounding tents. We were hyper-aware of the silence and our breathing and the humidity on our skins.
But on the other hand, there was nobody else in the world. Nobody at all. Just me and him. In that sweaty tent. Slowly morning fucking in a way that was intimate in a way we’d never been before. No words or even whispers between us — just eyes. Intent and honest and looking right into me.
No, wait. I lied. There was a sound.
Giggles. I giggle sometimes.
Only when I’m happy.
It felt like hours but it was probably mere minutes. And then we heard some rustling around outside and eventually dragged ourselves off the mattress and into the dewy outdoors where we went back to being just fuck buddies.
This story is part of a collaborative prompt ignited by Ernio Hernandez. Check out more stories on the theme of Sex & Cars:
