Sex & Cars
Kiss me, Hurt me, Daddy
1991 Jeep Cherokee
The distance between Jersey City Heights and Brooklyn Heights is not even 7 miles. The night we first kissed, it seemed like my 4x4 could not get across that stretch of road through lower Manhattan fast enough.
Laying on my twin bed about to crash for the night, I was watching whatever Netflix mailed me. When next to me, my phone buzzed and it was her. Her of recently-single status, whose hey-there button I pressed way too early, dashing any hopes of being more than friends. Like we had been for going on two years.
The night we first met was at a bar for a mutual friend’s birthday. I was brazenly single and when I locked eyes on her, my mouth watered like a lion ready to pounce on its prey. I laid back as other friends of mine greeted her with warm welcomes. My mind immediately scorned them all for not “hooking us up!” I’m over here all single and you’re NOT introducing me like the prize catch that I am?!
I was introduced to her later that evening… and, of course, her boyfriend. My blinders went right up and the friendship wall between us was most solidly erected. I’d been burned many times on the has-a-boyfriend front and didn’t play with fire anymore. We saw each other a lot over the next two years, but never alone.
