Sex and Cars
36 and Broke. And a Bugatti.
2006 Bugatti Veyron 16.4 and 1998 Chevy Spark
“I’m 36, no job, no savings, clueless, an ok marriage that can break into a fight at any point in time, no kids, itchy red eyes, and some chicken marinating in the refrigerator. That’s my story.
Not an ideal one, but not too bad either.
What’s your story? Never mind!
Did I say ‘ok marriage?’
Should I have said a great marriage? Or at least a good one? I’m not sure, neither is anyone else who has been married for so long.
Those highfalutin ‘perfect marriages’ that end with the ‘and they lived happily ever after’ are fairy tales; the most shamelessly idiotic lies told to mankind, knowing there were no fairies to be sued for this pugnacious balderdash. Of all the blatant lies you’ve ever believed in, this one wins the trophy.
Oh do I sound scornful? No, I’m just drowned in the disillusionment of marriage. Don’t look at me that way.
But at least I married the right guy. Or so he thinks.
Those days of robust love are all gone. Vanished into thin air, or should I say tossed out of the window like a fly that strayed into your home?
Think of all the fights you’ve had and then the silent treatments you have given or got. Half of your married life is about being silent and cold. Silent treatment days are the perfect days for wearing cold shoulder tops. Buy these tops in bulk for the idiosyncrasies of human life calls for China made clothes and Russian vodka. Hah! Think of Communists helping you recover from your own discombobulated life.
Silent treatments SHOULD be made a medical emergency. They should be termed Mandibular Reticence Syndrome. MRS.
MRS.
You must know about the last session of MRS that we had. It lasted for a good three weeks at the end of which I forgot what we had fought about and ended up pleasing myself in the car.
Not my fault. Three weeks of abstinence. I have my needs. And desires. Why in the car? Well, we have our fantasies and I have a beautiful car. So why not?
Aah, my car! My love.
There was a day about eleven years ago when we sat in a battered down Chevy in the middle of nowhere trying to make sense of which side should we turn? We were were in our early twenties and clueless about life and the road ahead. We were this close to making out in the empty land and have that had-sex-in-a-barren-land box checked had it not been for the stray goat that jumped up on the hood and parked itself there. A goat! That stupid pusillanimous goat! You see it’s difficult to focus on sex with a lively bearded hircine staring at you through the windshield.
Sitting in that car in the most desolate spot, watching that stubborn ruminating goat, I looked back into myself and what I wanted from life. Two quick decisions later, I knew I was marrying the guy sitting next to me who was watching the same goat, and I was about to embark on what seemed to be the most sensible career choice of my life -writing songs.
That Chevy broke down soon. Not surprising to me at all, knowing how much it had seen of the world.
So did I. I lost all my good humor, my happiness, my liveliness...what the French call joie de vivre!
He retired at 37. At thirty bloody seven! Lives in his arcadian paradise of a backyard full of vegetables. I love him for that, for the fresh veggies we eat. We eat veggies! There is nothing more disgraceful than eating veggies day in and day out. Those insipid little things!
Do I sound a little tipsy? No no. I’ve got a lot of money. My songs made me a lot of money. And I lost it all. But I bought my car, my dream car. That Bugatti that I just parked out there is my love. He doesn’t like it at all. Did I tell you that car is the number one priority in my life now? And now I don’t have any more money left. No job, no savings. These Germans took away all my money. But I love them. I love the car.
I don’t want to cheat on him. Damn it, I’m still young, and attractive. I’m just 35 and I don’t want to cheat on him. Did I already say that? But my car. That’s my heaven. That’s where I go when I want to feel myself, when I want to know what it is to love myself, when I want to feel the velvety leather seat rub against my skin, when I want to be just a little ….”
Vague noises. A sudden tap next to her ears.
‘Hey lady! Hey! Can you hear me?’ the bartender tapped hard on the counter to wake her up. ‘You got to go home. We’re closing.’
This fiction is part of the collaboration ‘Sex and Cars.’ Thanks Ernio Hernandez for the great idea. For more stories in the collaboration, click this link below.
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