The Real Car Talk: Confessions of a Slutty Toyota Scion
Part 4
Read Part 1 here. Part 2 here. Part 3 here.
Una Hits the Night
Una is questing for some badass slutwear and Siri has located the best rated place to find it. A 12 minute drive takes us to an unassuming strip mall on Del Ray’s outskirts whose centerpiece is Carotica, a combo chop shop and aftermarket boutique. The signage on the garage lid reads:
Carotica. Exotic gear for the bold to retrofit the night.
Una lets out a sharp honk of excitement as I press a doorbell on the side. The lid rolls up and we roll in. As we do, my eyeballs want to explode. The place is crammed with kinky outfits and accessories designed to work up any car, from curious Corollas to festishist Ferraris to the most jaded of Jags. Especially the BDSM section. What’s inside some of those kits almost requires Click and Clack to configure for the requisite amount of painful pleasure. Una’s staying chill and focused but I’m getting hot and TMIish, so I focus on my breathing while we troll the aisles.
We park in a fitting room slot. While the tech assists Una, I step away, grateful for the chance to decompress. A while later there’s a horn toot. “Hey I’m ready to rock.” Here we go.
When I return my eyeballs nearly explode again, this time with delight at the sight of her. Una has transformed herself from silver Scion xA into a xxxA Goddess of Sluttery. Her exterior is adorned with a studded nose bra and mirror masks set off by chrome hubcaps. And she’s ditched her Connecticut pallor for a sultry-toned window tint that better suits life in the Sunshine State, day or night.
Una, my dear, how utterly seductive you look while keeping the Florida lovebugs out. Nice multitasking.
“Listen, the multitasking I’m dressed for is twosomes, threesomes, parties, whatever. Check this.”
Una flips her doors open to reveal a set of black velvet seat covers, floor mats and steering wheel pad. Accenting the seat covers is an applique with the word “Wild” above a bright red fox. I howl lustily in response. Then she lifts her hatchback slightly, revealing a lace-trimmed cargo net through which peeps a plethora of toys. And there’s a bewitching waft of scent that I can’t quite place. No pine tree dangles from Una’s rearview. What’s the fragrance, babe, Ethanol #5?
Giggling, she flashes her brights. “Nope. It’s called Autointoxication. See the thingy plugged into my lighter port? Aromatic oil diffuser.”
Roger. But where’s the bling? How come no metallic eyelashes on thy head and tail lights, oh Slut Goddess? They even come in LED for night cruising. Extra ammo for landing one of those big rigs….
“Fuck no!! That’s so two oil changes ago. That’s for people who want us to look humanish or like cartoon characters. Not for this xxxA slut, thank you!”
Oh okay, point taken. You’re totally fierce already, kiddo. Time to split. And so we did, to Sinatra warbling, “I’ll do it myyyyyy wayyyy” over the retrofit music thingy.
We stop first at my friend’s house in Del Ray Beach, where I’ll soon be laying my post-Carotica throbbing head down for the night. Now it’s over to Una to score bigtime. And did she ever, as I learned the following day when she laid out the juicy details.
“When I got to the Ignition club it was bumper to bumper hotness. All the vehicles were stunningly tricked out — some with hubcaps and undercarriages that glowed in outrageous colors—”
So you wouldn’t wear metallic eyelashes and yet you’re creaming over cars that dress like UFO’s at night. Go figure.
“You mean Undercarriage-Fucking Optima’s? Of course I get off on them. And other makes and models who dare to dress that way, too. They got me fantasizing plenty. Only it was impossible to honk with any of them because Backfire’s infamous hit song* was blaring over the speakers. The place was like rush hour on I-95 but with hotter music and hella axle grease.”
*Una was referring to Backfire’s “Carburator Manipulator,” the XXX Uncensored version featuring Pitstop that begins:
I feel the potential in your differential. Give me more torque now. Bumper to bumper is how I hump her. I’m going up your catalytic converter now hey. Know you’re gonna take this now hey. You give me some flattery, I’ll make you discharge on me then I’ll jump your battery.
[Lyrics by Backfire. © Throttle Body Music.]
“Just as the track ended, the crush broke up. I spun around and that’s when I saw them…. ”
Who?
“An elegant Asian couple, Elantra and Maxima — aka Slinki and Kinki. Both fully loaded luxury cars. And their sports coupe third who goes only by “Z.” They beckoned me with their brights. When I approached, it was Z who asked if I would be their fourth. My engine was revving hard as I honked back a Yes!”
Una’s wipers are doing a slow stroke front and back as the sights and sensations of the previous night surge up in a slosh of fluid. “Z asked if I knew what I was getting into. She said it sweetly while blinking her hazards. Ohh she is so sly that one….”
So you followed them to their garage?
“I said give me the address and I’ll tell Siri.”
Huh?
“Your phone was sitting in my cup holder —
Yeah lady, I know because I freaked out this morning until I tracked it on the PC.
“Anyway my head was spinning from the thrill and I was afraid of getting separated en route. I would have been there in ten minutes if the bitch hadn’t rerouted me.”
That’s typical. So what happened after you finally got there?
“Tell you later. I’m wipered out now. Could I get a tow to Hot Wheels? I need a high octane smoothie.”
Why don’t you just ask Siri to text your order? Sounds like she owes you.
What erotic escapades transpired between Una, Maxima and Elantra, and the tantalizing Z? Did a dehydrated Una get that desperately needed smoothie out of Siri? One can only wonder.
(1) To Maxima aka Kinki, it was deep vehicular stimulation as Una would discover.
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