Another Esoterotica piece. The closing line was a little ribbing of a fellow performer who’s written before about being turned on by vehicles.
Nocturnal Admissions 3: Gear Head
by Zach B
She sat across from me, worrying at the ends of her hair like she usually did when anxious.
“I told you at the last appointment I’d started seeing somebody. But I had to break it off with him,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
She sighed and trailed her gaze around on the carpet.
“We got together in the first place because. . . well, you know how I’m really in to cars? Well this guy was like a character from Crash.”
“He had an offensively-simplified understanding of systemic racism?”
“No, I mean the other Crash. The one with James Spader.”
“Yeah, I know right? I thought we were on the same wavelength when it came to vehicular titillation. On our second date, we snuck in to a dealership’s lot at night and made out on the hood of one of the 2015’s they had on display.
“Then after our third date, when we were driving back to his place, he happened to get pulled over for a busted tail light. It went fine and the cop let him off with a warning, but afterwards he was SO HARD. He couldn’t drive with it, it was jammed up in the steering wheel like it was The Club. Naturally, I gave him some ‘gear head’ so we could get on the road, but we got to talking on the ride and it turned out that he wasn’t just turned on by cars. What really got him going was misdemeanors that happened to involve vehicles.
“Date number four, I gave him a handy while he made rolling stops around the Riverbend. Then we roleplayed a sexy DWI arrest. And totally unplanned, we saw an abandoned vehicle on the side of Airline Highway one day that we went back to after dark and fucked in because all the windows had been busted out anyways.”
“Sounds like things were going along pleasantly, if a little dangerously.”
“We laid a blanket down on the back seat before we got down to business.”
“I’m not kink-shaming, here. So what went wrong?”
“You know those spaces that are marked with signs saying ‘Loading Zone: No Parking From 8AM – 5PM?’ We were parked in one at 8:45 and getting frisky in the driver’s seat, but he wasn’t really feeling a climax coming on. I guess it wasn’t illegal enough. So he happened to notice a bike messenger coming along the street.
“Open the door, he said.
“Why, I asked.
“The dude’s going to flip over it and probably damage my car and then I’m gonna blow all over you like the Deepwater Horizon, he said.
“Most of my good friends are either cyclists, NOLA residents, or both. So that was two pretty offensive things in one sentence. I slid in to the passenger seat, hiked my skirt back down, and left. That was last week. I haven’t talked to him since.”
“It definitely seems like he was the sort of guy who’d be a bad influence on you.”
“I think he kind of was. Last night at like three AM I went and keyed his car then jilled off thinking about it.”
“That’s. . . justice, I guess.”
“But that was totally a one-time thing to just get him out of my system. He was bad news, even if he was probably one of a kind.”
“I’m sure there are other ways to meet people with as much of an interest in cars as you.”
“I already get my oil changed every thousand miles.”
“I think they recommended you do that every three thousand.”
“They probably don’t recommend wearing a halter-top and fuckme pumps when you take your car to the shy mechanic a little too often, but hey, a woman’s got needs.”
“I can’t fault your technique. But our time here’s almost up. Do you want to make an appointment in another two weeks, like usual?”
“I guess. . . hey, what kind of car do you drive?”
“I don’t, actually, I take public transportation.”
“Oh. How about in a month, then?”
“Alright, one month it is. I’ll see you in October, Ms. Shears.”