While it’s been close to 20 years since I last engaged in car sex, I remember it with a good deal of bemusement and associations of snatched pleasure, frantic fingering and contorted positioning. Indeed in a country like Australia which has lots of places to park in seclusion, it should still possible to engage in sexual activity un-noticed and unremarked.This is a masturbation task I plan to set myself:
Thinking back over some of the times I’ve had sex in a car makes me wet. I briefly consider inserting my Lush toy and sitting in the driveway. I am low in petrol and it’s late so that’s the only choice I even entertain, but already the nighttime temperatures are dropping and I’d rather finish this writing and take myself and my new toy off to bed – where it’s warm. (The privileges of age and blogging.) The car experiment can wait for daylight, sunlight and petrol, and I’ll write up the result as an addendum.
One of the first times I had sex in a car it was moving and I had the added concern of my boyfriend’s parents occupying the front seats as we drove from Melbourne to country Victoria. I have no recollection of where we had been, but I recall the interminable drone of their conversation as the brightly lit streets of the city slid past. I also knew where I was going when Warren stopped kissing me, looked deeply into my eyes, slid his finger under the elastic of my knickers and into my very wet pussy for the first time. The shock, lust and fear of discovery must have registered on my face, visible in the passing parade of street lights because he pulled me in close and kissed me hard while sliding a second finger inside, then as I moaned against his mouth, another. Seconds later there was a muffled exclamation from the front passenger seat and we jumped apart guiltily.
“Vince!” Warren’s mothers voice echoed stridently through the cabin. “That was a red light!”
“Was it? Oh dear so it was.” Easy going to the point of crass stupidity, Vince’s reply was typical. “Good thing there was no-one coming the other way then.”
Warren’s fingers resumed their lustful conversation with my wetness, while making an equally innocuous comment to his parents in a bid to maintain the fiction that their twenty year old son and his fifteen year old girlfriend were behaving impeccably in the rear seat.
A few weeks later we broke up, and I, heartbroken, swallowed sleeping tablets in a feeble attempt to hide from the pain. The repeated sensation of vomiting and the burning in my throat from the tube of the stomach pump cured me of my histrionics.
Unknown to me four worried parents consulted and ascertained that I was not pregnant, merely emotionally overwrought, and all they thought, was well. I don’t know what was said to Warren or what he said to the parents, but clearly they took his word that we hadn’t had penetrative sex. And indeed we hadn’t…
About six weeks later he called and we met again. By this time I had actually gone out on a couple of dates with Bob, the man who became my first husband. But I was still emotionally attached to Warren and it required little thought on my part to return to him. By now I was officially sixteen and “legal”. Warren came equipped with a packet of condoms and his dick replaced the fingers in my pussy. I’d like to believe that he was genuine in his attempt to heal the rift, but it was almost a relief when we separated a second time.
Bob took me back when I awkwardly presented myself at the back door of the place where he worked and asked for forgiveness. But I’d wounded his pride and he found hundreds of ways to make me pay over the next 13 years.
A familiar pattern this; to think I’ve averted a catastrophe only to find I’ve made things worse for myself. Time, as always, will tell.
To see who else is playing:
click on the links, or get in the back seat…
Perhaps that’s why I have such a fondness for Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light.