Auto Erotic

Auto Erotic



Look both ways

Belt click, leaning back

Music on, the right volume

Adjust the left mirror. Answer click

Adjust the rear mirror. Whistle. Handshake.

Now the handbrake.

Receiving. Ack, ack, ack.

Mission transmission for emission

Two tons of masculinity paused, parking, stalking, stalling in a stall, waiting for magic or just a trick.

Fan spinning, coolant flowing, rubber belts doing what they do wheels poised, axels potent with latency, tailpipe steaming somehow alluring

It's 12:37a.m. and nothing decent yet.



No, not that one. No, not that one, either.

Shoddy offers and riff-raff hustlers

You passersby keep on passing by

like the time on the dash

like my fleeting patience with mediocrity

like the juice in my cellular's battery

like my weakening signal

I'm drained and should go home or find that attachment and plug into the lighter and stay awhile.



It's 12:45 and no bites worth biting back

'cept for the sexy street motion of the black and white slider cruising by

infiltrating my resolve with a thought from those who police

No Stopping, No Standing, or Loitering.

No Cruising, No Pandering, nor Solicitation for Titillation,

Excitation, Imagination, Desecration, or Recreation.

No Exhibition without Permission.

And Definitely Absolutely No Unauthorized Copying.

Thank you, Move Along. End of transmission.



Roger, yeah. 10-4. Right okay.

Thank you for your input, but you do not understand me, Sirs.

But you can be sure that I understand where you come from.

Can you understand why I need to come from where I come from?

I'll not come along with you.

Hey now, unhand me Philistine.

Don't hurt me with that, oh mighty leatherman, gunboy with your shiny star, heavy tool belt decked out and accessorized for effecting the standards of modern arrest control technique with boots and jails and restaints and blink

It's 12:50.



Still nothing and outside it's still.

Windows fogging

I should breathe less hotly or less altogether

Clouds of moisture, my moisture wasted on glass panes

tantamount to licking them

lips pressed on windows

Seeing my breath reminds me to smell it cupped in the palms of my hands.

It's okay, I'm fine. I'm still waiting.



An incoming alert sends my right hand from my lap to my mouse

Fingers sliding on smooth white ergo plastic

as I drive the cursor to the right place and click with anticipation

Click, click-click, click-click-click.

I need a line, an opening move

Put the text to the test, save the rest for the best

Half-truths for your naked dare, savoir faire is everywhere!

But alas, dumbass! Your worldwise strategize vaporize in ruleless games.

No daddy role model, no sage cousel, no big brother to go first.

Make your move or go home, my gonads would say if they could.

So I pushed a pawn to King Four, regretting it instantly.

How Pathetic. How Ordinary. So Missionary and Predictable.

How By the Book in a world of sticky pages where moments ago I feigned defiance at those who would throw the book.

P-K4, at least it's a move,

A first move, in a darkened parking lot or before phosphor screen in an always nighttime world where a good job leads to blow job if you control center, develop your pieces in order, and never ever trade when you're down.

Now it's his turn.



Checking the rear view, his eyes are reflected in his own mirror checking me out checking him out.

My tailpipe, is it still gleaming?

My metal, is it shiny and green enough?

Are my lines sporty enough?

Is my total package new and alluring enough?

Do you want me?

His brake lights FLASH.

Was that for me?

A binary message of a sort?

A clever modulation of libinal drive encoded, transmitted, demodulated then decoded by my hungry limbic brain?

Perhaps I'm reading too much into this event.

Perhaps Joe Brake Light is simply preparing to back out

Drive to his Hyde Park Home,

Lovely wife, his boy Elroy, daughter Judy.

He did it again. Mere coincidence? No.

I tapped mine, too. Not once, but twice.

If a car could wink, mine just did

Tongue ready to slide from the trunk and moisten bumper lips.

He winked back.



It's 1 a.m. now

Message received, two giant modems manufactured by Honda and Ford

We exchanged initial bits in preparation for bites and more.

His wipers twitch and I flicker my fogs

while watching in the mirror as his body tremors

and I realize he's turned on.

My injectors spray explosive mist up inside my carburetor

My mouth runs dry while below I give it a little gas.

His Ford torso creeps backwards, my Honda in motion

Bristling against submission, I accelerate the rate

Hitting the road, while looking back

He doesn't follow.



Paused on the asphault with my right signal beckoning

He's just sitting there

lights on, indecisive and mysterious behind darkened windows.

I strain to be sexy, channeling pulchritude to manifold blowing pheremones out my exhaust

Don Juan engineering trapped in a Honda Accord body

Coyly strutting on my struts, pumping the pedal

I wag my hatch back and flash a reflectorized plate smile.

It works.

He rolls up behind and I drive ahead.

Knowing this time he'll follow.

And he does.