Sex and the Heavy Metal Scarecrow
Around 1989, I dated a bass player who drove a gigantic Oldsmobile—a hideous, hulking monster of a vehicle in the seasick two-tone hues of burgundy and corrosion, topped with a dirty white-vinyl roof. It was the ideal car for a wannabe rock star, since a charismatic musician was the only person who could ever hope to get laid while driving such a heap.
On one occasion, as the Saturday night gig gave way to Sunday morning, we ended up saddled with the unenviable task of driving the lead singer, Paul, all the way home to some random and forgettable little burg deep in the heart of the Garden State. Mercifully, my friend Stella—who had come to the show that night—volunteered to come along for the ride.
Miles rolled by, songs were sung, heated debates over lyrical accuracy—fueled by excessive consumption of Combos and Diet Mountain Dew—erupted; the stuff road trips are made of. Stella’s favorite song came blasting from the tinny speakers and I turned around to say something … but she was gone.
At least, that’s what I thought—until I noticed Paul.
He was centered in the vast void of the back seat, head back, arms akimbo—a heavy-metal scarecrow, his mane of golden brown curls fanned out across the dusty no man’s land beneath the sloping rear window. The horizontal lines of the defrosting mechanism cast shadows on his angular face, where the expressions changed at rapid-fire pace: Soft, serene smile gave way to furrowed brow, easing into tense, clenched lips, and finally, the classic gaping-mouth lockjaw—impressively coordinated with a slight back arch. If sex faces were an Olympic event, he’d have taken home the bronze, at least.
Mercifully, thanks to that high, single front seat, I couldn’t see Stella—but I knew she was there. And I knew what she was doing, too. Dirty girl.
Sex in a parked car, while undeniably fun in the right situation, is admittedly cliché. Cars have been a haven for horny people with no options since the days when Cole Porter was providing the Top 10 mood music. Even the apple-cheeked gang from Happy Days had Inspiration Point. But sex in a moving vehicle? With spectators? That’s still considered at least moderately ballsy in most circles. For some, it’s a predilection. For others, a matter of timing, circumstance and, oftentimes, controlled substances. Either way, it happens. And not surprisingly, I was able to find a few subjects willing to, er … kiss and tell.
The other day a friend of mine lamented the invention of the Bluetooth. Not, as I had assumed, because it increased the visible walking, talking douche population a thousandfold, but because in New York, it used to be far easier to spot the maniacs who wander the streets talking to themselves.
Annoying imbeciles in the checkout line notwithstanding, the hands-free device has its merits. Mostly to keep the rest of us safe from those who insist on having phone conversations while driving. What we can do to prevent fellatio-related car accidents, I’m not certain (although presumably the neutered victim and his brain-injured companion could get faster assistance if he wears his Bluetooth while driving, as well).
“I know it’s unsafe, but I guess that was part of the thrill,” says Tara. Now in her early 40s, she spent a good deal of her 20s—by her own admission—head-down in the front seat. “Quite a few of the guys I dated had this macho air about them when it came to cars.” The turn-on, she believes, came in part from taking them down a peg by “assuming control of the vehicle” with her mouth.
“There had to have been a few times I was spotted by people in other cars, and definitely trucks, if we were stopped at a light, but one time we were on the highway, and he was so, so close…” She didn’t have the heart to stop. “Not even when we went through the tollbooth—and he had to stop for change!”
Taxi & Takeoff
Charles, 30, calls his ex-girlfriend Rochelle “a class act” when he recounts the story of how, booze-addled after a night out with friends, they left for home after sousing themselves into a barely contained state of arousal. With the fast-burning vapors of sense they had left, they decided to leave their car and call a cab.
Of course, had they had a trace more on reserve, they might have chosen to desecrate one another in the privacy of the parked car instead of tearing off one another’s clothes in the taxi.
“We started making out right away,” says Charles, “touching, groping. And I decided to at least try to unbutton her pants since it was the natural course of what we were doing. I figured there was no way she was going to let me—but she surprised me.”
With Rochelle in the proper position—pants and panties in a bunch at her knees, body folded near in half—Charles “impaled” her, and then, using his instrument to hold her in place, reached for his wallet and tossed a wad of cash over the seat.
“Keep driving!” he barked at the driver, who said nothing and circled the subdivision until what Charles calls “the sweaty embarrassing mess” was over. “Not one of my finer moments,” he says, laughing. “But it’s a story, I guess. And the most expensive cab ride I ever took.”
Slow Train Coming
Lisi estimates she’s had sex on the train “at least a couple of hundred times” since the 1980s. Inspired by the infamous “El train scene” in Risky Business, she and a boyfriend hopped the subway to test the heat factor.
“It doesn’t tend to go over quite like that,” she chuckles, “but even so, the adrenaline factor tends to push the boundaries to the breaking point.”
The attractive bartender, now approaching 50, has spent her career immersed in sex—serving overpriced drinks to the patrons of some of the country’s most upscale gentlemen’s clubs. She attributes her continued penchant for “risky sex,” as she calls it, to her job. “With all these beautiful naked bodies everywhere—and men so worked up they’re going into debt just to rub up against something they know they can’t really have—there’s all sorts of chemistry crackling in the air. I think I’ve built up a resistance.”
Lisi still enjoys getting it on in the private vanilla confines of her apartment—even forgoing the kitchen table and shower for the simple joys of a queen-sized mattress most of the time—but her favorite sex remains on the move.
“My hottest time on the train was during my ‘experimental’ phase,” she says. “I’m straight, but I went through a period in my thirties when I wasn’t exactly ‘strictly dickly.’ ” She and a female companion were heading home one night and, alone in a subway car, took advantage of the privacy and atmosphere.
“We started kissing. It was very sexy. The lights were flickering. The train was rocking. You just fall into that rhythm where the mood matches the sway of the car and the clacking of the tracks, even the squealing of the wheels—it just kept escalating. It was summertime. We were both in dresses and just slid our hands underneath. Incredibly hot.”
That’s just about the time two younger guys—early 20s, Lisi thought—slid open the door at the other end and caught them in the act.
“They were talking and when they saw us, they froze like deer on a highway,” she recalls. “We turned and stared at them. Gauging them, I guess. It was just a matter of, ‘Are they going to be respectful and keep their distance?’ Once we realized they were no threat, we were right back at it. To be honest, I was even more turned on knowing they were there.”
The ride lasted another 15 or so minutes; both women managed to get off before getting off. “I’m just glad I didn’t watch the boys,” she laughs. “Because once we were finished I looked over and at least one of them was jacking it.”
It wasn’t the masturbation that surprised her; it was the fact that she found it so undignified.
“I remember thinking the next day, My, God! Is that what we looked like? But I guess when it’s you, you figure it’s okay.”
Lisi aspires to one day join the ever-dwindling ranks of the Mile-High Club. “I’ve tried it a few times, but those flight attendants keep their eyes peeled for suspicious activity around the lavs.” She confesses she’s been intercepted on three separate attempts.
“At some point, I’m either flying first class at night and going for it right in the seat or, even better, finding a boyfriend who can spring for the private jet!”
Godspeed, Lisi. Godspeed.