Betty Lou, 2004, Karen Kuehn

So, after posting the (probably incredibly ill-advised) virginity-themed erotic romance short, I ran across this pic.

Most of my early groping-toward-the-inevitable happened on back roads.

We were in 11th grade, and there was nowhere indoors to do that sort of thing. I lived in a double wide with seven other people, and my uncle and grandmother were right next door. He had a largely unemployed former-alcoholic-biker turned Pentecostal evangelist for a father. There was always someone with access to a firearm at home.

So, we took to dirt roads and the 15 minutes that could end up unaccounted for in any given trip from here to there.

He drove an orange 1977 F350 he called “The Beast.” Once upon a time it had been red, but by the mid 90′s it had definitely faded to a splotchy orange. The thing had mirrors like an 18-wheeler, reeked of old oil, and the door hinges slammed so hard it made the whole monster clang and vibrate. It was not a truck for sneaking around in.

It had a long bench seat. It was a stick shift, and without fail, I got to hear the sort of comments high school boys make about pretty much anything phallic. Despite the lewd comments, it was far better for teenage pawing than my car; I drove an early 80′s Pontiac 4-banger held together with gum and luck and bungee cords. If we had the truck on a given night, there was a good shot we’d end up on the side of the road.

If you’re wondering how long it takes a shy boy to get frustrated with only ever getting to third base, the answer is something like 6 weeks. We were in that big truck, on a long stretch of gravel between my family’s two-unit trailer park and huge, out-of-place Jehova’s Witness temple. Cows to the left and milo to the right. It’s flat out there. We lived so far out, that the FM signals from Dallas went intermittently fuzzy. You could see the floodlights at the temple, the cars going down the highway. The radiant light from the college town 20 miles off turned the clouds above purpley-orange.

We were doing what high school kids do. Or at least, what they used to do.

And, bra off, various things unzipped, and vertically arranged, I know I made some comment about the time. It was getting late.

This line?

(”We only go so far and no farther, and what’s the point, anymore?”)

That’s what he said.

Which is, of course, a foolish thing to say when you’re 18 and she’s 16, and you’re both virgins, and you actually want to get laid. I have no doubt that guilt-tripping has de-virginized many an American youth, but it wasn’t happening on that night.

“What’s the point?”

So I made him wait longer. Something like a month.

When his dad found condoms in the closet later that spring, he suddenly ended up driving a very cramped Geo.

Which… has it’s own advantages.

I guess I’ve never really lost my taste for car sex, though it’s been years and years.  There’s something sort of deliciously exhibitionist about it.

Alas, Daddy was never a car sex sort of boy.  I think we’ve only done it once, on vacation.