I followed a stranger I saw in opposing traffic today. For miles. Actually, it was only three, but still. I didn’t even get a glimpse of the unknown’s face until she turned into a shopping mall parking lot. She. Driving a late fifties Plymouth Sport Fury. Not my dream car, but damn close enough. I’d fuck it. Ahh…she was so desirable, and a handsome woman, it’s true, but mostly it was because of her car. And gals like us, we know it’s true: the right car does make you sexier.
When she got out of her car, my confidence flagged a bit. She was in her fifties herself. But I try to live by the maxim: Nothing risked, nothing gained. Especially when it comes to my own sexcapades. I climbed out of my dull little Honda Civic and strolled over at a sedate pace. I complimented her on her taste in vehicles, and was surprised to see her looking me up and down in a rather sultry way. Sure, I’d just been toying with the fantasy, but I definitely didn’t expect an opening.
I jumped on it.
And I laid the charm on thick. I didn’t bother trying to play the ing?nue; after the first few words (a desultory exchange of opinions and condemnations of lesser cars than hers) I’d deduced that she was experienced enough to know theatrics when she saw them. I was not going give her anything but the real thing. Her choice of clothing surprised me, too. It’s what I’d always dreamed of wearing when I hit my retirement years, or at any time my hair went completely white: crisp dark blue jeans, a button-down shirt with the long sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a cowboy hat. Okay, so she wasn’t wearing a hat. She had a brilliant blue scarf tied around her long hair, which was, gratifyingly enough, almost pure white. In short, she was beautiful.
Within the first five minutes of conversation, we were lounging companionably against her fender (the car’s fender), and I believe we’d both come to a mutual understanding. I wrote down my number, told her I’d love to see her in less than jeans, and strolled back to my car. I’m sure that my exit was undermined by my boring little Honda, but what the hell. Once, I too was cool, in my Mercury Sports Coupe, my cute little Kharmann Ghia, and my ’51 Chevy pickup. If she does call, I’m going to be scurrying to either fix up the pick-up, or buy my sweet ass a beautiful new car.
Age. It matters. A whole lot.