Unleashing the Writer: Auto Eroticism
[Loba Note: That snarky little editor in my brain refuses to stay quiet. Makes it very difficult to write with such inane chatter going on at the same time. So I put myself to a challenge: In 30 minutes, write a complete story without stopping to self-edit along the way. This is what I came up with. Some people take lunch breaks during their workday. I take writing breaks 
I know it’s rough and really silly, but it felt good to finally finish something.]
Sunlight shatters, a billion shards refracting through my windshield, scorching my silver shell the instant we exit the parking garage. The heat consumed all day by the brick, concrete, and asphalt of the city swirls outward in dizzying shimmers as we pass along, stop-and-go, toward the Beltway. She’s already got all four of my windows down. She rarely uses the A/C, even in the prime time swelter of a triple-digit summer day. It’s the feeling of the wind she craves, especially on afternoons like this one.
I can tell she’s tense, filled with frustration from whatever took place while she was away from me all day. She sits forward in her seat, both hands clenched tightly around my steering wheel. She’s a one-handed driver most of the time, fingertips from her left hand guiding me with gentle precision, right hand caressing my gear shifter.
She’s not quite ready for that familiarity today.
The traffic reporter does nothing to brighten her mood with his nay-saying about snags and tangles running all the way up most the major roadways.
A finger jabs at the radio, switching off the yammering news reporters, and she picks up her iPod, thumb making distracted circles as she surfs through her playlists. I already know what she’s looking for: a syncopated rhythm and a throbbing beat—something with the speed to keep up with the Morse code of frenetic energy her left boot is tapping out against my dead pedal.
She makes her selection just as we reach the on-ramp and a familiar guitar riff screams her frustrations from my speakers. Bring in the drums, pounding so loudly that the cuffs of her corduroys sway in the percussive wake. There’s an opening to her left and she slips in, perfectly matching the pace of the cars around us. I feel her relax into the driver seat’s embrace as the day sloughs away and she finally shifts herself into drive.
Deep breath out and now we begin.
There’s a new tension apparent in her grip. Not of frustration, but of anticipation. Her movements now are predatory, preternatural. Eyes scan each of my mirrors as she watches for another break in the maelstrom. The needle of my tachometer flutters, runs hot from the escalating pressure from her boot. She knows I’m ready for whatever she needs of me.
Space appears to her left and she strikes, the growl of all four of my cylinders coursing through our frames. One, two, three—and we’re far left of center and finally cruising. “Double nickels” is the speed limit, but we’re already only a quarter shy of a dollar. The roar of the wind increases through my cabin. Her response? Turn up the tunes and crush deeper into the vibrations. Tachometer needle switches like a cat’s curious tail as she upshifts to pass, downshifts to slip in where only we two knew we could sneak through.
Now we bide our time. Slow down the dance, take a moment to feel the music. She smiles first, then laughs from the giddiness of how we move together. There’s a split ahead and we glide toward the right, flirt amicably with the speed limit as we pass the point where cops often idle. No red and blue to stifle the surge that she forces through my engine, vibrations shuddering up her thigh from my gas pedal as we zip, zip, zoom into the empty lane to the left.
My gauges rise in response—speedometer, tachometer. My temperature gauge, though, levels out just below the midway mark. She never pushes me hotter than my engine can handle, never revs my RPMs into the red. Never asks for more than she knows I can give her.
I give to her willingly.
In and out we weave through traffic, perfect synchronicity, perfect control. Some have accused her of recklessness borne of her addiction to speed, but I know that in this dance, she knows exactly where to lead me next. She shifts me into top gear and we are nothing more than silver streaks of steel and fiery hair whipping like unquenchable flames.
Too soon our open road ends, our need barely sated. Gears downshift, engine purrs as we settle into the range of suitable suburban speeds. Her fingers loosen windy tangles from her hair, tap out the beat of the music as she unconsciously mouths along with the lyrics.
She pulls into our regular spot and cuts my engine. The workday-weary version of herself is gone, outpaced miles back by sound and speed and sunlight glinting off her now-strong smile. As she gathers her belongings and starts to slide from the driver seat, she touches my steering wheel one more time, a wistful finger traced along the downward curve.
“Good boy, Sammy.”
My mistress is pleased.
