“Wanna go draw dicks on the dust of cars?” is probably the question that was asked when those fingers slid over the rear window. They had been erased by the back wiper, leaving the clean arc in the powder. The only reason I knew a dick had been fingered in was because the head of a cartoonish dong was still embedded on the dust. I laughed and pointed it out the Philosopher in Theory. She cackle with me, and her two year old daughter looked up and said, in her kid voice, “I don’t get it.”
“You’re too young to get dick jokes,” Philosopher said.
Dicks on a window just reminded me of sex in cars. It’s something I never done in my youth, or now for that matter; however, there was that lengthy blow job in the back seat of a suburban from my ex-girlfriend as we rode back from San Antonio. At the time, I had a problem coming with oral sex. It’s something I’ve never been proud to admit, unless in passing jokes. The sensation was great, I suppose, but not great enough to have me spewing my seed.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I have a Coke.”
Of course, it didn’t help that her parents were in the front seat driving and navigating in the dark. I think the anxiety coupled with the already nerveless cock that was placed between my legs was the conclusion of her jaw growing stiff. She later, after I tucked back my bits and pieces back into my pants, fell asleep on my lap.
This is the same girl who tried to get laid in the back seat of the same suburban earlier in our relationship. We were at a high school football game then, and decided to sneak out. I declined, though I don’t remember why.
I’m sure it has a lot to do with never wanting to be the dumbass who gets caught with his pants down in a car. It’s something that television, sadly, had instilled in me. The horny guy always gets caught, and let’s face it, I was probably busting in my jeans then, though it can be highly doubtful, if you know me.
Change of subject, because my stomach is turning at these memories. I’m not sure why, I don’t hate my exgirlfriend. I guess it’s because I’m talking about the past and that’s disturbing me that I can remember it with clarity, even though I’ve spared you many details.
Moving on. Playboy issue’s gone. I’ll look for it online later. Or I’ll find my way to Mac’s Newsstand tomorrow and see if a copy still exists. Or whatever.
I suppose, until next time, I’m done.
