I once dated a guy in high school because he drove a Ford Fairlane. He was in college and I should feel regret to admit that I do not remember much about him, but ooohh that car. I would fantasize about that car. He would show up at my high school to pick me up; me in my Catholic all-girls school kit. I remember being happy to see the car there waiting for me, marveling at how massive it was compared to others – it seemed to take up two parking spaces on the street. I remember how casually I would toss my book bag into the back seat of the convertible and took my time to get in, to appreciate the size and weight of the door.
I remember how my ass cheeks felt on those seats as I slid myself in to kiss the driver and then settle myself against the door. The sheer size of it felt safe, the details made me feel important and the fact no one else had one made it all unique. Where ever we went people would stop and talk to him, point, or ask to look at his car: I could appreciate someone who grew up with a similar beast as they looked towards the Fairlane with fondness.
His father was also a collector of classic cars and they lived in a big old Tudor house by the library. The car was of course a gift to his son. His father was rarely home and I could see that my driver, mostly grown up on his own in a house with a single father, had the same passions as his dad. If they were shared out of a need to have something in common or sincerity didn’t matter – the bond they have over cars was obvious and there now. Once a week we would drive back to his house and park in the drive way, in the shade under a huge Oak tree that was at the front of the house, to wash the car. I always sat and watched, I felt the ritual was important enough for me to not be intrusive on their time together. He must have had some feelings for that car no different than mine. We would talk while he cleaned the car.
I liked the way he was particular with the camel skin rag he used, a specialty soap, and something else for the chrome. The white walls got their own cleaner too as did the interior. There was a reason this car was in such perfect condition, it had been loved and cared for. I never complained about the hours it took for him to clean the car, in fact it was a great turn on to watch a man be so careful and tender with something. Once he was done he would then pull out cotton cloths to dry the car and then we would sit in the shade under the tree and have a smoke just looking at the car; she seemed to have her own affection for the attention because every beam of sun light that came through the leaves she sparkled like diamonds.
That’s right; we never smoked in the car! Something I complete agreed with and the ashtrays remained just as shinny as the bumper. You begin to baby the thing yourself; are we parked to close to the other cars or too far from the store, should we really be taking it to a concert downtown and I remember waiting for my best friend T to finish her drink – before she got into the car.
With all the rules and care he took with the Fairlane I will not forget the night we were parked someplace and he stopped to kiss me up against the grill: it was still warm and I thought it might burn my skin and leave a mark. The driver grabbed me and put me up on the hood of the car and then stepped back, leaving me there a little uncomfortable: there is a light on the hood and I wasn’t sure where to sit on it.
I pushed myself back a bit further so that light was between my legs and I kicked off my shoes as to not scratch anything and let my bare feet rest on the original but well-polished paint. He just stood there watching, not smiling or anything but rather he seemed deep in thought. He finally came back towards the grill and leaned in to kiss me – I felt like a strange ornament on the hood of a float – and I kissed him back. His hands were on my knees and the space between our bodies seemed to diminish, I remember feeling as though I could slide off at any moment but he was there to catch me.
I was only 17 and obviously he was six years older than me and far more experienced. He started to undo my button fly jeans and tugged at them by the waist. Without saying a word I pressed both hands down on the hood and lifted my bottom up, allowing him to pull them down to my knees but as I sat myself back down he kept going and removed them completely. He of course put my jeans down on the ground; I was still a bit amazed I was on the hood of his precious car. He kissed me some more, rubbed at my legs and then his hands were under my shirt and within a few minutes he was pulling it off up over my head.
He asked me to not move and grabbed something from his back pack and when he re-appeared he had a camera in his hands. I remember having a sinking feeling in my stomach; this was making me nervous no matter how much I was turned on. My body reacted to try and cover itself and he moved himself between my legs again, opening them, and kissing me. I can’t remember if he asked or if he just told me what he was going to do – I know I was feeling awfully exposed in bra and panties on a car but I also remember thinking how this did not seem to be so strange; it was a great car.
It was the first time I let a boy take pictures of me naked. I can assure you I did NOT strike a pose or feel completely comfortable on such a divine machine. In fact I wonder if I felt ugly compared to the car – she was perfect, glorious and majestic, I was still young, clumsy and awkward not being able to fully appreciate this at the time though I certainly do now.
I can’t remember how many pictures he took and I never asked it was all at a time when you had to develop film so nothing was instantaneous. I know I eventually took my bra off, myself, and soon after that he put the camera down. I laid myself back, knees still bent to give myself some traction as to not slip off the hood and he began to kiss me on top of my panties. His fingers eventually found their way inside and shortly thereafter they came off. He had hooked his arms in behind my knees and was trying to slid me down towards him but my back made a squeaky sound on the hood and instead I sat up a little and moved myself manually.
And then one of his arms caught me like that and kept me there, sort of sitting up facing him and at that moment it wasn’t so much about the car. It must have been getting late, there was moisture collecting on the hood, I remember the feeling of it slick under my hands as I tried my best to not move as he fucked me. When I was able to rest myself on my back, my feet down on the bumper, I could feel the cold and it was nice – I sort of giggled to myself that he brought my ass down from the hood a little bit so nothing got on the hood, but of course he was wearing a condom and too must have been more than just sexually preventative.
That was the first time I had sex on the hood of a car and let a guy take dirty pictures of me. Back then you had to send the film away to a private firm in Montreal to be developed, anything x rated I mean. He was delighted to show me when they arrived but I was too nervous to look at the all – I told him he could keep them and it didn’t much matter if he had a drawer someplace with a million other pictures just like it.
What I did find strange was the picture he showed me and called his favourite: it was a close up, you could barely see the car, of me sitting on the hood; one long leg forward and the other casually bent at the knee, my hands were behind me sitting myself half up and at that point I was still in panties but had taken off my bra. My face had a strange confidence on it, one we rarely get to see because we aren’t always looking at ourselves, like I was a beauty queen in the town parade, showing the world that I had won something.
This entry should have been about going to drive in tonight with PC and how I loathe the separate seats because I wish to do all sorts of naughty things with him there but this is what blogs are made of; memories and I am pleased, though he doesn’t have a classic car, I am still making new ones.