The STANG

Chapter 1


“There are no good girls gone wrong, just bad girls found out.”

―Mae West


Have you ever had sex in a convertible? It don’t matter if it was with the high school quarterback the night of a homecoming pep rally, or with your husband of fifteen years on a night the kids were away at the grans, there’s just nothin’ like it. Yeah, okay, it’s a bit awkward finding your positioning, and depending on the make and model of the car, the upholstery can be a bitch for chaffing, but still… Dang.
 
Maybe it’s psychological, the naughtiness factor, but for some reason, sex in the backseat of a convertible—or anywhere in a convertible for that matter—is just about the best sex you’ll ever have. My boyfriend owned a cherry-licious, slut-red lipstick colored, 1971 convertible Mustang Mach 1. I think we only had sex two times in the actual bedroom. Every other time it was in that sexy-ass car (once in the trunk, if you can believe that), and to be honest, I lost count of how many orgasms I had inside of that Stang.
 
My boyfriend’s name was Gary, but everyone called him ‘Gear’ because a) he looked like a young Richard Gere (sigh...), and b) he was a consummate motorhead. He loved that Stang more than he loved life itself, more than he loved me, but I excused him his mistress because the man fucked like a jackrabbit, and I was usually too tired and sore to really care about all the nicey-niceys that he lacked in. A girl don’t need red wine and roses when she’s gratified sexually, believe dat.
 
But I ain’t here to make you jealous (although you most certainly should be). Gear is dead, and I’m here to tell you what happened after he literally fucked himself to death.
 
I was in the kitchen, and Gear was in the garage, making love to the Stang with a polishing cloth and an industrial-sized tub of Turtle Wax. I heard George Thorogood start wailing ‘Who Do You Love.’ That song will forever get me wet because it was always my cue to get my ‘tight little ass in the back seat and spread ‘um.’ I don’t know what got into Gear that night, but he fucked me like a hell-bent demon. There’s this lil’ old couple that lives next door to us, and I guaran-freakin-tee you they heard me screaming in ecstasy that night. But they never complained about the noise. I think Gear and I reminded them that the bedroom weren’t necessarily just for sleepin’.
 
And I can’t very well put all responsibility on fate because I certainly played my part. Gear pistoned me like a V8 at red line in the bucket seats that night, but I pushed him there. We were both glistening more than the freshly waxed hood of the Stang, Gear pumping me, me screaming ‘Harder! Deeper! Faster!’ But even the most cherry of Hemy engines can blow a gasket if pushed too hard. Gear exploded inside of me, I screamed louder than I’ve ever screamed, and he never came to. Heart attack, right on top of me. He literally flamed out, TA-DA! The end. Dead.

I was too young at the time to know how to mourn. I loved Gear, ‘course I did, but the incredible sex was the real draw of our relationship. That's what I really mourned, and that made me feel even more shallow and shit. Gear was a good man. He never hit me; never belittled me. He never told me he loved me, and never showed any kind of tenderness or affection, neither, but that didn’t make him an ass. It was just who he was. I missed him terribly, and I didn’t know how to grieve. All I had left of him was that beautiful red Mustang Mach 1 with black racing stripes, and the stains of our passion on its seats.
 
The loneliness in the days that followed hit me like a roundhouse to the gut, so I leaned on my best friend, Misty. She’s the only family I have, and there ain’t a dang thing we don’t share with each other. If Misty called me up one day and said ‘I just killed someone, Heather,’ without hesitating, I’d say ‘I’ll be right over with a shovel, girlfriend.’ She’s my go-to girl. My eponymous sister. We’ve bled and shed together for as far as my memory goes, and dang, we’ve dodged more than a few bullets and tended to more than a few of each other’s wounds. Losing Gear was a deep wound, and Misty was there by my side every single day, and never without a pint of maple walnut and a fifth of Southern Comfort for solace.
 
I don’t know if you believe in such things, and by the time Misty and I are through tellin’ y’all this story, you’ll either be inclined to believe that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, or pawn us both off as a couple of fucked-in-the head Southern bitches who take their sex and their liquor too damn seriously. Either way, it’s a hell of a ride.
 
I don’t know why, but for some reason Saturday was Gear’s high performance night. Christ on a frickin’ Popsicle stick! The sex was always great in that erotic-as-all-hell Stang, but for some reason Saturdays were the apex. The first Saturday after Gear died, I poured myself a stiffy (Southern, no ice, straight) and went out to the garage to sit in that beast of a car so I could purr and cry. I nestled myself into the bucket seat behind the steering wheel, closed my eyes, drank as if I were dying of thirst, and remembered Saturday nights with Gear.
 
I don’t know how much time passed, how much I drank, or for that matter, how the fuck I ended up how I ended up, but the next thing I knew my skirt was balled-up next to the gas pedal with my panties, both soaked, and there was literally a puddle in the seat where I was sitting. I had orgasmed multiple times. I hadn’t even touched myself. I went to bed that night completely spent, and all but unaware that Gear was dead and that he hadn’t just rooted me like a pogo stick.
 
The following night, I went out to the Stang again, this time sober. I sat in the front seat like I had the night before, curious, and within minutes, the tingling began…
 
My g-spot started to throb and ache almost immediately upon sitting in the bucket seat. I flushed, and felt my body temperature rise. My eyes got that stoned look in them as all focus shifted to my thighs, and what was happening between them.

No booze this time. Not even the caffeine jolt of egg-shell coffee in my system. I started gyrating in the seat, making my pink lips move by the motion of my squirming, and I felt the first bead of sweat form on my neck. Before I knew it I was completely stoned in lust. I gripped the door handle. I started gushing like a faucet. My knuckles turned white. I felt like I was being electrocuted. Jesus God A’mighty! I screamed as my body went into convulsions of ecstasy. Nobody was fucking me, but it felt like I was being jammed with a country fair prize-winning zucchini.
 
After I came for the third time, I snapped out of my trance and realized that I was all alone in the front seat of the Stang.
 
I was shakin’ so bad I couldn’t move: aftershocks. My southern region was sparking and pulsing like a fallen live wire. I was coated in a sheen of sex-sweat, hyperventilating, but I was all alone. All of a sudden I realized my surroundings: the garage, cold, stainless steel tools hangin’ everywhere, the washer/dryer in the corner, the dull, bumblebee buzz of the fluorescents overhead, and Gear’s bad-ass Stang sittin’ in the middle of it all like an exclamation point.
 
As reality slowly oozed back in, I thought I might be going mad. Like I said, I was too young to know how to grieve, and while the relationship I had with Gear was more sexual than anything deep and meaningful, I figured what happened in the Stang was a direct result. But it felt too real. Too intense. Too… on purpose.

I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past two, but I didn’t care none. As soon as my legs re-solidified from a liquid back into a solid, I went inside and called Misty…