The STANG Part3

Chapter 3


“From the moment I was six I felt sexy. And let me tell you, it was hell—sheer hell—waiting to do something about it.”  

—Bette Davis

  
Misty and I were sprawled out on my couch, surrounded by empty tubs of maple walnut ice cream and empty bottles of Southern Comfort. The morning sun was tryin’ its best to penetrate my front curtains, but neither of us were ready for the night to end, so we ignored it. Louis Armstrong was seducing us with West End Blues, and all I could think of was a man’s lips on a trumpet, blowin’ hard. God… So sexy! What the fuck has that car done to me?
 
I almost had to carry Mist back into the house after she sat in the Stang. She was trembling and giggling and her legs were entirely useless. If I didn’t know what just happened, if I hadn’t experienced it myself, I would have sworn in a court of law that she was stoned out of her ever-lovin’ gourd. Then I would have gotten pissed at her for not sharing.

We talked a lot about the Stang, but all that did was create more questions than answers. Maybe it was psychosomatic, but I didn’t think so, not after Mist experienced the same thing. The strange thing about it was that it didn’t feel like the way Gear fornicated. Gear was a motorhead. He fucked like an eight cylinder: pistons jammin’ up and down with force and speed, and with each drop of the piston, a tiny explosion that made my wheels spin faster. That was how Gear made love. What I felt in the seat of that car wasn’t Gear. It was too… passionate? Nah. Too balls-out, Harlequin-romance/porn-movie intense. Gear used to find my g-spot purely by hit and miss repetition. He fucked so fast and so hard that he was bound to stumble across my magic button sooner or later, but what I felt in that car, dang. That was pure cherry pie. The feeling started in my g-spot and slowly expanded from there, like quivering waves rolling outward from a massive splash.
 
Misty ain’t like me. She’s sweet, kind, patient, caring. I’m fire and brimstone, a rebel, live hard and die young. Don’t ask me how we ended up best friends, but we did. The best of friends. I think we complement one another, and live vicariously through each other to a certain degree – Misty representing the grace and demure beauty that I always secretly craved, and me representing the unchained, uninhibited rock star kind of life that she always surreptitiously desired. Together we’ve always had the potential to be so dangerous—gasoline and a match—and I was wondering if this car was going to end up being the catalyst that set our blaze alight.
 
After we came back down to earth, after we finished savoring every delicious spark that car gave us, after the moment was finally broken, we both looked at each other and started laughing uncontrollably. I mean, dang! Who wouldn’t?
 
“So…” I finally said, tears rollin’ down my cheek.
 
“So…” said Misty, both of us with the devil’s own grin smeared across our lips.
 
“So… Dang, girlfriend! I mean, that car was sexy enough before this, but now? Dang, Mist!”
 
Misty grinned even wider. I could see the shimmer of the person she wanted to be twinklin’ ‘neath the surface of her eyes like a gold coin in clear, shallow waters: the reckless adventure-junkie, the horned-up man-eater, the fried, dyed, laid-on-her-side-for-the-sausage-glide, devil-may-care force to be reckoned with, and I wondered if that was what she usually saw in my eyes.
 
“I know, right?” she said. “You sure it ain’t Gear hauntin’ the Stang, hon? He loved that car more’n he loved you.”
 
“Nah,” I said without hesitation. “In fact, I don’t think it was anyone. I think it was the car itself.”
 
“What makes you think that?”
 
“First of all, girl, ain’t no man alive—or dead—that can fuck like that.”
 
“Hahahahahaha! True dat!”
 
“Second of all… I don’t know. It just felt… not-human.”
 
“Ooooo, I don’t know if I like thinkin’ of it as something ‘not human.’”
 
“I just mean it felt mechanical. Like a well-oiled, streamlined, precision machine. Like a Stang, you know?”
 
“Yeah, well, you have somethin’ to compare it to, hon. All I have to compare it to at the moment is my vibrator, but that’s far from a streamlined, well-oiled machine. Well used, maybe, but hardly precision.”
 
“Well, I suppose we’d better find you a man then, eh, Mist? With the right bait you can catch anything in the ocean, and what better bait to attract men than a couple of sexed-up belle’s in a cherry red, Mustang soft top?”
 
“Ha! That’s just it, H. I ain’t gone trolling for men since before you hooked up with Gear… what? A year ago? Dang! No wonder I go through so many batteries!”
 
“Then I guess it’s high time we remedy that. Shit, girl, that sex machine in the garage is our genie in a bottle. What say we rub it and see what it give us?”
 
“Old times?”
 
“Old times, Mist. Two bitches with itches in their britches! Polish up your fuck-me boots, girlfriend. Let’s find you a man for the back seat and see what the Stang do wit it…”