GRASP THAT STICK

I dropped my car off at the mechanic this morning. Outside was a slick black WRX, rumored to be a real high on the road. Out came the owner, a twenty something guy with a closely cropped match to car color beard, I wondered what it would feel like down there. Yet the car was the big draw, I’d always wanted behind the wheel, so I asked for the chance, he replied, “sure’, no pause, no hesitation. That car only comes one way, standard transmission, stick only, and I am oh so ready.

My love affair with the stick started in high school. I hung out with a boy/man who had a BMW 2002 stick. He would let me take the driver’s seat, place my hand on the stick, and guide me through the positions, his hand over mine. Down on the floor, I mastered the pedals and the synchronized dance between exceleration, pause, clutch, shift. In my 16 years nothing could compare the feel and power of driving a stick.

Today, I love the head of my stick shift in my BMW. The smooth glossed wood, bulbus in my palm, I slide my hand down it, grasp and shift. Never much of a hand job girl, I know not what to do with a c*ck when my mouth can’t assist, yet I am a master with my right hand in my car, sure, steady, powerful, the stick head oddly smooth without any lubrication. The engine’s direct response purr and growl. And it’s not all about speed, there is nothing like taking a tight corner, clutch in, caress, grab the stick, downshift to that throaty reward.

I once took a drive to Nyack in my car with a large strong man. We had cocktails on the water, I was too vodka’d to drive. He took the driver’s seat, sliding the leather bucket all the way to the deepest position possible. I loved taking the submissive seat in my own car, lying back, listening to the engine, watching him handle my stick. It was utterly erotic, this man commanding my car, the trust of handing over the keys to a partner, the surprise in it, the way he might take the road in a way completely different than your own.

Music is the backdrop in my home, but rarely in my car. I like to keep my ear to the engine, it’s like hearing the man you’re f*cking pant in your ear. The slow and fast of the act, sometimes throaty, now a gentle glide, a sudden thrust to speed, sucking the road in pure mad prowess. Then that sweet downshift, the reserve in it, and the sudden burst and pound of coming out of the curve.

Sure, there are the parked car fantasies realized. The forsaken head in the Home Depot parking lot. Or legs spread, feet against the dash, a man’s hand between your thighs. But those pale in comparison to wheels in motion, stick grasped in hand, the pure erotic power of it, no c*ck required.