Yellow candle burns bright…

By my side, flame steady, no flicker to distract as I write this wondering of the whys and wherefores:
The times of sex/making love in cars, how supposedly ‘most of us have the same uncomfortable experience’ or so some pundit sharing purple prose and pedantry tells me from the t.v. And I get to thinking of the last time, when I thought my head would explode as you sucked me to oblivion. I loved that sweetest pain in my reaching, reaching, straining muscles. Screening out the world and the where of where we were and the saying of thank you’s that didn’t cover a part of my appreciation, the so long of that happening before and sad wondering of when this may happen again. Men don’t have multiple orgasms and when they happen like that I thank god, I couldn’t stand the pain, cramps, loss of self and memory gapping. I’m not sure you recognised the moment, spent and drained I couldn’t explain, so now you’ll read this and maybe wonder whether you can make that happen again or even know if you did…
Supposedly the refuge for younger lovers with nowhere else to go, making love in cars, like so many things relegated to youth, can be supped slowly and savoured as gastronomy as an alternative ven-ue in later times. There are however difficulties.
With Gill after a beer, sliding seats back in a woodland car park, hearing another car pull up but ignor-ing it. Then five minutes in, trousers loose, she underwear down, blouse open and our hands involved in our finding when: tap on the window, torchlight and gruff voices. The Old Bill, “Just wondering if everything is OK sir?” hearing the joy in their voices as they’d caught us, the wonder if we were mar-ried to each other or others, the sadistic glee at stopping others’ pleasure-not on my beat eh sarge? We left, to never go there again, it was never the same again, no more did I get to leave my muddy footprints on her dashboard, she her knickers under my seats, lipstick wedged under the handbrake-how that happened is anybody’s guess.
But that, the first and last time I ever got hassled by the police. Rain through sunroofs, loose brakes at the wrong time, people asking directions, all these but side dishes for the dessert that is car sex. Each experience different.
I guess I was about thirteen/fourteen hitching my way to a friends house and an old van stopped, in climbed in up and over porn magazines, stale handkerchiefs and cigarettes. I moved them all blush-ing the while as the driver told it was ok for me to look at them. They were strong stuff; women suck-ing, men fucking and me still blushing feeling my cock harden. He smiled again and stopped ‘for a cigarette’ I took one from the pack as he told me which picture he liked best, asked me for mine and then casually began to stroke my thigh. I squirmed away and he offered me cash to see my cock. I showed him and he began to stroke it, talking of the women in the magazine, their tits, soft wet cunts, he took a pair of silk knickers from the glove box and began wanking me until I burst over his hand and into them. He gave me the money, a pack of cigarettes and was gone. I standing in the sunlight, side of the road, spent, shaking with the enormity of what I’d just done, all the warnings of parents, teachers and playground bogeyman tales. I smoked another cigarette, stuck my thumb in the breeze and was gone. I didn’t tell my friend who I was visiting, didn’t know how to say.
It was many years before I had sex in a car again, taking Colleen to the city, stopping at the side of a country road as she told me of underwear and the wanting of me since we last slept together. I had an old Ford with a bench seat and we did the deed in minutes just to slake the pressure until we could do it again, she lifting skirts, moving knickers to one side, gasping as I entered, breath, uh… uh… uh… urging more, harder, deeper, kissing, scratching to just do it, do it now. We finished, sitting upright again, rearranging clothes, smiles at the old couple who had pulled up to share their thermos of tea and sandwiches as they stared at traffic. We giggled at them, their blank faces, wondering if they’d seen, heard or even cared. I drove on into the city and now this seems one of the very few memories I hold of Colleen.
In the intervening years I had motorcycles, wild, dirty and clapped out things held together by wire, wishes and lack of wisdom. Girls would flock to ride on the back, wanting thrills and stops in quieter places, my first motorcycle and Kim asking to sit on it, leaving a damp patch as she gave me glimpses of heaven climbing back off it. She would want me to touch her but not ‘put it in.’ Her hands small and delicate as she unzipped me late at night on country roads urging me to go faster and faster as those pretty hands reached around to drive me crazy. I would stop blinded by the pain in my balls and lust, her face crooked by the joy she built and controlled, she kissing me as my seed flew to the ground. Her eyes glistening at power she knew.
There were those who came to parties with others but wanted wild rides as drinks burnt into them, whispering offers of blow jobs and more. I took all offers uncaring of others scowls all I wanted was the ease of pressure in my pants, somewhere to put it, respite until the next burn. There were those who swallowed and those who spit. Watching my sperm drop, elongate like chewing gum, dropping from leaf to leaf, branch to branch, in glow of headlight and post cigarette. Both mute gazing, fasci-nated by volume, elasticity and evidence of what had happened not seconds ago. I never saw her again, her boyfriend disgusted at our leaving together dumped her and I never knew where to or cared to put effort into the finding.
Those who swallowed seemed to do so silently, lips closed tight against escape, or gulping to draw down. Callow as I was I never wanted to kiss them afterward, though wanting with all I could not minutes ago, to kiss them now seemed to somehow bring contact with my own cum and that I didn’t want as much as I wanted them to…
In later times there were those who would make issue of this, forcing salty tongues into my mouth, asking in telling of what could the problem possibly be? These were the ones who didn’t make the second ride, the invite back home or other meetings. They always seemed the ones who wanted me to ride one handed, left hand clamped between their legs, caressing wetness and heat, urging to not stop until they came shrieking as we thundered through villages, lights turned down for the night.
Until one night, a local pub and Suzy. Sitting there with her man, drinking me in, eyes bright and shin-ing and he face turning away not wanting to see. Then he left and she came over, holding my hand, asking for name but asking for more with eyes half closed. The next I know she’s sitting facing me, legs open, asking if I like what I see? Her legs in black stockings and G-string pulled tight. She took me outside, hunger kissing and touching, pulling me toward a car, we get in. Her man sitting there, stiff and staring straight ahead, she telling me of him being gay, he doesn’t deny, my lust cooling in wonderment of crazy situations and what to do next. Suzy touching me again, pulling at belt, buttons and zip, holding hot cock in cooler hands, head dipping to take me in, sucking, rising, bobbing, fin-gers teasing at balls then squeezing base to pump harder, my hips pushing harder and faster gaining rhythm, only vaguely aware of him now as I feel sweet pain building to spurt into her mouth, she sucking to take every drop. Then sitting, buttoning, zipping up, he still staring ahead as if this mo-ment carried no charge for him. She mumbling to him if he was ok, he nodding, my part no longer needed for them, I begin to leave as she beckons him forward and begins to kiss. She’s giving me to him enters my head and I ran away. I’ve no idea if Suzy was her real name for I never wanted to ever see them again. The thought worries me still.
Thora shifting seats back to make room for my stiffy and her desire, catching my finger in the seat runner and losing all fire, stiffy and need but to nurse said finger, thinking luckily all blood had gone elsewhere. I’m such a wuss now in these times, retreating inside to safer places where once I could ignore pain to continue, being taken to hospital by friends after some pointless beating that youth takes and gives out. Checking out Jenny with the uninjured hand, feeling her fingers curling around me, getting the guys to find a wheelchair so we could fuck on the back seat, injured hand in the air to avoid further problems. Later they tell me they thought I was calling a cab with it. Jenny later naked sitting astride me as we drove past the police station, held up by the lights, looks of disgust from older people in the car alongside as I smirk back at the great pussy I’m getting, oh yeah. We drifted apart and she started dating the driver but he couldn’t find a driver to replay our scene, he still calls me on this now, many many years later. When the big bang goes into reverse it may be possible for us to go back, no matter how much we talk on this, until then, we can’t. Like my candle grown shorter by time the possibilities now are limited for these to happen again, no matter the pedant and his poverty ideas of discomfort of sex in cars, feeling is essence, complaints fudge that fine line be-tween reportage and consciousness, to tell from place misses the being there.
Enjoy.

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