Channeling James Dean – by Xena
A cute juvenile delinquent from a 1950s B-movie. The dangerous, mysterious “you’re not from around here” guy all the girls love, but the guys hate him for his effortless popularity as a chick-magnet. He’s broody, doesn’t smile much, leaning against his car, squints in the sunlight, arm to act as a sun shield, hands clenched. One foot on the ground, the other pushed up against the door behind him, round, taut cheek resting on the heel, twirling the key-chain around his finger, looking up every so often as a pretty girl goes by, knowing she has already thoroughly checked him out.
He goes ‘round to the front of the car, lifts the hood, swelling his biceps to pulsating proportions – tucks his head under, to swivel a couple of knobs, twists out a few spark plugs, licks the ends then pops them back, unplug a fuse then, plug it back in, yank on a hose a few times – it’s firm and taut, works the dipstick in and out, in and out, in and out, checking the levels, wipes it with the rag in his back pocket, then plunges the stick in and out a few more times.
He stops, opens the trunk, grabs a can of oil, with the bottle opener on his key-chain, cracks open a hole in the top with one swift move, pokes the bottom of the spout into the hole, and pours the thick, golden liquid into the reservoir, awaiting the lubricant needed to keep the motor running smoothly, pistons sliding up and down quietly. He pulls out the dipstick a few more times until he’s satisfied, then closes the hood with a satisfying thud. He leans over the driver’s door, inserts the key in its keyhole and the engine roars to life, then settles down to that muffled low growl, a little snarl now and then. Elvis is playing on the radio.
Taking a chamois from the trunk, he dips it in the water fountain, then squeezes the chamois so tightly, his shoulders, chest and arms, threaten to rip the t-shirt into shreds, the water spurts out of the cloth, all over his tee, until the transparency reveals the stunning results of push-ups, push-downs, chin-ups, sit-ups, bar bells and bar fights. Sculpted chest and abdomen as if chiseled to perfection by Michelangelo.
Chamois in hand, he bends over the hood, wiping dust and dirt off the dark surface until a shiny, slick and threatening scarlett surface appears, as the grime is wiped by a steady, firm hand, circling with the expertise of one who does this several times a day with his trophy. His body sways and swivels with the music, sometimes bumping up against the car, and he sings along – knows all the words – the girls love Elvis. He sings quietly and girls come closer, trying to hear his voice, studying him intently from behind, now they’re moving, closing in on him, they start to remove sweaters, scarves, shoes, socks – anything they can to cool themselves before they spontaneously combust.
He turns around to face the girls, ringing him like a flutter of nervous butterflies, afraid to alight on this body for fear of instantly flaming out. Still holding his polisher, he wipes the unruly lick of hair away from his eyes with the back of his hand, shielding them from the sunshine for a moment.
The girls offer to polish his big boy toy for him, so he takes a brunette by the hand, shooing the others to wait over on a bench near the park. He positions himself behind the lucky girl, and placing the damp cloth in her hand, he slides his on top, squeezing it lightly, and slowly moves her hand in circular motions, with his free hand, he steadies himself against the car, pushed up behind the girl and together they move to the music, he whispers in her ear – singing the words, a slow ballad, breathy, he sprinkles delicate kisses on the back of her neck, behind her ear, her bare shoulders, her arms. She feels his downy arms on hers, the soft hair tickles and sends sparks of electricity through her body. Her heart is bursting as they move as one, rhythmically, a hand in glove, the hood is getting well polished with the girl’s dress pressed against it.
He moves his left hand to her cheek, bunching up the skirt so no one can see where his hand is – moving her against the car as he presses in, straining her arm and his to reach the very top of the hood. Now moving his hand under her skirt, he slides his fingers up her thigh, playing the notes of the music as his hand moves higher to where he can pull her back, her upper body still extended toward the windshield, her back arched toward him, on tiptoes, ooooff! Her legs wobbly, she staggers back, he takes her in his arms, caressing her body like a precious doll, turns her face toward him, whispers in her ear, kisses her lips for the first time, a charge to the heart, the kiss of life, her breathing calms – a bit. And he picks her up, placing her gently into the passenger seat of his car.
He drives a re-built late 40’s roadster convertible, a large round, protruding, front-end, tapering to a sleek aerodynamic rear. He never opens the door, just jumps over and slides into the driver’s seat, after lifting one girl after another into the car, until it’s full and they all drive off, pony-tails flying, singing to Elvis – down to the noisy road house in the next town, leaving the other boys in his dust. Dirty Dancing?
Oh, wouldn’t that be fun.
The other boys? They’re right behind, hoping the stranger will spill a few girls on his way to the bar – he can’t possibly satisfy all of them, can he?
Is there a good fantasy we can’t make up about Adam???
Did I ever tell you how much I love the smell of axle grease, emanating from dirty overalls, stripped off to reveal a clean white t-shirt and jeans?
I like to take the thick and sticky cleanser and massage his hands, pushing it into his cuticles with my fingers, his hands between mine, then I make a ring of finger and thumb to stroke each finger, twisting at the knuckles for the stubborn bits in the ridges, then finish with a clean white cloth, pulling all the grease off with the cleanser in a great big, squishy mess.
Did I tell you I love cars??
vroom, vrooomm, vrooooommm!
Xena is a writer, policy analyst and commentator who has an opinion on everything, and co-author with “Juneau” of the forthcoming book, On the Meaning of Adam Lambert – order at www.adamlambertbook.com