Car-nal desire – by Juneau
I’m inspired to respond to Xena’s James Dean extravaganza…
I love cars too, especially finely tuned, temperamental sports cars — how they are so sensitive and responsive. As your hand caresses and then firmly grips the polished, bulbous contour of the stick-shift, your left foot extends to press the clutch to the floor and your right simultaneously teases the gas pedal, pressing it gently with precise calibration to ease your steed forward. Careful! Those sports cars are eager to leap out into traffic! With your eye in the mirror (quick eyeliner and mascara check), you ease onto the road, and then accelerate quickly to just above the speed limit (or maybe a lot above it), your hands now cradling the leather-covered steering wheel, reaching down to grip that stick whenever you hear the RPMs rise to a high tenor pitch, adjusting upward when you want a smooth cruise, or downward when you need that powerful surge of acceleration. Your magic steed transports you down that open freeway, out into the forest, or the desert, or up twisting mountain roads, away from the clamoring crowd. You have the convertible top down, the air is whipping your hair, filling your nostrils with the sweet smell of liberation.
And what about that luscious interior? Those buttery leather seats redolent with the scent of luxury and desire? Your hand can’t resist rubbing and kneading it. Your skirt rides up your thighs (again), your skin warm and damp against that smooth, supportive surface. The bucket seat cradles your hips and back, the neck rest offers resistance like an insistent lover when you press your head back. The safety belt hugs you snugly like strong arms (freckled and covered with golden down). If you have seat warmers, you have the added sensation of heat permeating your body while cool breezes wash across your face.
We haven’t even gotten to all those shiny displays and knobs…I have to leave that for another time, as work beckons (harsh mistress!). If you want to explore the extremes of auto eroticism, there’s J.G. Ballard’s Crash (or David Cronenberg’s film adaptation, although it cannot do the novel justice), a tale about sexual fetishism revolving around car crashes, a very twisted rumination on human alienation and technology. From Wikipedia: “It was a highly controversial novel: famously one publisher’s reader returned the verdict “This author is beyond psychiatric help. Do Not Publish!”
Are we too beyond psychiatric help? Do we even want it? You know the answer.
Juneau is a writer specializing in neuroscience, biomedicine, physics and culture. She is co-author with Xena of the forthcoming book, On the Meaning of Adam Lambert (www.adamlambertbook.com)