We looked at each other and knew it was party time
Pedal to the metal
Muscle car showdown
Sneering down the quarter mile, your eyes are twitching for the green. Wait…
Wait for it…
Don’t redline, babe…
This Christmas tree is teasing you, but you’ll get the light. Heat up those tires…
Check the gauges…
Now… hit it!
Your speed and sweat mix with my blood’s oxygen, jolting up my legs to grab my ass. Both cheeks. Aiming for nines, but hitting the sixes. God damn, that’s fast!
Can you feel it? Deep inside? Burning lightening? Burning sky?
Off the track and to the streets, fuzz buster set to Fuck You, Pig! Tracing the sexy spines of Wisconsin’s hills, we drive all night until the sticky pines have turned to protruding hoodoos, thick then tapered.
My Charger’s curves race the lines of your rumbling F250, our engines’ barrels pointing to the desert’s signs warning to turn off our air conditioner. We took heed to the heat, while others were intent on comfort. They’ve got to play it cool. Ha! Now they’re stranded with the bloating armadillo carcasses, without so much as a hot breeze while we zing by, unsympathetic, our hands in each others’ crotches while elbows and feet stick out the window, searing from the hairdryer heat.
Your torque’s magnitude is moaning, depending on three qualities: force applied, the length of the lever arm connecting the axis to the point of force application, and the angle between the force vector and the lever arm. Hot.
Can you feel it? Deep inside? Burning rubber? Burning sky?
Dripping lube, pounding pistons, four stroke engines, all references so obvious they come on my hand, sweetly stinking up my fingers for the next 400 miles, musking up construction detours and rest stops. Man, I can’t hold it any longer. Let’s stop- I gotta piss.
Pulling down my panties in the busy interstate bathroom stall, I see the cotton crotch panel is winking its oil slick at me. While I sit to pee, I lick up my glisten, waxing my tongue for our next kiss. I wipe, flush, wash, then it’s back in the big block’s bench seat saddle. Pre-cell phones, pre-gps, pre-bucket seats, pre-ejaculate, fiddling with the radio’s knobs hoping to catch some Sabbath.
When night finally falls, I think my brain is misfiring cuz the dotted white lines have turned into bunny rabbits hopping off the asphalt. Time to turn in. With my dragstrip soaked in chemical spills, I’ve crashed and burnt. I’m wearing the shiny off.
Will you leap from your suicide doors for another taste of my battery’s acid? Can you handle a high-mileage chick that fills up, but runs on “E”? High on octane. Too high. Baby, you’ll lose your steering to an axle tramp like me.