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The Sex Machine

Michael Fitzgerald

    When it first arrived it seemed marvelous; we all fit in, my family had mobility, freedom. But soon perspective drifted into reality, and I realized the 1960 Rambler station wagon was not a cool car.
    We got the car when I was eight years from driving, so it seemed innocuous that I would ever drive this mediocre machine. But as fate would have it, my Dad moved on to a Fury Super Sport and left the Rambler for me.
    I remember in high school asking girls out.
    “You have a car?” they would ask.
    “Sure do”, I would reply never revealing the make of the car.
    To their surprise, but not necessarily delight, I would pull up in my battleship gray Rambler station wagon. To my relief not one girl ever badmouthed the car.
    We were young and horny teenagers and any kind of car was a banner of freedom. We were not attending art openings, fashion shows, and movie premeirs; we were going to the drive-in, sometimes we even watched the movies.
    I had my first real girlfriend the summer of my junior year. Before that I fumbled around with several girls, who I had gotten to second base with and occasionally third. Girls who in the heat of teenage passion would whisper in my ear, “I only do this with you” as there hand slipped into my jeans.
    With Patty it was different. We had built a semblance of trust, but we were still young and horny teenagers. The drive-in was a place where we were free to explore our passion and explore we did.
    In the beginning, we doubled with another couple; the other couple sitting in the back. The movie would begin and moments later the other couple would disappear into the back seat and the ambience of heavy breathing. The car windows would densely fog up, leaving Patty and I to our own devices. We had never gone all the way, but third base was a constant way station.
    Patty delighted in sneaky sex. With a couple in the back, we had to be discrete. She would guide my willing hand under her skirt. My fingers feeling the moistness of her panties, finding my way into her sex. She would tell me she loved me, as I furthered my probe, instructing me in finding her G-spot.
    “G-spot”, I thought, “What the hell is that?”
    “Is this normal?”
    But I did as I was told to astounding results. Patty became unhinged as a result, moaning in climax without any restraint, forgetting any pretense of discretion, startling the couple in the back.
     I often wondered why Patty didn’t seem to need the privacy other teenagers sought. In asking her reply “What other people think is none of my business.”
    When word got out it was hard to find a couple to double date. But for Patty locating her spot was the important thing. We talked about actually watching the movies we went to see. We sincerely tried, but usually hormones won out. I regret not seeing the end of Dr. Zhivago. Patty decided to go a step further during this classic. The Rambler front seat collapsed into a bed and during the climax of the Russian epic, Patty and I ventured toward home plate.
    Under the camouflage of the fogged windows, I lay on my back as Patty rode me. I could feel the intensity building within me and then suddenly out of control my leg flew up and my foot got stuck in the steering wheel horn. The horn blared and Patty kept riding and moaning. I tried desperately to free my foot. The flagrant horn attracted attention as people started approaching the Rambler. An ever-increasing group were gathering and trying to peer in through the thick condensation; yelling from outside the car for us to quiet our horn.
    “Patty stop!” I said.
    “There’s people looking” as she broke out of her satiated state then coming to suddenly.
    “What the fuck? Who are these people?” she queried to my amazement.
    The horn still blaring, she wrenched my foot free. I lay there wanting to disappear when I heard a guy say, “Wow, that front seat drops into a double bed man. That’s cool as shit. A sex machine.”
    Some thirty years later, I lay in bed downed by the flu daydreaming of Patty and her tenacious curiosity about everything. She was on a fearsome journey to find out who she was. I was a shy teenager, who followed and later got in touch with my own fearsomeness. I thought of calling her to thank her when an old friend told me she had passed. Supposedly surviving an accident where her brakes failed and she emerged from the car without a scratch was taken to the hospital and released the next day. She went to bed that night and was found dead, lying peacefully with a smile on her face.
    I sat quietly for several bittersweet moments thinking of Patty then I smiled.

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