Drive Safe

First off, there is still more to the previous caught story, much more. I have been making a conscious, and at times subconscious, effort to change the style and diction of the blog. Instead of a ranting rave, I’ve gone for a more thorough, carefully constructed, and spell checked prose. I recently came to the realization that I need to find a balance between the two, on occasion. Now is that occasion. Enjoy.
Secondly, if any employer, parent, or anyone of relative significance is reading this: I have absolutely no connection to Michael, whatsoever.
Thricely, lets digress. It occurred to me close to a week ago, while taking down the brunch order for the Allston Girl Scouts Troop 419, that I have never received road-head. Furthermore, I realized that the likely hood of this actually happening seems impossible at this juncture in my life. Not only had the ship that represented road-head sailed, but it was sinking, if not sunk. Thought it wasn’t impossible in the sense that Lady wouldn’t fellate me on the freeway, but impossible that I could convince someone to let me borrow their car, get my drivers license, or actually purchase a car. Though the constant focus on oral elation helped me nail the brunch order, it haunted me for the rest of the week. Was I destined to become the guy that never got road head? And if I actually got road head, could I perform? (See post entitled 'Felatio-uh-oh' if you don't follow me here. If you read it and still don't follow and your name doesn’t rhyme with Varco Valfieri, kill yourself)
After an aggressive period of self loathing, I realized that with most my sexual encounters, I'm far from a lone wolf. Though unbeknownst to the general population, wet dreams, erectile dysfunction, and brief stints of homosexuality are plaguing America's collegiate males. I think.
The only thing that helped to inoculate this sexual inclination was the following week. Same scenario. Slightly different. Whilst taking the lunch order for a Brighton’s Boy Scouts Troop 167, I realized that I have never had a threesome either. It’s amazing what we can learn from children.
So there I was: bow-tied, sweating, aware of my lack of sexual conquest, balancing three half-orders of chicken parm. I felt like a less artistic, more depressed moment from Picasso's Blue Period. I double majored in art history, ya dig?
Being proactive, I made sure not to dwell on this further inefficiency. Instead, I tried to create a hybrid train of thought to combine the problems: I have never double teamed a girl while driving. I mean who has? It seems normal to be a virgin in this situation, right? The sweat broke, the loathing left, and my energy levels perked.
The single lesson that I've lived and learned to the fullest since graduation is that with each ebb there is a flow, and for each flow an ebb. Being fairly confident that the self-fulfillment of sexual sincerity was a flow of good karma, I kept vigil waiting for the requisite ebb. The sweat returned.
I was closing the restaurant the night it happened. The night the ebb came. In psychology they call it a break through, for me it was a break down. I was in the kitchen on "cholo" duty doing my best not to get stabbed, posting up next to the industrial sized mixing pots, when approached by my co-"worker".

"Yo homes, think you can hand me that?"
"Hand..."
"Ya homes, hand me that pot, yo."
"Hand…?"
"Yo ese, are you retard or something? Hand me that pot, yo!"
"Haaaand!"
"..."

A symbolic rock of stryc-9 slipped off my spinal column, triggering a near out of body flash back. Summer. Nantucket. Intoxicated. Confused. Driving. Aroused. Kyle passed out in the backseat of his own two-door Blazer; most likely about to wet himself, but blissfully ignorant that I have deemed myself most qualified to drive us home. A young lady cognizant in the front seat. Cute? Maybe. For the sake of legality, we'll assume 18 years of old, but at the very least capable of reading at a college level. A forth companion sits in the middle of the backseat. He appears more aware, less drunk, and probably more apt to be driving, but his lack of assertiveness has landed him yonder. And of course, the cancer of the carpool, Hayden sits directly behind me. My hand is gripping the wheel with amazing resolved. The combination of loose steering, disconcerting palm sweat, and a cool buzz, we race in whatever direction Hayden commands. The only things more frantic then our onboard navigator are my middle and ring finger as they work furiously at the loins of my shotgun companion. My handling worsens as she manually reciprocates the effort. Hayden quiets. Kyle wets. The fourth, who now annoys me, is wide-eyed and pale, obviously aware of the situation in the front seat. The sound of friction on dry skin soon drowns out the static classic rock that escapes the speakers until I climax, applying my amateur armorall to the steering wheel. Bringing the car to a halt in some dark and unremarkable parking lot, the mutual masturbation in the front seat culminates, yet the same sound continues. The unknown quiet companion nearly hurdles the young lady, who I now believe to be my girlfriend, escaping through the open window. The abrasive soundtrack continues. Slowly rotating 180 degrees, the sound stops, the music returns, as well as a gush of enthusiasm from our navigator all over the back of my seat.

Double road-hand: the pseudo equivalent of road head and a threesome. I had done it, well, technically. Two birds with one stone. Take it from me; the only thing better than killing birds is saving rocks!


Elbows up, side-to-side,
Gotty