He is caressing the road. Inside, there is a breeze without the windows open,
a slippery heat. His hair is slowly venturing down the tense plane of his forehead, gleaming viscerally in the backwash of the headlights. The whole of his body is bent toward two purposes (
it is almost zen), the feet at the pedals, the hand on the gearshift. As a pilot he is taut, almost mechanized, precise and breathing as though he himself were
pushed onward by cylinders, pumping air in and out in measured ecstatic volumes.
Glowing tauntingly, the panel reflects the concentration of his face, all the blinking gadgets auxillary and trivial, the cd player silent, the music of wheels soundtrack aplenty, like
the crossing and uncrossing of legs. He grunts on the
downshift, moans as the
rpm's climb back up, almost too quiet to hear.
The invention that is the two of them in their seats, connected by the
carriage of infinite propulsion, is so
well lubricated that the car's sighs are indistinguishable from their own.
She can feel herself as though she were a new thing every time a corner veers onto their black path. The hands that pretend to rest docile on her thighs are pushing at the hem of her skirt, engrossed in the static of the nylons between skin and goosefleshed skin. Even to her, it is not clear what their motive is. Paying her no attention, he is doing something to her. He is the car and the car is the motion and
you can't fuck speed but still, the thought, sugar cyanide, pirate wind tracing the hidden tops of her stockings,
sky, legs opening up, stars a staring bank of eyes while he and she and the car as catalyst along with the road and the
jetstream contrail climax of
pushing the pedal in explode a purebred mutation of
steam engorged flesh and steel under a streaky fertile moon.
The trick is that there is no climax, only the impossibly extended cresendo,
one smooth solid line of penetration, long as the map, deep as the
fuel resevoir. She surrenders, pushing herself against the seat, flattening her feet against the floor. She is inside and out at once, feels the air moving on the other side of the glass and
the pistons under the hood and arousal unconcerned with the man in the driver's seat.
This is primal science fiction. They don't need each other - they are lost together in the same
chaste act of perversion, making
hit and run love to the sleeping landscape,
leaving their tracks across its thighs.