Sex, and the Other Sex

There was a car in which I tried to drive today which was having sex with the road, and I was soo jealous, I mean who says a car gets to have four wheels for sex organs which travel at approx 4000 rpm, dodging hundreds of other cars which are also simultaneously having sex with the same woman, and EVERY FOOT OF ROAD IS DIFFERENT? So I call up the registry of motor vehicles and tell them I would like to be transmogrified into a car please and they put me on hold for about 20 minutes during which I have lung sex with the air (breathing is more fun than ANYTHING, you just don't normally notice... try NOT doing it for a little while), having shoelace sex with my shoes, vicariously having sex with a piece of paper by drawing hundreds of little cars and stick figures in a big traffic jam, all with really big tits, butts and dicks, and I get the next operator and she says "now what was your problem?" and I say I'd like to be transmogrified into a car so I can have sex all the way across the USA and she hangs up on me. Government employees are so harried and tight-lipped sometimes. You're not yourself when you're officious. So I go out into the parking lot and find a really nice-looking car, one of those flattish, roundish, fast looking ones with silver chrome, and I put my hands on its sleek flank and I mind-meld with it. "Oh mighty Jaguar, swift hunter of the yellow Volkswagen, how doth your garden grow?"

She purred at me, but being a dumb and innocent beast, did not understand the question. And she tried to seduce me with her angelic smoothness, her hidden power. But I have heard tales of such things, and those who couple with a willing car, especially a sportscar, often end up a grease spot on Route 9 with no head, and so I said "No, baby, you'd wear me out." and I feed her some Exxon (jaguars like tigers, for the most part) and let her go. Vroom.

And I lay there naked on the sidewalk, contemplating all that I had just seen in the heart of that beast, and I found a clue. A patch of green shew itself in the depths of my reverie, and I knew what I had to do.

I leapt over my left shoulder, all the way over oncoming traffic, and landed atop an Emerald Tree, where the whole landscape started running. Running, running by, it was the best I could do to keep up, and soon I found myself sprinting, leaping from car to car to tree to tree, bouncing off telephone wires, and gliding over the flat places using my skin flaps, altogether traveling some fifty or sixty miles an hour, just to keep from getting swallowed up in the devouring left side of the screen. A few hupcaps and a mouthful of carburetor dung later, and I was over, sliding town that freeway of Slack and having sex eternally with a full tank of gas pills. My wish had come true. Amen, and goodnight.

-Daedalus Damocletian QPM

Anyone who thinks I am a prude is barking up the wrong tree. I was talking about PINK sex, back in that old thread long ago. And YES, no sex IS better than Pink sex, and I don't care what you horny bastards say.