pickup truck
by Lore Prior
One of my knees was on top of his cup-holder, and the other was pressed against the back seat. My breath was still coming out in shallow gasps, and I could see his face looming in the darkened car. The windows were tinted, but did nothing to ease my paranoia at the idea of sex in the middle of a mall parking lot. He unzipped my jeans, and I flopped awkwardly out of them like a goldfish on a kitchen counter. He was wearing sweatpants, so he had less trouble, but his motions gave me the sense that it was a familiar process.
The first time we fucked my face was squashed between a seatbelt buckle and the right-side door. It started out clumsy and uncomfortable, like trying to swing dance in a dumbwaiter. His shoulder kept knocking against the headrest, and I was terrified that my nose was somehow going to force up the door handle and send me tumbling pantless from the truck. But after the front seats were reclined up near the windshield and the back of my head was propped up against a pile of his sweatshirts, we found the rhythm. It was like kick drums and base guitar, fierce and steady and aggressive, and after a minute I forgot about the car rocking and the parking lot shoppers and got lost in the spiral.
When it was over we were human again. Sweaty, flushed, and sprawled out at odd angles on the back seat, we caught our breath. I realized I was still wearing my work shirt and name-tag. He reached around me for his pack of Camels, pulled out two, and cracked the rear window. He lit my cigarette first. For the next five minutes we leaned on each other, blowing smoke out the back and not speaking. Then he leaned over to pick his boxer briefs off the floor, and pulled them on. He tossed his smoked butt out the window, making sure it didn't land on the tarp covering the truck bed, and then he looked at me with a little half-smile and said it.
“I may be quiet, but I love makin' love.”
The words were punctuated by a slight Long Island twang, the kind of accent that comes from being in the same place for a really long time, and I was reminded of used car salesmen and Dads at peewee football games.
“Me too."
I couldn't think of anything else to say. I was as inarticulate in the sack as I was in normal conversation. Some people just communicate with their bodies fucking better than they do with their lips talking.
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Author's Note
I don't like having sex in cars.
You communicate quite well with your writing. It flows smoothly with a nice rhythm, "like kick drums and base guitar, fierce and steady and aggressive." I like it.
Liked this, and really liked the last paragraph.
Ha I like this. I wrote a piece about doing the low down & dirty in a limo, so I know exactly where you're coming from in this. Not that I could ever afford a limo.
Great last line and I love it that he's caring enough to light her cigarette first.
"It started out clumsy and uncomfortable, like trying to swing dance in a dumbwaiter."
and:
"He unzipped my jeans, and I flopped awkwardly out of them like a goldfish on a kitchen counter."
Nice uses of metaphor to describe this unnatural --as it turns out-- act!
I like it that she is a mall worker, a rebel of capitalism. I imagined them as coworkers.
I had just been thinking of car sex, of stories about it, of parking in a dairy company parking lot with a Rastafarian, milk trucks pulling in and out around us as we lay, semi-reclined, on whiskey.
Of Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven who must of have discovered car sex, a Dadaist from Switzerland, in America, in Greenwich Village for the first and last time.
Fave.
I really like the voice of this piece. The rhythm of your prose, the imagery -- all so good.
Like this, especially the line, "I forgot about the car rocking and the parking lot shoppers..."