After many emails back and forth, several long phone calls, and uncountable texts, I finally met Race Cars.
The more I “got to know” RC, the more I liked him. He was silly, ridiculous, and cute, and seemed to dig me. Also, once I accidentally was at his place of employment and saw him. Tall! Cute!
Plans would never work out. I’d be too busy, he’d be too busy. He bailed on plans twice, but reassured me that he was interested. He seemed to always only be available at ungodly hours of the night on the weekends.
I knew that I would be away a lot, and I didn’t want to wait until the end of June to meet him. I decided to propose something ridiculous.
Was it a trap? Was he really always busy? Was 3:30am really the only time he was free? These are questions better left for scholars to answer.
I suggested that we meet at an ungodly hour of the night, that we’d go somewhere and hangout in a lame and chaste way. He asked if we could make out. I said sure, as long as we both wanted to.
He picked me up outside my building. I was nervous, he was nervous. There was very little eye contact, but that’s probably best since he was driving. We chatted a bit, talking about our day. Upon reflection, it was mostly me stammering nervously as I admired the thickness of his arms and hands as he gripped the steering wheel.
We drove around for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I asked him where we were going, and he said “There’s this place I want to show you. It’s like Harry Potter. It’s like Ravencourt.”
The city disappeared, and we ended up on a dark winding road flanked by tall arching trees. It was raining lightly and the clouds blocked out the moonlight. “There are a lot of trees,” I said. “Yup,” he answered. “Oh, it’s just like the country,” I stammered nervously, panic starting to swell in my throat. “Yup, isn’t it great?” he answered. He stopped the car and backed into a hidden approach. He turned the car off, and then scrambled to turn off the clock light.
I asked him if he was going to murder me. He said that he was, and asked if that was inconvenient, if I had a lot to do the next day. This was followed by several minutes of very awkward conversation, with him trying to ask me if I wanted to make out and me desperately rambling about anything not relating to making out while tugging my dress closer to my knees. This wasn’t because I didn’t want to make out. Make no mistake, I wanted him badly.
Frustrated, he asked “Should I drive you home?” and I said “No… I want to be here.” We turned to each other, made eye contact. I continued, “I’m just shy and you make me nervous.”
“Well, then,” he said, “I guess I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands.” He pushed the button on his seat belt and it whooshed over his body and clinked into place loudly. “I guess I will prepare, too,” I said as I undid my own belt and placed my purse on the floor. We turned to each other once again.
He lunged at me then, chuckling to himself, kissing me like it was a race, and grabbing at me greedily.
I was on the defense, pushing his hands away from my bra, trying to slide them towards my knees when he tried reaching further. I kissed him once for every three times he kissed me. We clearly had different make-out agendas. I wanted a patient stallion, but I was getting more of a wild bronco. Luckily, it wasn’t my first rodeo. I think that he thought he was passionately seducing me - it was like he learned what he knew from a bad porno.
We moved to the backseat, and made out for a while. It wasn’t particularly good, but it was fun and not totally bad. It was the back seat of a car that didn’t have automatic windows, pitch black outside, raining, and in the forest. I was caught up in the moment! It felt like how high school should have been.
When the sun started to rise he suddenly decided that he had to leave (he said he worked at 8am. It was 5:30) and drove me home.
When I got home I realized that the casualties of the tryst were my dignity and an earring.
