I invented parking.
I mean, didn’t we all?
1995. May. Small, blue Mazda 323. Moniker: The Smurf. Location: The parking lot outside of my mom’s small apartment building. Not the nicest location, but not mine for much longer, luckily. Characters: Me and my boyfriend, the one who I thought was “the one,” before Mark.
It’s the best option available to us. Why do we park right in front of my building? I just don’t know.
Kissing. Kissing his neck, his mouth. Touching his hair, his neck, his chest. Heart pounding, breath speeding. Suddenly it dawns on me. I can touch his cock if I want to.
I want to.
It’s okay; he’s certainly not going to stop me. I do. Wow. It’s amazing, the feeling of doing it — touching his cock. It feels good, exciting, empowering. I’ve never felt anything like this.
Later, a neighbor friend of my mom’s tattles on us. Fuck. Really? Was she never a teenager? I would never do that. (Please, let me never be that way.) Do I feel embarrassed? Ashamed? Not really. I feel angry. Really fucking angry. I don’t quite know it yet, and if I did I would not admit it.
Fast forward almost 20 years. Mark and I are out on a date. We’re driving home from dinner and he starts touching me. Yes, while driving. First my thigh, then my pussy. I like it, but it’s strange. It makes me uncomfortable. I cannot relax, could not possibly come. Pedestrians, drivers next to us at lights burn at the edge of my consciousness, almost getting in. No. I do not want them in. Flat out no.
Mark drives past home, to the college campus near our house. Parks. Perfect scenario, right? No. It’s just wrong somehow. Wrong place, wrong guy, wrong car, wrong me. I don’t even feel tempted to touch his cock. After a little while, we head home. For better or worse, home is much hotter.