My handsome, thirty-something lover bought a non-descript, beige Pontiac 6000 four door, mid-size family sedan right off the showroom floor at the local GM dealership when they first came out in late '82
He worked back then in an entry-level executive position for a conservative private corporation and was trying to present a convincing image of straight-appearing, wholesome family man to his boss and co-workers until he had firmly established himself within the upper ranks of the corporate hierarchy.
He was a masculine stud of a man with a confident, deep baritone voice and an ever-present, sexy five o'clock shadow, obliging him to shave twice daily to look decently groomed at times.
He played his role well ... convincingly looking and sounding 100% masculine with his mannerisms and when he spoke.
Remember that this was back in the early eighties.
It was a closeted time for many.
It did weird things to my brain when I thought about his motivation for buying his car and the image he was trying to portray to the public.
I think he thought back then that straight masculinity was an image thing you could either drive or wear, like his favorite sport coats or his grey, well-tailored men's suits ... or hopping in, adjusting his big, hairy package and tooling around in an anonymous, beige, conservative family four door sedan.
All his Pontiac 6000 ever did for me was to underscore the contrast between it and him by being the 180 degree polar opposite to the compellingly handsome and virile man I had come to know intimately and love passionately.
In private, I jokingly nick-named his car "... Howard ... "
"Howard" to me was a middle-aged, married straight man wearing thick bifocals, with a short, whiny wife and three rotten kids.
"Howard" was an accountant with a big mortgage, a small penis and a rapidly thinning, receding hairline.
"Howard" was likely impotent and would have been the type of man to drive a car like what my hot, masculine lover had just purchased.
My man was the opposite of "Howard."
My man could raise the temperature in a room by merely walking into it. Both men and women would pause in mid-conversation to turn their heads and discreetly check him out when he was out in public. I know he pretended to be oblivious to the attention but was secretly hugely amused and proud of the effect he had on envious strangers.
I never called his new car "Howard" in front of him. The man would have been crushed. And the last thing I would have wanted to do was mock or belittle him or intentionally wound his masculine vanity and pride.
I remember we'd been living quietly together for about a year the day he came home and proudly announced he'd just bought his first brand new car. I was in my mid-twenties and he was the hunky, older stud daddy, ten years older than me.
From the beginning of our dating and eventual relationship, I lusted over him and his big, hairy cock, I'll never forget that first time he let me get into his pants and go down on his thick tool. It didn't take long for me to become addicted to that eight inch, butt hole impaling shaft of his.
He clearly knew what he had between his legs and how to turn up the heat ... keeping me fully conscious of him and in a state of constant sexual tension whenever I was close enough to feel his body heat, and he was within groping range of my body.
After three months and after much begging, I convinced him to let me move in with him.
I was then his "Cookie" ... chewy, delicious, highly addictive (... and impossible to say no to after the first nibble, according to him ...). It was his affectionate pet name for me. I liked that he called me that.
The prospect of having his big, hairy dick pumping his seed deep inside me every night and sharing his big, cozy bed, tightly curled up next to him with his arm protectively around me was everything in that first year.
The day he took delivery of his new wheels from the dealership I have this memory of him pulling up to pick me up from work.
He was wearing his favorite tweed sport coat. He had a big, shit-faced grin on his face as he screeched to a head-jerking, sudden stop in front of me. He rubbed his prominent, half-hard bulge, then leaned over to open the passenger side door. He patted the passenger seat beside him, leered lascviously at me and motioned to hop in to that big, comfy, fully reclining, front bench style seat up close and tight beside him.
I didn't hesitate.
He revved the crap out of his brand new car, then floored it and off we went like shit. He always drove the piss out of his cars. It was a manly, boner-inducing testosterone thing for him, I guess.
That pick-up scene with him and me and his new wheels will always be a vivid memory for me.
At the time, I thought to myself, "Well ... maybe, perhaps things were going to work out OK between me and beige "Howard" after all ... "
... and then just a few weeks later ...
He discovered that the first generation of these early 80's General Motors "A" body, mid-size cars had quirky carburetors (before fuel injection was introduced in later models) and correspondingly temperamental and stubborn tendencies when it came to cold starts.
He wasn't mechanically inclined in the least and knew next to nothing about cars or maintenance, even though he liked to pretend he did ... not unlike a lot of guys his age.
Ask him the difference between a driveshaft and a dip stick and you'd likely wind up getting a "... Huh? ..." and a blank look from him.
He figured all you had to ever do was get in, turn the ignition key, stomp down hard on the accelerator and go like fuck.
He was really clueless for such a masculine guy when it came to his own vehicle.
To his shock and consternation during that first bone-chillingly cold Ontario winter, he came to learn that in our frigid Canadian climate if he left his prized baby outside for a couple of hours with a strong, frigid north wind blowing, the damned thing wouldn't start for him no matter how much he pumped his gas pedal and cranked the son of a bitch.
You had to take a pen or screwdriver and stick it down into the carburetor air intake in to open the flap up wide, and then crank the shit out of it for a long time to clear out the flooded gas float chamber. Then it would sputter, stall out, cough, reluctantly turn over and idle roughly for you.
It was usually a two man job ... one guy messing with the carb, leaning in under the hood while bending over in front of the car, while the other guy planted his ass in the driver's seat and pumped and cranked the living, fucking shit out of it.
The poor stud was proud of his first set of new wheels. He was my hairy, masculine, tasty piece of daddy bear, man candy back in those days.
It emasculated him when his prized 6000 wouldn't start for him when he was alone somewhere on his own.
I loved my butch hunk of a man. And I came to eventually accept "... Howard ..."
I understood both of their secrets, intimacies, needs and quirks.
After a few years, his 6000 smelled of him and carried his strong pheromone scent and essence inside. You could feel it when you got into his car. It was his pervasive, intimate, personal man space. His ride was an intense, private sensual and sexual thrill for me when I was alone in it without him knowing.
The driver's seat had worn down over the course of the nine years he drove his ride until it fit the contours of his masculine ass like a well-worn glove. I felt like I was sitting in his hairy, furry, funky pube forest with his muscular legs straddling me when I sat in his driver's seat.
The brown upholstery in his wheels was a velour textured fabric. It gave off the distinctive, faint manly aroma of his male crotch smell and body sweat, mingled with the stale tobacco odor of his cigarettes.
I used to have fun at times going down on his hard tool while he drove like Hell.
He'd recline back fully in his driver's seat and let me unzip his pants to give him head any time I told him I wanted his cock and needed to blow him.
I'd rub my face against the grain of the driver's seat fabric and drive myself crazy, feeling the coarse, rough texture of his trousers. My eager tongue and lips would go down on his musky, male-smelling, hairy, hard shaft, teasing and tasting his pre-cum leaking cock head until he would groan loudly with intense pleasure and shoot a big wad of his thick, white spunk down my throat.
I was convinced that on some days, he would deliberately take the long and roundabout way to get somewhere, just so I would have enough time to service his big dick and suck the last bit of tasty cum from that throbbing tool. Not that I ever complained about it at the time.
He really got off on car sex and road head.
I secretly nicknamed his big cock "... old reliable ... " because it never failed to respond and get rock hard for me, while he slouched down, spread his legs wide, unzipped his pants and drove the fucking, living piss out of his baby.
Too bad his prized Pontiac 6000 sedan turned out to be anything but ...
His temperamental set of wheels sometimes refused to start for him in the winter.
I always got half hard when I was with him in his ride and had to get out and fool with the carb, while he hunched over his steering wheel and muttered and swore in angry frustration ... cranking his car relentlessly and coming close to burning out his starter at times.
He parked his wheels in our apartment building's underground garage where we lived in those days.
At rare times early in the morning before he was getting ready for work ... with him still innocently half asleep and lazily slumbering in bed, I would sneak down into the dark concrete parking garage and pump his gas pedal for the longest time until his choke completely flooded out.
