Sex & Cars

Riding in Cars with Men I Don’t Know

1999 Toyota Corolla

I started riding in cars with men I didn’t know when I was young — too young. First, I met boys “through friends” and sat in the back of their car for painfully awkward conversation. I was shy and homely. Gangly, too thin and hyper-aware of all of it. I sat in the backs of cars with boys I didn’t know and let them kiss me. I kissed them back. I once kissed a boy whose teeth were sharp and whose propensity for biting wound up slicing my tongue. To save him from embarrassment, I lied and said I needed to use the restroom where I held my tongue between a wad of paper towels for five minutes until the bleeding stopped.

I went on dates with boys who promised a dinner date but we would inevitably end up sitting in the back of their car instead, while they tried to warm me up to get some action. Sometimes I even said “no” but they kissed or touched me anyway. “I know you want to,” one once told me. He didn’t. Naivety and falling for false promises is my Achilles heel. But I kept coming back for more — like I enjoyed the punishment.

Many times, I sat in the back of cars with my girl friend. Shoulder to shoulder, we giggled conspiratorially, delighted to be sitting behind our boyfriends and proud we were dating boys who were old enough to drive us around. For a long time, my friend was dating while I wasn’t. Her boyfriend would occasionally talk one of his reluctant friends into putting up with me for a few hours. We would lean against the bumper in silence, trying to pretend my friend and her boyfriend weren’t having sex in the car behind us. We had the same awkward feeling in common but never much else.

When I was in my first real relationship, I graduated to the front passenger seat. A place, while not in control, I at least could share some semblance of equality. It was a place to sit and be seen. Sometimes I was in charge of the music but often we would just talk instead. The passenger seat was a place where I was wanted and valued. We went places together, rarely sitting idly in the car. We had things we wanted to do and the car was just a way of doing them.

When my boyfriend and I broke up, I cried in my car, blasting Dashboard Confessional and sob-scream-singing to my windshield. With a job, driver’s license and car at my disposal, I finally sat in the driver’s seat and the only boys who came in my car were the ones I wanted to. Behind the wheel, I was in control. I often rode alone, windows down, playing whatever music I wanted. Sometimes men followed my car with their own, shouting from their windows at me, or worse, silently following while I drove in circles, not wanting to lead them to my house.

Away at college, I developed a crush. The serious sort where I was aware he was out of my league but still couldn’t help myself. I thought I had a chance and he was happy to have me go on believing so. He took me to a play. A play, I thought, so cultured, so cool. Twenty minutes in, he leaned over. “Let’s go,” he said. “I’m bored.” I didn’t want to leave but I didn’t want to put up a fuss and be Difficult. We got in his car and he drove around the corner, to a secluded spot. He demanded a hand job. Later, he dropped me off and never asked me out again.

I met men on the internet. We didn’t know or talk about the dangers of the internet back then. Or maybe we did and I was just stupid. I was lonely in a new city where I didn’t know anyone. I met many different men and almost all of them were very nice. Courteous. Polite. Interesting to talk to. It’s ironic that people I met on the internet ended up being nicer than people I met naturally. They were the kind of people I probably wouldn’t have connected with during my everyday interactions but I was glad that the internet had made our paths cross. Sometimes we would drive on our own and meet somewhere but occasionally, I’d pick them up or vice versa. For once, I didn’t feel pressured to do anything I didn’t want to.

A car could be a sacred space, a place of freedom. A car could be a cage, a prison of my own making. A car was often my tool for escape — to move, to leave, but sometimes it was a place I was frozen, indecisive and afraid. A car was sometimes a place for sex and sometimes even love. My car was a place for my tears — a glass and metal box that left me feeling hidden while at once completely exposed. My car was place to feel powerful and in control but also a place to feel weak and vulnerable.

I tried to use cars to find myself and then, later, to run away from myself. Today, when I’m in a car, it’s often with my husband and children. I’m usually busy, going here or there and thinking very little about cars or my experiences inside of them. I don’t take long drives to nowhere. I don’t often get that feeling of carefree elation I used to when I would drive windows down, music blaring. Today, I feel security and comfort, surrounded by people I love. These car-related memories hold little power over me. It’s only when I look in my rear view mirror and catch sight of my daughter — young, strong, innocent — that I occasionally think of these things.

In many ways, I am fortunate that worse things didn’t happen to me. I put myself in many dangerous and compromising positions in cars with men. Maybe I was the kind of girl that people say are “asking for it”. Even still, I want cars to be safer places for us, especially for our girls. I want them to feel whole enough that they don’t need to search for themselves in cars… or boys. When I look at my daughter in the rear view mirror, I think about how I want her to find herself, to truly know herself and her value whether its in a car or in spite of one. I feel my responsibility to her weighing on me heavily. I wonder, worry and wish. I roll down the windows, turn up the music and let the wind carry our singing voices away.

This piece was written as part of a Sex & Cars writing collaboration, headed by the indomitable Ernio Hernandez. I thank him for inviting me to partake on this writing adventure.