Wellington Napoleon Dowd - 3. Chapter 3 - The Phaeton or Auto-erotica

A seemingly innate ability accompanied my sudden physical maturity - machines and how they work. It must harken back to the long ago generation that actually built the mills that gave rise to the successful milling business. I don’t know. During that magical summer of concentrated puberty, I craved wheels, a car. Not unusual for most boys, but another bolt out of the blue for me. The power and independence of guys with a car, no matter how dilapidated, rivaled my lust for the school’s top athlete. Somehow, maybe, having a car would empower me, give me the stature I craved, the ability to attract another. Alas, the family finances clearly were not supportive of my interest, yet the drive to drive was upon me.

I confessed my desire to Gardener. An actual emotion seemed to pass over his normally placid face. He led me to the long abandoned carriage house, opening the doors of one of the many bays. There a hulk covered in canvas lurked like a long slumbering beast. He pulled back a corner to reveal a dusty fender. Slowly, the automotive strip tease continued – remember I was a hormonally charged, car crazy youth – until the entire vehicle was exposed. The sensuous lines of the lovingly stored beauty beckoned me.

Most cars seem to be addressed as ‘it’ or ‘she’ when anthropomorphized. This car, with chrome exhausts protruding like veins along the long projecting hood, no doubt concealing a massive engine, definitely had balls.

I caressed the fine metal work leaving traces of my touch in the gathered dust. I diddled the door handle until it opened to me. I entered into the object of my desires. The deep leather seats enveloped me snuggly. My hand sought out the stick shift, gently grasping the knob. I took the key from Gardner. In my excitement, it took several attempts to insert it. It went in to the hilt. Yes, oh yes, at last I know love. I turned the key, my heart and loins filled with anticipation. And duff. Nothing.

Of course, this car had been sitting for how long? Fifty years? What was I thinking? Perhaps, with what was I thinking? After some time for rational thought I saw the car for what he was, a near wreck long neglected. He would require talent and skills far beyond any I ever imagined I could possess to bring him up to his former glory. Still, even lying inert before me, he was beautiful. I learned that he was a Deuesenberg Phaeton touring car once popular with Hollywood’s elite. What a perfect extension of my developing persona and the only car I had any chance of making my own.

That’s where my newfound mechanical ability came in. Over those three months of summer, hocking a fair amount of the family silver to support my lustful habit, I brought my love back to life. I reduced the engine to its basic elements. Oiling, lubricating, rubbing, screwing until once again my love’s insides were whole and ready for me. Ready again for my insertion. This time ecstasy. I felt the low rumble of the powerful object now in my hands, at my command, answering my need. Yes, oh yes.

But, oh no. I still needed to get tires. Not easy for a 1930 automobile. But you can get them, they’re not cheap, but nothing but the best for my own true love. A few more unused ornaments from around the house, a trip to the pawn shop and I was ready, ready to take my beauty through its paces.

Oh, another thing, I needed a drivers license. Again Gardener stepped up, initiating me on his staid sedan. I felt sullied but hoped in my heart that my love would forgive me my unfaithfulness. During the test my skills were exposed for their naiveté. The officer putting me through my paces was kind and forgave my inexperience, guiding me to a satisfactory completion.

Finally, my love and I could be one, driving, driving to that exquisite freeing moment. I opened the carriage house doors, exposing him to the world. Sun glanced off a headlamp, a sultry wink. The deep purple of the body paint gleamed, seductively intense and shameless. The broad white-walled tires like a hustler’s gaudy kicks. I mounted him, coaxing him again to full arousal with my touch. I clutched the upright stick, my palms moist with desire and eased it into place.

We grated against each other at our first joining, seeking that intuitive oneness displayed by long term lovers and porn stars. He cared nothing for my feelings, demanding that I accede to him. Many times, we had to disengage to start again, until finally I approached the level of skill need to meet his needs and in doing so meet my own. Yet he was patient, allowing me to try again and again. His stamina was beyond my own, I ended our initial couplings exhausted, he ever ready for more. I abandoned my efforts for two days and nights, sobbing with frustration, furious at my inability. And then, much like adolescence itself, in moments of quiet, it all came together. From the first slipping in of the clutch, manipulating the stick through the gears, releasing my lover’s power, I had mastered the operation of the automobile and began my life with wheels.

Many cars are affectionately named by their owners, few were so deserving of recognizing their personality as my Deusenburg Phaeton. What name could do him sufficient honor. I knew, as already mentioned that he was obviously, excessively male. No Betsy or Lulubelle he. His unique reinCARnation would have to be revealed. Power, glamour, insouciant savoir faire from a long ago time yet undeniably timeless. Boghart? No, a fine actor, definitely masculine, but rough around the edges. Fairbanks? Getting closer, yet despite amazing athleticism, he lacks a certain raw power. Ahhhh, Gable. Yes, the smoldering, broad shouldered Clark Gable. Nothing effeminate there, attracting men and women alike. Even in a crowd he stood alone, above, apart. From this moment on, He would be Clark Gable.