John Blackmer wrote:

There was a car in which I tried to drive today which was having sex
with the road, and I was soo jealous, I mean who says a car gets to
have four wheels for sex organs which travel at approx 4000 rpm,
dodging hundreds of other cars which are also simultaneously having
sex with the same woman, and EVERY FOOT OF ROAD IS DIFFERENT? So I
call up the registry of motor vehicles and tell them I would like to
be transmogrified into a car please and they put me on hold for about
20 minutes during which I have lung sex with the air (breathing is
more fun than ANYTHING, you just don't normally notice... try NOT
doing it for a little while), having shoelace sex with my shoes,
vicariously having sex with a piece of paper by drawing hundreds of
little cars and stick figures in a big traffic jam, all with really
big tits, butts and dicks, and I get the next operator and she says
"now what was your problem?" and I say I'd like to be transmogrified
into a car so I can have sex all the way across the USA and she hangs
up on me. Government employees are so harried and tight-lipped
sometimes. You're not yourself when you're officious. So I go out into
the parking lot and find a really nice-looking car, one of those
flattish, roundish, fast looking ones with silver chrome, and I put
my hands on its sleek flank and I mind-meld with it. "Oh mighty
Jaguar, swift hunter of the yellow Volkswagen, how doth your garden

She purred at me, but being a dumb and innocent beast, did not
understand the question. And she tried to seduce me with her angelic
smoothness, her hidden power. But I have heard tales of such things,
and those who couple with a willing car, especially a sportscar, often
end up a grease spot on Route 9 with no head, and so I said "No, baby,
you'd wear me out." and I feed her some Exxon (jaguars like tigers,
for the most part) and let her go. Vroom.

And I lay there naked on the sidewalk, contemplating all that I
had just seen in the heart of that beast, and I found a clue. A patch
of green shew itself in the depths of my reverie, and I knew what I
had to do.

I leapt over my left shoulder, all the way over oncoming traffic,
and landed atop an Emerald Tree, where the whole landscape started
running. Running, running by, it was the best I could do to keep up,
and soon I found myself sprinting, leaping from car to car to tree to
tree, bouncing off telephone wires, and gliding over the flat places
using my skin flaps, altogether traveling some fifty or sixty miles an
hour, just to keep from getting swallowed up in the devouring left
side of the screen. A few hupcaps and a mouthful of carburetor dung
later, and I was over, sliding town that freeway of Slack and having
sex eternally with a full tank of gas pills. My wish had come true.

Amen, and goodnight.

-Daedalus Damocletian QPM

Anyone who thinks I am a prude is barking up the wrong tree. I was
talking about PINK sex, back in that old thread long ago. And YES, no
sex IS better than Pink sex, and I don't care what you horny bastards

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