It may be a result of growing up in L.A., but somewhere around age six I figured out that the whole Happily-Ever-After/Ride-Off-Into-The-Sunset bit was a crapshoot. Complete and utter. It’s not just the fact that there is no royalty in L.A., or that people no longer gallop around on horses, but that after the “ride into the sunset” there are mortgages, kids, mid-life crisis’ and then the indefinite possibility of the Big D.
So I decided to take a different approach to my dating life, and ride as many men into the sunset as I possibly can before I take that quintessential Fairy Tale ride with my Prince Charming. I realize this may tarnish my Fresh-as-a-Daisy Damsel image, but let’s face it most modern day Romeo’s have had their share of more than one Juliet. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a chick, I still dream of a Happy Ending, I’m just gonna have multiple Happy Endings along the way to the ultimate one. I mean when I use to play Barbie I didn’t act out her wedding with Ken, I acted out the Honeymoon. Then I’d act it out with G.I. Joe, He-Man and sometimes even Optimus Prime, fuck it, why not?
This is the story of #24 in my campaign to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.” Yes, I just quoted Big & Rich, and yes, I’m sorry. #24 is The Mechanic, and to date one of my all-time favorites.
I set my sights on Mechanic about a year and a half ago when some jackass backed into my ’66 Mustang. Mechanic rebuilds classic cars, so I was referred to his business. Seeing as Mechanics aren’t normally hot (unless they’re starring in Explosive Anal Penetration Part 7) I showed up fresh out of the gym and looking like complete Butt. He’s not the hottest, tallest or beefiest guy out there, but he oozed sex appeal more than the motor oil he was covered in. His blue/green eyes made me soil my underwear on the spot. He flirted, I flirted, and we… flirted. He may not have made my heart pitter-patter, but he certainly made another part of me pitter-patter.
You better believe when I came back I looked like I just walked off a modeling shoot. I thought for sure my digits would be in his phone and a date would be in the bag by the time I started up my car to leave. Nope. Nada. He sent me on my way with nothing but a smokin’ hot “I want to fuck you” smile. Okay. Roger that. No date. This was not going to be “The One,” but that didn’t mean we couldn’t have some fun. Yes, I did rhythm that.
CUT TO six months later, while borrowing my dad’s car I peel out of my garage going roughly 90 mph’s because I am once again inappropriately late for work. I rip the side mirror off. Call up Hot Mechanic. Boom. I’m standing next to him the very next day. Again, flirting, tension, lingering, and, drumroll please, a HUG but THAT’S IT! All I get. I thought I sent out the perfect mixture of I’m-into-you, but don’t-want-anything-serious vibes. From our first encounter, I had already eagle-eyed his ring finger, confirmed it was bare and had no tan line. Score. I chalked him up to being shy. I could learn to be a patient grasshopper.
Patient I was, when one year later, I’m finally back baby. I rammed my car up the asses of two others because I’m a lifelong Los Angeles commuter and had blacked out from severe road rage. This time, Mechanic wasn’t getting away. I could have given up, but what fun would that be?
He fixes my car, tells me to come pick it up at closing time. Time to close the deal is all I’m thinking about. This is a job for the black boot/mini skirt combo; I am coming from work after all. Of course, I ditch the hose and panties before I get there. I show up practically out of breath and ready to feed. He locks up the shop and then tells me he wants to show me a Camaro he’s rebuilding, which is locked up in one of the garage’s way in the back of the shop. As I’m admiring his custom paint job, slightly bent over, but not begging for it (at least not yet) he grabs me, spins me around, pulls my hair and starts wildly making out with me. Boo-ya! Finally, success. This shit is porn hot. In fact, I’ve seen a couple that start just like this. “No panties” gets ‘em every time. One condom later, (they’re not just for men’s wallets, ladies) he’s throwin’ me up against the car (relax, it’s his), then the wall, and garage. It’s dirty, nasty, sweaty and… fucking awesome! I’m in nothing but knee-high black boots, which at certain points are more like earrings. It’s 6:30pm on a Wednesday and I’m getting railed up against a beautiful car, by a beautiful man and all I can think is fuck the horse and fuck the sunset.
The Moral of THIS story: While waiting for Mr. Right, might as well fuck the shit out of Mr. Right Now. Also, patience grasshopper… patience.