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Frustrations of Dating, or "How That Footprint Got In My Back Window, Officer"

WARNING: Following contents include discussion of Ursula's sex life. Parties related to either me or the object of my affections may either want to A) sit this one out for your own peace of mind, or B) prepare to laugh your asses off. Parties who would like to make eye contact with me the next time we meet may also wish to sit this one out.

So the problem Kevin and I have been having is mostly one of custody schedules. He now has his kids every other week, which is more convenient scheduling for him in many regards, but does have the unfortunate downside of meaning that I'm not spending the night, as we haven't quite gotten to the overnight-visitors-stage, with all attendant awkward discussions and repercussions. (We're getting there, but there's an acclimatization process...)

(My mother tried to explain this to me once, and I didn't listen. When you fall in love as a teenager, you spend the whole time trying to sneak around your parents. When you fall in love as an adult, you do the exact same damn thing, except you're trying to sneak around your kids. Mom, if you didn't turn back at the warning note, you were so very very right.)

O, Irony.

So last night, the kids were going out to dinner with their mom, and we had a window of opportunity to get together and spend some "quality time," as t'were, then have a leisurely dinner, maybe watch a little Dr. Who...perfect geek evening. And indeed, that's how it started. We fall into each other's arms, have a little impassioned snuggling, utter a few endearments that in the interests of not gagging the readership, I will not repeat here, and just as things are startin' to move from a simmer to a rolling boil ifyouknowwhatImean ...the phone rings.

"Oh god no," says Kevin, recognizing that particular ringtone assigned to his ex-wife (a particularly grim heavy-metal riff) and picks up.

The conversation was easy to follow, as he repeated nearly everything in the dazed tones of a man who's primary bloodflow is not currently in the vicinity of his ears.

"They only wanted Subway? You're where? They didn't want to go back to your house? Five minutes?"

I have not been cock-blocked so effectively since Diablo 1 came out.*

He hung up. We looked at each other, snarled "SONOFABITCH!" simultaneously, and got redressed, which by that point really only consisted of putting my shoes back on and making some minor adjustments to my cleavage.

We looked at each other. We looked away. We went down to grimly prepare dinner, attempting to stay armslength apart, to avoid spontaneous combustion. We spoke in low growls, like a couple of wolverines who'd been chased away from a tasty tasty elk carcass. I sought solace in a cup of tea.




"Don't. Tempt. Me."

But the evening was pleasant, and dinner was good, and pre-recorded Dr. Who makes everything better, even if it was one of those wallowing-in-masochism two-parters. We engaged in a little chaste snuggling, I learned still more about Pokemon,*** courtesy of his kids, and long about nine, they were in bed, and long about ten, dead to the world and we began plotting.


"Hmmm...." The problem here is two-fold--you hate to have a small child awaken in the night, blithely open the closed door to Daddy's bedroom, and wind up with an eyeful they'll be telling a therapist about years later and their mom about next week. Also--how to put this delicately--while I am not loud, per se, the people in adjoining apartments definitely all know when Kevin is spending the night. (And his name. And that I was raised Catholic, unless Protestants also yell "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" at key intervals.) I mean, there are ways around that, but...

Also, we might both fall asleep afterwards, and there are some discussions you don't want to have with your kids at six AM when they have decided it's time to get up, and "Why Miss Ursula is in the bed, stark naked, snoring like a drunken wildebeest," is definitely near the top of the list.

There was, however, an alternate solution. Sort of.

"We can try the backseat of my car..." I said.

Let me tell you now, O Best Beloved, that they do not make car backseats the way they did when I was seventeen. Possibly Nissan never made them that way, I don't know. Possibly Detroit is the undisputed king of backseat technology. Possibly I am neither as slim nor as limber as I was back then, either. Regardless, even two very horny people who are five minutes and a good excuse from just screwing like bunnies on the lawn, and neighbors be damned,**** might find the Altima's backseat a little cramped.

Still, we tried. I have a new appreciation for those poor bastards who had sex in the CAT scan machine for scientific purposes. I'd read they were former acrobats. You'd almost have to be. Mind you, they probably didn't have to deal with a sex-crazed seatbelt trying to cop a feel, either. I found myself longing for my grandmother's old car, an LTD Crown Victoria that was basically a couch on wheels. You could have had an orgy in the backseat of that monster, full-on Caligula-style with equipment and horses and half the Senate, and still had room for live music to accompany it.

The end experience was not entirely satisfactory, but at least it was funny as hell, and I can safely say that my shocks are in excellent condition. We eventually threw in the towel and got re-dressed. Kevin leaned on the back of the car while I attempted to get my fingers through the sweaty birdsnest of my hair. "You must love me," he said dryly. "How many other women would put up with this?"

"I think my underwear's on backwards!" I said brightly, thereby demonstrating exactly what Kevin is putting up with in return for me putting up with him.

Not entirely satisfied, but thoroughly exhausted, and still snickering at random intervals, we took our leave of one another. It took about five minutes before I got the car windows unfogged, but that's another matter.

No deer jumped out on me on the way home. I'll take what victories I can.

*...that's another story.

**Just in case some of my readers never heard this one, there's a longstanding urban legend that the army puts saltpeter in the coffee to dampen libido.

***It's actually a little disturbing how much of it I retain from watching the cartoon, which came on years ago, right about the time I would get home from work. Jigglypuff is still my favorite.

****Had it not been pouring rain, and a bumper tick-season this year...

the boy and i tried the car thing. we made it through, but it was definitely not as sexy as it's made out to be.

and, weirdly enough, it was the backseat of a nissan sentra. hmmm, if it weren't for gas, reasons to get an suv ...


I have a small scar from rug burn from folding down the backseat in my old Sundance, so we'd have enough room in the trunk/backseat for such things.

The things you do when you're sexual frustrated & have no private space to manage it...

Friend of mine conceived her first child in an MG Midget...

No, I am not the childs sire.

Just, yanno, an MG Midget...


sorry. shouldn't be bringing such things to your most entertaining and educational discourse here.

Edited at 2008-07-10 03:27 pm (UTC)

Whereas I'd be prepared to try in the back of my MG, it's an MG ZT. A much bigger beast.

A Midget? Good grief.

Frantic car-sex is one of those things that's been ingrained in our culture since (at least) the days of the Bel Air, but I'm not sure Japanese car makers have the same cultural context -- they don't understand the necessity of certain accommodations. For instance, the 1990 Toyota Camry four-door had excellent trunk space and great legroom, but the layout of the backseat was hopelessly unsuited for anything other than sitting upright.

Makes me wonder how Japanese teenagers handle the problem of illicit sex, and whether they'd find inadequacies in something of American manufacture because we never thought of having sex in it.

Love hotels.

seriously, you don't have to be 18 in Japan to get a hotel room for a couple hours.

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
Try dropping the front passenger seat all the way down and back. If it worked in a 1984 Toyota Corolla....

Seconded. Also a Toyota, although of somewhat later vintage and uncertain lineage.

Jigglypuff is my favorite toooooooo!

Ooh! Ooh! Did you see the one where they had the giant obsidian Jigglypuff that sang bass?

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
Was it you who did the pushin',
Put the stains upon the cushion,
Footprints on the dashboard upside down?
Was it your sly woodpecker
That got into my girl Rebecca?
If it was, you better leave this town.

It was I who did the pushin',
Put the stains upon the cushion,
Footprints on the dashboard upside down.
But since I got into your daughter,
I've had trouble passing water,
Now I guess we're even all around.

- from Humoreque for Passengers

You Win teh Internetz!

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
Heh that reminds me of my liason in the front seat of a 1989 Scirocco. Picture it - I'm 5'10", my guy at the time was 6'0. Tangle of limbs, my right leg hanging out the passenger window - because it was the only way we could make it even possibly work.

I feel for you :)

I must steal your icon! I love it!

For a number of years I had an old F-150 truck with a camper shell. At some point I ended up with a love seat in the back. It was quite dry in the camper and the seat fit across the width of the truck bed, snug up against the rear of the cab.

The ironic part, of course, was that my partner at the time and I each had our own home / apartment close to one another and we had no need of such a perfect location. Oh well, at least it was a comfortable place to sit and change after the RenFaire was over.

I must admit to having never in my 44 years had sex in a car.

Motorcycles, however, are another matter...

(And I find it amusing that my fingers, of their own accord, typed that as "ho over"...)

... ~tilts head and blinks~

Now... In the name of science and educating the masses, would you be so kind as to sketch out how that works?

just so you know, kids really do survive seeing sex without trauma, as long as you don't flip out like they've just caught you murdering someone(as similar as the gyrations may be...). Just stop, calmy explain that you were having some big people alone time, tuck them back into bed, and ask them to remember to knock if the door is closed.

My parents put a hook & eye closure on the top of their door after the time I walked in on them. That was at the new house, so I had to be at least 5, but I have no memory of the incident. ;)

Having been walked in on myself not by children but by fellow adults, all I can suggest is - always keep at least a sheet on, and be very nonchalant. ;D

you can borrow my cars. ::::grins::: there more than enough room in the back seat of the firebird or mustang.

really? Must be a newer Mustang, because the backseat of my ex-bf's '67 (maybe '69, I don't remember, it was a few years ago) was TINY...more like a narrow shelf. It's hard to really get going anywhere when only half your butt is on the seat....of course, that didn't stop us...

When I was sometime in my mid-twenties, my mother started telling me some of the more ... interesting stories she'd been refraining from telling in case of either seeming to encourage such behavior or creating inspiration. While the tales of drunken insanity involving automobiles and scary levels of James Dean fangirling were not that shocking (except for the fact that they were coming from my mother), the tale of her and my father deliberately having sex in the back of a car when they were trying to have children because so many had been accidentally conceived that way had me giggling for days!

Have you got any interesting bruises the morning after?

Just so you know... My 8-year-old wanted me to read to her what sounded like it might be amusing. I warned her that it included reference to "grown-up stuff," and wound up reading it to her (only slightly bawlderized [spellcheck, you have deserted me!]), and at the end, she said, "That's funny."

I managed to keep my reading-voice steady for the back-seat orgies, but lost it at the underwear. Sorry!

*pats sympathetically*

Front passenger seat, down as far as it will go, him on it and you on top.