Yesterday I said something that I thought would never pass through my lips: "I'm on my way home from the Kansas Speedway."
In the paradoxical melee that I call my life, I married into a family that includes two red-necked brother-in-laws that love all things NASCAR and beer. I have oftened bitched and complained during family holidays because I can't carry on a conversation with my sister-in-law because the whine of cars racing around a track is too loud in the next room. I hate NASCAR. It's stupid.
With that said, I was oddly aroused when I actually went to the track.
Wait. Let me explain.
As a wedding present, my new sister-in-law bought my brother-in-law the Richard Petty Driving Experience. (Don't ever fucking call it the Tom Petty ... on accident. You'll be accused of being a moron.)
I have a thing for fast cars. It goes well with my thing for Harleys, tattoos, guys with goatees, and Gibson guitars, so bear with me. I also like to drive very fast. Combine the loud race car with the chance to drive 130 miles per hour and, well ... It was oddly erotic.
And then I turned around and saw him ... and remembered where the hell I was.
Let's just say, the Sahara doesn't even dry up that fast.
I'm just saying ...
5 comments:
I feel the same way at a Tegan & Sara concert. I'm in heaven until I get that angry stare from the tattooed bull dyke in the corner.
I like Gibson guitars; the older the better. I'm not crazy about their basses, though.
Don't look directly at the lesbian. Jez, Jack, didn't your mother teach you anything?
(ahem)
Fat guys need lovin' too...
My mother WAS the lesbian, Michele.
Post a Comment