Cruising
by Gil A. Waters
This was the
defining moment that separates men from boys.
He opened the
driver's side door with a swagger.
No longer
would he have to endure fatherly admonishments
about traffic safety. Now, there would be
speeding. And drinking. And girls. Lots of girls.
He slid behind
the wheel and smirked at the empty passenger's
seat. No more "supervising driver."
Just him. Solo.
He turned the
key and brought the 1979 Pinto to life. The four
horses of power under the lemon-yellow hood
coursed through his body.
Shit! He had a
hard-on.
He glanced
down at the bulge in his Abercrombie shorts and
then released the parking brake and put his foot
to the pedal.
The car shot
backwards into the garage, leaving crumpled
garden furniture in its wake, until it came to
rest atop the splintered remains of his father's
work table.
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