If you were a teenage boy in the 1960’s, and fortunate enough to have both a car and a girlfriend, you might be one of the lucky few who experienced the unique thrill of parking.

Parking, in simple terms, was the act of a guy and a girl making out in a vehicle parked in a secluded area under the stars.

In those days, getting intimate with your girlfriend in your house was frowned upon by even the most liberal of parents. I didn’t have a single friend with the courage to French kiss or lay hands on their girlfriend in any home when parents were lurking about.

Don’t let anyone tell you any different, fathers, in particular, knew when their daughters were being touched. My girlfriend’s father seemed to have a sixth sense when that type of activity was occurring somewhere in his house.

My girlfriend’s dad didn’t like me much to begin with. He would get mad if I even glanced his daughter’s way. Yet she would insist that her basement was safe at night, that her parents were sound asleep two floors up. But, without fail, the minute we’d sit on the sofa, I’d begin to hear noises. I’d put my arm around her and the noises increased. It sounded as is someone was attempting to walk quietly across the hardwood floors and failing miserably.

My girlfriend would swear that it was only the house settling, but I knew better. I knew that the second our lips met, her father would appear on the steps. He’d have a crazed look about him, and be carrying an axe or a shotgun.

Taking a girl out to park in your car was not an easy task. Most girls were reluctant to do it. There were a couple of reasons for this. One was that girls were not as afraid of parents catching them as guys were. They correctly knew that all fathers, and most mothers, would blame the guy for the transgression. They were safe no matter what, and they had a bathroom and refrigerator close by.

Another reason was that guys liked to park in dark quiet spots off the beaten path. The logic for this was simple enough. Teenagers didn’t like other teenagers watching them through the car windows. You couldn’t rely on the windows fogging up. Sometimes, despite one’s best efforts, they just didn’t.

That is why drive-in movies were only used in a pinch. There were just too many people walking around the cars. It made no difference where you parked in a drive-in theater, before the night was over; someone was going to look into your car.

Girls didn’t like dark lonely spots. Rest assured that if you talked your date into parking on a dirt road in a wooded area, you would be sternly reminded of crazed men with hooks instead of hands. She would tell you things you did not know, such as the mental institution, with lax security, a short distance away, and the civil war graveyard just past the tree line.

It wouldn’t take long for these stories to take root. Perhaps a tree branch scraping the vehicle’s roof would add urgency to her words.

On those nights, a drive-in, with its curious inhabitants, didn’t seem like a bad idea. However, if you could somehow convince your skeptical date that no harm would befall her in such a peaceful pastoral setting, then you could finally park in earnest.

Truthfully, nothing particularly sordid ever happened while parking. Second base was about as far as any young man got back then. If one were to tempt fate and try to round third, one would find that, no matter what your watch said, it was getting late and time to go home.

Besides the threat of mental institution escapees, you always had to be on the lookout for cops. Most let you alone, but a few would bother you. They were usually the ones upset at working the late shift on a Saturday night, or perhaps they had a teenaged daughter and were playing the odds. Whatever the reason, a flashlight shining into your car invariably spelled trouble.

When this happened, it was best to quickly button up, smooth down your hair, and have a quizzical look on your face. More often than not, if you were sober and apologetic, the cop would simply send you on your way. Sometimes, if the officer was in a playful mood, he would address your date as if she were a familiar figure in those surroundings, asking her why she was back again so soon and, by the way, who’s that guy you’re with now.

Despite the many distractions, parking was one of the few alternatives to celibacy back then. Our options were limited and parents were on the warpath. On top of that we were, like most teenagers today, quite horny. We made do with what was available.

Cars were large and roomy with long vinyl seat and lots of space to spread out. With the possible exception of the Volkswagen, they were made for making out. It was such a popular endeavor that at a local reservoir on any given Saturday night there would be as many as a hundred or more cars with foggy windows lining its roads.

My girlfriend and I did eventually marry and till this day she’s adamant that, despite what the policeman said, I was the only one she ever parked with.