Cars, Sex and American Fulfillment

by Jay Williams

Published 1994 in The Stake

Zack was only out of the institution a little over a month when his sex life was dangerously imperiled. It was a shame too, since he had just pushed it to the level even Dr. Freud would have been proud of. Yet, there was no doubt in his mind (the little he still had intact) that if he didn't correct a serious flaw rather quickly, the passion and romance would be out of his life. Those stimulating nights, tender afternoons, and those mornings filled with wild abandon, would all be a thing of the past if he didn't get hip, didn't move with the crowd, didn't become cool--didn't buy a new car.

(Editor's note: In fairness to our readers, I must let you know that this story really has little to do with sex, the Author just uses that word every now and then to keep reader interest. I suspect he thinks it's a clever way to make fun of car ads or something.)

(Publisher's note: Don't listen to the editor. He's just PO'ed because his sex life is abysmal. The author actually writes a lot about sex in this story, sometimes getting quite graphic, and we here at the magazine hope you will continue to read this stimulating story, as well as decide to buy a subscription. Maybe even buy one for a friend or two.)

Joanie, his girlfriend, had sounded the warning of his impending descent to the realm of ordinariness.

"I am just SO embarrassed," she exclaimed.

"What? What are you embarrassed about?" Zack said defensively. "Oh, my gosh! Is my dandruff showing?" He quickly looked down at his shoulders and brushed away what seemed like tons of that evil dry skin.

"No, don't be silly."

"My God, it's my breath, isn't it?" he said wincing, trying his best not to open his mouth too wide.

"Oh, come on, Zack. Isn't it obvious?" she said, narrowing her eyes.

Zack looked apprehensively at her, then shook his head. "Uh, huh."

"Every time I get into this car I cringe," she said. "I haven't said anything 'til now because I knew how delicate your thought patterns must be since returning, but I just can't take the embarrassment any longer!"

"My car? You're embarrassed by my car?"

"It's an absolute wreck! I pray to God that when we go out my friends won't see me. I'd be a laughing stock."

"Um, but it's only two years old. It's in mint condition."

She crossed her arms over her chest (which was where most of his thoughts were at the moment), took a deep breath and turned her head away from him to look out the window. It was a clear indication that his sex life was in serious danger. He knew the warning signs all too well.

(Typesetter's note: The Union doesn't allow us to include notes in stories we set, however, if we were allowed to, we'd probably suggest that if you really want a hot sex magazine you should go buy the recent Hustler and forget this highbrow stuff. Check especially p. 63.)

Zack didn't know that during the span of time he had been in the institution (suffering from a serious case of acute commercial overstimulation, if you will recall), the entire United States population had become convinced that true happiness, sexual fulfillment and total power actualization, could only be obtained by owning a very expensive, new, ultra-modern, aerodynamic, safe, well-crafted, American, um, automobile. Men knew that they could never be considered a True Man unless they owned a macho, power-crunching machine to roar off into the sunset with their startlingly beautiful women by their sides. Women realized that they would be social outcasts if the men they were riding with drove a lower-class, common automobile. Both sexes were positive that even though they might be leading mediocre, yuppie lives, just by owning a sporty car they would be considered with it, now, and no where near as boring as all those other Middle Americans. So, after a frustratingly sexless night, Zack set out the following morning in the search for a new car.

Zack wasn't very experienced in buying cars because he only bought one every 10 years (and therefore believed he still had eight years to go before he needed to venture out again). Because of this inexperience, he mistakenly believed that the simplest and safest plan would be to return to the place where he had previously experienced some good fortune. He drove to Gene's Car City. Little did he realize that Gene, a kindly old man who loved older cars and could tell you where every nut on any car was located, had sold out his franchise to Howard Cramden, who was desperately trying to sell every car on the lot so he could have a lot more sex with his wife. Howard didn't change the name of the lot because he knew people trusted Gene, and would therefore return to a man they trusted. Besides, as far as Howard was concerned, the only thing that had changed about the dealership, was that Gene was no longer on the lot. Gene was in Hawaii, having sex on the beach with his wife, who hated cars with an impressive, albeit un-American, passion.

Howard approached Zack as he stood in front of a large, shiny red car.

"This is our biggest seller!" Howard said proudly.

"It is? Seems rather, well, big to me."

"Yes, roomy. A luxury car with the emphasis on luxury"

"That's redundant. What kind of gas mileage does it get?"

Howard looked quizzically at Zack. "Gas mileage? You aren't one of those environmental terrorists are you?"

"Um, well, I'm no terrorist, but I think it's important."

"Well, it gets four MPGs. But let me tell you about the lush velour seats."

"Four miles per gallon!"

"If we take out the AC and you coast downhill, you can get six. Now, look at this aerodynamic hood. Is that a thing of beauty or what?" Howard said, putting his hands on his hips and admiring the thing of beauty.

"Doesn't the EPA say you have to get 20 MPG?"

"Boy, I don't know why you keep harping on this thing, unless you're one of those weak-knee, liberal freaks. Besides, I know you've heard of clause B, section 23 of the USBC code that states that American cars are exempted if they promise to increase MPG by 20% by 2001. But enough about government regs, let me show you the turbokenized energization transfuger that lets you accelerate from 0 to 60 in .67 seconds."

Howard opened the hood of the car and Zack looked in horror at 1,000 different electrodes, wires, gas configurators, spark energizers, regulator fromulators and other assorted devices that Zack had always thought were confined to spaceships.

"Well, how does a guy like me fix this thing when it breaks down?"

"Fix it?" Howard said, completely confused. "Why, you don't fix it. You send it to our service installation where our quality reintegration technicians, who I might add, have a degree in automobile configuration modification, repair anything that might go wrong."

"Hmm, I sorta like tinkering around with engines myself."

"What? Incredible! No, no, no, you mustn't fool around with these babies. Leave it to the experts. Besides, you don't want to mess up your clothes fooling around with a dirty engine."

"Um, well, I usually wear some old clothes to work on my car."

Howard was beginning to get flustered by this odd person. "Old clothes? That's wild. You won't attract many babes with old clothes on."

"I'm just trying to fix the car, not impress women."

Howard shook his head and grimaced. Surely this was an alien standing in front of him. He desperately wanted to make a sale though, so decided not to alert authorities. "Listen, your sex life must be in the pits, here with you wearing old clothes and working on cars. With this little gem you'll have women falling all over you!"

(Proofreader #1 note: I'm beginning to believe the editor. This guy seems to drop sex in the text whenever he thinks readers are about to doze off.)

"You know, I got the very same impression from my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend!" Howard exclaimed, surprised but also pleased. "Why, she will go crazy when you drive up in this beauty!" He took Zack by the arm and pointed off into the horizon. "I can almost picture it. Your gorgeous girlfriend, dressed in a flimsy, but exotic and expensive evening gown, will be standing in front of the luxurious Manoff Hotel. Her eyes suddenly light up as she sees you enter the drive. She waves slightly, moves toward your manly machine as you glide up to the red carpet. You get out, open the door for her, and she gives you a tender kiss before sitting down onto the plush silk-like seat of the Orion, the star of Detroit Mammoth Motors, and of course, most popular car of Gene's Car City."

It just didn't sound that good to Zack. Oh, he could picture the scene Howard had painted for him, but it sure didn't seem manly to him to be dressed up in a stiff, formal suit, driving a gigantic gas guzzler, going to some fancy-shmancy hotel to pick up a porcelain doll. However, he then thought of Joanie and what she had said, and decided the guy might have a point, he just needed to try to get in the proper frame of mind. But not with this car.

"Do you have any other car you might recommend?"

"Any other...Did I mention you get a free American flag decal with this?" Howard said, sure he hadn't heard this man correctly.

"I don't want an American flag decal."

Howard was disappointed, but at least this customer hadn't walked off the lot, so he'd try again. "Let me show you the Envoy, the diplomatic alternative."

He led Zack across the lot, past countless other Orions, and some other cars that looked almost exactly the same (but with slightly different names), to a car that was at least a foot longer than the first. It was a conservative black, with very bright chrome all around, dark, plush seats, and a presence that made Zack think of war instead of negotiation. In fact, judging by the shape, Zack wasn't sure that it was a tank that had been converted after some war by having the gun removed and a little chrome put in its place.

"This car is the ultimate in luxury," Howard said with a broad smile.

"I thought you said that about the Orion?"

"Um, I don't think so. Anyway, this car has all the options you could possibly negotiate for. It has state of the art interior acoustics. An air conditioner that would make an Eskimo smile. A shape that was molded by a sculptor who was inspired by the Venus de Milo. An exquis..."

"What about the engine?" Zack said, trying to remain calm.

"Engine? Oh, that's the standard, Detroit Mammoth, 3.63 micro-laser, turbomotor. The ultimate in engine power and design!" Howard said, patting the closed hood lovingly.

"I'm almost afraid to look at it. What kind of miles..."

"Per gallon? Boy, what is your fixation on this thing?"

"Fixation? Common sense! Are you aware of anything going on around here? Gas prices are shooting up, the environment is shooting down and people just don't have the cash to buy a hunk of metal they only spend thirty minutes a day in! Why, I know people who spend more time on the crapper than in their car. They sure don't go out and buy a chrome-plated toilet because of that. Why can't Detroit make a car that Americans want and need?"

Howard turned red and he narrowed his eyes as he stared through Zack. "Listen here, young lad, the great American Automobile Manufacturing Corporations know very well what the general public needs! They are not going to build something just on a whim, just to turn a profit. No, they think primarily about the sensitivities of the average man and woman, thinking only of those peoples' safety, the welfare of the environment and the betterment of the common good!"

"What? What did you say?" Zack asked. He was sure that all he was hearing was a buzzing sound.

Without warning, a thin, white mist appeared behind Howard, the faint refrains of "Battle Hymn of the Republic" floated down from the heavens, and there were white silk sheets gently flying by above them

"Yes, when Joe American asked for a car of dignity, one of grace and power, he turned toward Detroit, not to Tokyo or Berlin. He asked for a car that would make him a real man, that would catapult him to the pinnacle of power and glory!"

Zack's eyes opened wide in terror as he suddenly realized that an advertisement had materialized around him and was now building steam. A woman in an elegant and slinky evening gown came from the right and put her arm around Howard and looked lovingly from him to the Envoy and back again. From the left a large-breasted woman in a tight, black miniskirt, six-inch spikes and black fishnet stockings walked up to Howard and put her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder as she looked hungrily at the car behind him. Zack blinked rapidly and slapped his cheeks to try and make the advertisement disappear, but it was still there.

"Yea, I say, yea," Howard continued, his tone authoritative, but not demanding. "When the proud American male tries to impress his woman, does he regale her with MPGs or carbon monoxide emissions? No, brother, he charms her with tales of 600 horsepower engines, of sexy, contoured fenders, of soft, lush and sumptuous seats."

"Sumptuous seats?" Zack repeated, his hair almost standing on end as the words incoherently rolled around his brain.

(Editors note: See? He keeps throwing in words to evoke sexual images, that roll off the tongue and bite you in the libido. But what for? Where is the actual sex?)

"And the Humongous Motor Corporations of America saw that the women of this country wanted a vehicle that they would be proud to ride with their upwardly-mobile partners as they scale the summit of American independence and freedom. They built a car that all Americans can shout from the mountains in pride and triumph: "Yes, America is Great! We are invincible! We shall rule the roads and byways!""

Lightning struck the ground nearby and thunder roared all around and Zack knew he didn't have long to live if he stayed there much longer. His mind was on serious sensory overload already, and with the strong images of patriotism and sexual power bombarding his very being, he knew that if he didn't run, he'd be consumed by mass commercialization--or be back in the institution. Before Howard could say another word, before the Sirens could tilt their heads to the side and give him a sultry, inviting look, before the lust for a powerful machine that could blow any taker off the road grabbed footing in his delicate frontal lobes, he made a beeline for the safety of his two-year-old, gas efficient car. After he wildly swung the door open, he dove in, turned the key and blasted an old rock tune from his cassette player to ward off any encroachment from the living advertisement. The anti-materialistic song slowed down the attacking establishment assault long enough for Zack to get the engine started, the doors locked and for him to pull away from Gene's Car City.

As far as he was concerned, his adventure in car buying was over. It would be futile to try another car dealer, for he was sure that American Car Showplace, Automobile Heaven, and Honest Abe's Car Emporium would be more of the same. So he resigned himself to his eminent breakup with Joanie and therefore his loss of a possible happy sex life, and did the only thing his fragile mind would allow him: he started cruising the streets looking for Japanese or German women. Unfortunately, Zack hadn't heard of the Americanization of those two countries while he had been locked away.

THE END

(Author's note: I have just been informed by a friend who works for this magazine that the editor has included some odd comments in this story. I apologize to the readers if this intrusion has interfered with your reading pleasure and if it has ruined or in any way effected your sex life. I also wish to apologize to the American car manufacturers in case they got the impression I was trying to say that they were a bunch of snobbish greedheads, who don't give a shit about the environment, America or the general public and their sex lives. Even though that was my intention, I apologize. Also, my thanks to the typesetter for letting me add this note, even though I had to give him $20 and my copy of Hustler.)