I love my car. It is beautiful. Powerful, sleek and impressive. Just like me. The exterior is anthracite black and the windows tinted black which gives it a sinister appearance which is rather apt I suppose. I enjoy driving and especially since I am an excellent driver. My car is a fantastic instrument by which I am able to manipulate you.
To begin with I spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning it. I could of course get someone else to do this for me but I know how much it irritates you when on a glorious sunny afternoon you want to drive out somewhere for the day and all I do is spend it on the drive washing, waxing and polishing my car. You come outside and remonstrate with me, which is all good fuel and only causes me to spend longer cleaning the alloys before moving on to the interior. I manage to provoke an argument with you because you wanted to use the Hoover (you should know by now that only I am allowed to Hoover) inside the house but I have commandeered it for a lengthy period of time as I scrupulously chase after each speck of dust inside my car.
I also engage in long conversations about its performance and how it is running. I know you find this boring and when you are trying to tell me about something, I will continue to dominate the conversation by talking about my car. The irritation you express through your sighs and eye-rolling amuses me no end.
I am naturally a brilliant driver and have demonstrated this on days out on race tracks as I have taken various high performance vehicles out for a spin leaving you stranded on the trackside bored to tears. The occasional temper tantrum you throw when I tell you we are going out for the day, only to arrive at one of the race tracks enables me to demonstrate just how selfish you are and that you have no consideration of the things that I like to do. However, it is when we are in the car together that my vehicle’s potential as an instrument of manipulation is truly realised. I drive aggressively, tail gating the car in front, flashing my lights to get that car to move aside and gesticulating at the incompetent buffoons who have the audacity to be driving when I am. The reactions of the other drivers, from fear to anger all provide me with fuel, but it is your pleas for me to slow down as I hurtle along a country lane or your scream as we screech to a halt behind a lorry that really do it for me. The aggression in my driving provides me with an opportunity to demonstrate how superior I am on the roads and motorways. My vehicle is better, faster and more expensive than your scrapheap so move aside right now. At the traffic lights an admiring glance from another driver, especially if she is female, will please me no end and irritate you. I will purposefully drive at the same speed as the other vehicle flashing my winning smile at the other driver as she looks back grinning whilst we drive alongside one another.
Should someone not give way or cut me up I will chase them and do so until they stop, be it at home or their destination. I will leap from the car and berate them at traffic lights whilst they are stationery, smashing my fist on their window and kicking their wing as they grip the steering wheel in terror. How dare they drive like that near me? I return to my car, power raging through my body as I have put them in their place and find you sobbing with fear after I pursued this driver relentlessly. The driver’s reaction and your reaction fuelling me deliciously.
I use my car as a bolt hole, often sitting in it and listening to the cricket on the radio or an interesting radio play as you knock on the window trying to get my attention. I ignore you and you stalk around the car, fuming. I know you want to scratch it or dent it but you know better than to do anything like that to my precious car. I will walk away from you and get in the car and drive off leaving you stranded. This is a powerful way of letting you know that you are in the wrong. I park where I want and throw away the parking tickets or abuse the traffic wardens, accusing them of jealousy when they try to give me a ticket. I speed everywhere as I am not to be delayed, it is my time and my journey that are important.
I enjoy suddenly pulling over in the car and demanding you pleasure me. You always comply and as you lower your head I grin at my power over you as I select one of my favourite pieces of music and press down on the accelerator as we drive off. Such is my ability, I can drive at high speed even whilst you attend to me with your mouth. I am truly the king of the road. I will have you over the bonnet and then scold you for leaving hand prints on the polished metal, giving me a wonderful opportunity to criticise you after a seemingly intimate act. Of course, when I have you splayed across the bonnet, skirt hitched up and hair scattered across it, I do not see you beneath me as I thrust and buck. No, I am enjoying congress with my vehicle. We are merging together, two beautiful and powerful creatures that truly complement one another.
You are never allowed to drive my car. It is mine and only I am able to use it to frustrate you, anger you, alarm you and terrify you. It is my black bombshell that is there to draw emotional reactions from you and those around us, to serve my need for fuel. Just like me, my car does not provide many miles to the gallon and needs frequent refuelling, but then anything of quality is always high maintenance isn’t it?