Sex cheats rumbled on Street View

Why do we stop having sex in cars? I don’t have any documented data to substantiate my claim but anecdotally I can tell you that most of the women I know (and by proxy the men they were with) had their first or early sexual experiences in a car.

It must be a cultural touchstone of some sort. How many horror movies feature a boy and a girl on a desolate stretch of road, windows steaming right before Jason or Freddy hacks them to bits?

According to Wikipedia, Lovers' lane is a generic term for secluded areas where people kiss or make out. These areas range from parking lots in secluded rural areas to places with extraordinary views of a cityscape or other feature.

No one walks, rides a bike or takes the bus to Lover’s lane; you can only get there in a car.

The boy I dated in college (Rock Chalk, Jayhawk) drove a gunmetal grey 1987 BMW 325i. I drove a Mini Cooper two years ago and Bob Miller’s BMW was only slightly bigger than that. It was a standard transmission and the front driver’s seat was about the size of a metal folding chair.

I was thinner then. OK, I was much thinner then. Even as I look at a picture of that car, I’m trying to imagine what kind of David Blaine like contortions I must have been able to get myself into in order to make that work. As it stands today, I do a not -particularly flattering little dance into my jeans so having sex in the front seat of my VW isn’t sexy. It’s downright laughable.

The broader question is why I was having sex before marriage, right? I’m talking to you, Bristol Palin.

No, the question I keep coming back to is this: why weren’t we doin’ it in , oh I don’t know, a bed?

Bob lived in his fraternity and I lived in a sorority house so there was a distinct lack of privacy. Of the two of us, I wonder who had the internal monologue that said, “I know! For this most intimate and sacred act, lets drive into the wheat fields that abut the new housing development in the western most part of Lawrence, Kansas to, in the immortal words of Marvin Gaye, ‘get it on’”. I mean really.

Fast-forward 20 years and having sex in a car is equal parts uncomfortable and unthinkable. Dangerous even. But back then? I’m not sure I would have recognized it as sex without the glow from the dashboard lights, my leg wedged impossibly between the emergency brake and the passenger seat.

Perhaps I come by it honestly. There is wide speculation in my family that I was conceived in the back of my father’s 1968 MGB.
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