Automoto-Sexual

Fiction // Four-wheel satyr death-cult

It’s manifest destiny bleeding out underneath a sweet, sweet gangbang of steel barrel drums rolling and packing that sticky, gooey asphalt—ten billion miles long, a crisscrossing mating-call siren song across the four main cardinals—no, better: imagine god-given North America on her scraped knees, mouth open, funnel jammed in, ‘roads for days’ my engineer would say, how much petrol prod can you fit in your hole?

I’d hit that.

Hey baby, look at my four massive wheels—no, it’s six on my duallys but don’t you dare call them birthing hips—my eight-foot grill that says ‘will kill’, plumes of onyx smoke to choke this gay green Earth sparkling too much in my mirrors. The noise of my exhaust is a heavy roar with my foot to the floor—listen to my beast unleash swollen heat, and I don’t brake when I hear femme bleats break underneath. I’ve a manly cry, ‘Do or Die’; I quote Nietzsche and American patriots and you can bet your ass I rock the ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ Gadsden flag license plate to show my massive sperm count, my home rifle arsenal, how independently I ride our publicly funded roads—communism’s for pussies so I’ll spoil those spoils. It’s not hypocrisy when it’s taken plain-hatefully.

Follow me down into the concrete labyrinth—

deep breath: just like poppers, but it’s carbon to harden me—pardon me, there’s more under the hood here. You’ll find methane, butane, high-octane methyl mercury and more in store in this underground parking garage, excuse me, behind this sex dungeon door. Huff it up, dead dinosaurs, wafting, swirling, a heavy asthma-miasma but what’s a little sex without destruction? What’s a little spark without combustion? Do you feel your heart rate rev? Does your oxygen intake heave up? Do I have your wheels spinning; are you spun up on me?

Our tongues crisscross in the motor oil that’s fucked right up out of the ‘asking for it’ soil. Metal pistons and moaning trucks. Buckshot cadaver pockmarked tree-stumped virgin green fields, not so innocent now, huh? My hands grasp you like the roof of a truck bed or a megaton tow-hitched trailer. My weight’s on you; you’re crushed by my heavy equipment; I’m imported from Germany where they make the best stuff; I’m all naturally artificial but I’ll feel really real when you let go. There’s an inevitability to heavyweight steel, cast-iron aluminium, safety glass (the only safe thing here), wheeling and rolling over you while the gasoline is piped in hot like the burning liquor you do adore to help you forget how you adore to help you forget.

It’s superfood for our super fleet, our speedin’ legion, our garage entourage, our vehicular dramacide, this murder automotive—Superfund sites sound super to you too, right? It’s all a wasteland around us, I have heard, but we can wheel around the apocalypse to a cozy place with air conditioning and sex swings to fit my ‘Wide Load’:

How I’ll blast a tunnel to shoot new roads through. How I’ll top an interchange with another interchange like a vomit of spaghetti on the corpse of a raped dead meadow. Don’t these streets intertwine like bondage vines all around your sullen limbs? Don’t you flush your breaker fluid, don’t you gush right down your windshield for the tattoo scar-treads I run up and down your ashen skin so thin I could call it the earth’s crust? I just must paint you in the light, sweet crude, a bukkake of rock-blood and dino-juice, and then how about an OnlyFans photoshoot for the mud-road sky-star on my astroturf? My RPMs are off in the stratosphere, right into the ozone hole we gaped open. It’s all just extraction to my satisfaction—up until the point you extract my reaction.

Genesis 1:28 says “Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it”—point well-TAKEN, I’ve shown you all who’s boss, and we always need more people and more cars to reach our spread-eagle sprawls-out suburbia. It’s a sign of prosperity, to be so happy I explode, right? If you really think about it, it’s all little things squirted out of big things, and procreation is the final cumming of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He’ll smile with approval through his All-American white teeth, blessing how we have truly dominated His roads and His speed limits, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the holy cross is exactly the shape of our holy intersections to hit the drive-throughs, sports stadium, graveyards, brothels.

Give birth on the factory floor, man and machine; it’s all seen the same if you’re not insane. Again—I am what I own, we are not separate, I am defined by what I have, so says the Good Book, that’s my dominion, it’s how I dominate, look how I’ve dominated the roads and your body up through seduction to orgasm to that fruitful multiplication.

Here are all the little baby vehicles in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate—make a baby boy, make a baby truck, make a baby girl, make a baby car, fuck gender essentialism because we are making automoto-sexual exceptionalism. Staying still is moving behind, so onward we leap forward greatly, one to two and millions to billions of marching feet and spinning wheels. Die Fabrik in German, pumping out babies and their vehicles and biohazard clouds, because we can, because we tried when it was hard and now we’ve proved it’s easy.

Hold up, slow down, there’s a speed trap ahead. Who’s going to watch the spawn I spermed? Better think twice before a road-trip in lieu of the family minivan you so spurned. Who’s going to change their oils, fill their tanks, wash ‘em down, fine-tune ‘em—car-care costs as much as a day job.

Well, it’s been great; it’s been a fine time but allons-y and adios and the-way-of-the-road calls. Empty piss jugs clatter back there, driver’s side sunscreen reminds me of the sea, malty road sodas wobble the wheel, there’s a spare tire in the back and on my front, Fix-a-Flat and triple A—oh, when am I coming back? Ah shit the accelerator’s stuck, I’ll call back when I get service agaaaaaai—

Even on a long, straight road there’s a sharp, rude stop, and soft, fleshy body parts part for the cruel steel bite. Chassis splits, ass shits, spine separates, transmission innervates, prayers and hopes gone, specs and tropes throng. Imagine: massive energy transference. Imagine: sheering forces appear, disappear, leave junkyard-funeral-misery in its wake. Imagine: the Jaws of Life as the Grim Reaper.

Virile goes sterile and dead.

Would I change a thing, would I choose not to ride? The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away, and what we tell ourselves—I do abide.

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