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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Drive
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The roller coaster ride has begun. A moderate series of "S" shaped
curves leap into view as my headlights cut a path through the darkness.
Downshift, engine drag, and then acceleration out of the curve. I don't
think about what I'm doing. It happens automatically. I smile wryly.
This machine is an extension of myself in many ways. Reaction is so
engrained into my senses that my mind is free to drift. And drift it
does. Free. Unencumbered. Some times, more awareness is required, but
I am often just a passenger on these journeys. I do much of my best
thinking while I'm driving.
I love to drive. I always have, since the day I first learned. There
is a freedom there that you get few other places. And I prefer to drive
at night. The road stands out more in rural areas at night, and it is
mine, and mine alone. Daytime has its beauty, but Mistress Celeste. . .
well, she has an altogether different type of beauty, and she ensnared
my heart long ago. Cloaked in darkness, I accelerate a bit.
This is a leisurely pace actually, though rapid for some's tastes. I
swing through some gentler turns, not pressing. This is play, after
all, and so much fun. I glance around on occasion at the passing
scenery. . . hills, trees, and fields, a tunnel of foliage, and a
stream, caressed by the moon. Rises in the road, a turn, and there is a
new view, quite bright actually under a near full moon, with occasional
cloud cover. The clouds slip by gracefully, first obscuring, then
revealing the soft countenance of her radiance. Sounds merge with sight
and feeling, and the song accentuates the moment. The left corner of my
mouth rises into that grin again, which broadens on occasion. So
beautiful. Headlights occasionally recall me to the road, I focus and
slow down slightly, and then drift again.
Tonight is special. Tonight we play the Game, Tascha and I. Tascha. .
She has been more faithful to me than almost any woman I've ever
known. She has waited for me patiently when I have had to leave. She
is grace personified, and tonight she wants to play. It has been
building for some time, after all.
Tascha is a thoroughbred. She is sleek, black, graceful, and sexy. I
slip inside her, and she envelopes me in comfort and desire. And she
has an appetite for the road. . . She can both excite and thrill me, and
sometimes frighten me with her power, grace, and agility. She has been
ridden hard and put up wet more than once, but with attention, care, and
patience, she has not wanted, nor have there been any subtle complaints.
She knows no fear, and she has saved my life more than once.
The Game we play is quite simple, really. It's called "Stay In Your
Lane." The rules are only that you stay in your lane, and drive as fast
as you possibly can. It must be played on curvy roads, of course, and
roads that you know well. If you cross the center line, you lose. Game
over. If you lose control, you lose. It's all about control and
discipline, in the end, and knowing your limits. . . And pushing them.
You must, however, choose your battles wisely. Wet conditions or fog
add too many unknowns.
I near my destination, the road to Reliance, and begin decelerating.
And now, it's time to pick the wine. Tonight, we have a most eloquent
selection of Zombie. I cue the song, and my hand taps the gear shift
expectantly, waiting. . .
The beginning I particularly love, very curvy, but banked well, and very
tight. The lolligagging pace I had set before begins to dissolve. I
have been waiting, after all. I start out slowly, building in speed and
aggression with the music. Reaction takes over at some point, and I
proceed.
"How fast can you go?"
"Heh. You don't want to know. . ."
"Yes, I do. . . You're talking pretty big there. How fast can you go?"
"Faster than this. I'm still well in control."
"Better. . . Then why don't you?"
I jam the accelerator, and we leap forward violently. A slight shiver.
Adrenaline surge. I don't know how fast I go. I can't look at the
speedometer. I go by instinct. . . touch, acceleration, the feel of
the curve, the grip of the road. I pound on the wheel lightly at times
in beat with the music, a wry grin that suddenly becomes a snarl, and
then back again. The hand switches down to the gear shift for a quick
change, and back to the wheel. Accelerator and brake in rapid
succession, and deft clutching keep the ride moving forward quickly,
almost recklessly to the unobserved, slinging through curves and over
rises. Lateral forces shift continually as the curves demand precise
steering. I glance in the rearview mirror, as if anyone would be behind
me. Heh. Thank the gods for rearview mirrors. Hindsight is 20/20. . .
"When will you fuck up?"
". . . Not tonight."
The grin comes again, and the music assaults my ears. On occasion I
echo through clenched teeth "Yeah. . . Yeah. . ."
"What do you want?"
. .
"What do you want?"
"You know. . ."
"Of course, I know. Again. What do you want?"
. .
"You can't have it, you know. You may as well get used to it, and quit
cryin'. No want ever goes fulfilled. When you realize nothing is
lacking, the whole world belongs to you. Do you remember that,
perchance?"
"Fuck you. . ."
"Fuck me? Listen, you slimy little sack of shit. Face the fucking
facts, and deal with it. You asinine idiot. God, you *are* a worthless
motherfucker, aren't you?"
"Fuck off. . ."
"Don't pull that bullshit with me, you fuckin' ingrate. God, you suck."
"Pssshyf. Go to hell. . ."
"Oh, I'm going, all right. We both know that. But it's a long descent.
. Have you built your Ship of Death? Oh, have you? Oh, build your
Ship of Death, for you will need it."
She comes to me then, her arms encircle my neck, and her hands rest
gently on my chest. She whispers from behind my ear, "Come to me." A
gentle kiss on my neck. "Come to me." Another soft kiss, and again,
"Please, come to me." Her lips caress my ear, and she tugs at the lobe
with her teeth ever so deliciously. A slight increase in pressure sends
a chill down my spine. "Come to me now. . ." My breath comes ragged as
my chest expands deeply, again and again. So easy indeed. Take my hand
from the wheel and touch her cheek. Emotion and desire and despair fill
me to overflowing. A snarling breath as the music builds to a
crescendo, and with it, the crux. Sound echoes furiously in my head.
"I want more life, fucker, I ain't done. . ."
Wide eyed, I zip through the last curves into the straight away, punch
it madly, and then take my foot off the accelerator. I drift to what
now seems a crawl, drained, spent, the adrenaline fading, leaving me in a
drunken weakness. It would not be tonight. The Game is over.
Screamin' Lord Byron
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