Being a native Californian, there are certain life rules that are sacrosanct. That you can call either a man or a woman dude, for example, is one. It’s just one of those universal truths. When you live on the west coast. As is the maxim that you are what you drive. I know. And you can quit rolling your eyes. You may consider that a shallow statement, but then the fact you drive a Camry tells me more than I ever needed to know about you. That you are also one of those people who excuse their cheapness by claiming all you really need in a hotel room are the basics is a given when you own a Camry. But, I suppose, there is some comfort in being just part of the herd. Plus, the Camry is known to be a reliable vehicle. As no doubt are those stylish orthopedic shoes you tend to favor.

Even outside of California your choice of vehicles says a lot about you. Which becomes a bit more problematic as you age. When I lived in Hawaii, blew up my Porsche, and need new transpo, my friends all told me it was time for me to put sports cars behind me, that I needed to be driving a car that better fit my stature in life. Like a Lexus. Or at least a Beemer. I understood where they were coming from. And knew that at a certain age you need to be careful in your choice of cars to not look like you’re suffering through a mid-life crisis. Whether you are or are not. But moving from a 911 to a staid ride like a Cadillac is a big step. So I bought a ‘Vette. But went with black instead of red as a nod to my age and position in life.

You may want to argue that what you are not what you drive, but what you can not disagree with is that driving a Porsche or a ‘Vette gets you laid. A lot. Or I guess you could since you don’t know that. Because you went and bought a Camry. So yes, the you are what you drive maxim is shallow. But for casual sex – and a lot of it – shallow is exactly what you want.

I was not in need of a new car last week. Or another car for that matter. You can only drive one car at a time. And I already own two. So buying yet another vehicle was the furthest thing from my mind. In fact, all I was doing was running an errand for my niece. Because I’m that kind of an uncle. But driving down a main boulevard of a town I don’t usually visit, idly watching the scenery blur past while my current vehicle alerted other drivers as to who I was and why they shouldn’t fuck with me, a flash of color that instantly brought back many pleasant memories caught my eye. British Racing Green is not a suitable color for much. But on a TR6, it speaks volumes. And last week it was busily singing a siren’s song, “Dude! Buy me!”

Over my long career of having my car tell people who I am, I’ve owned a succession of Triumphs. It started with a TR6; there’ve been a handful of TR4s in my life too. I owned a TR3 once – my second, or spare car for when my main ride (a TR6) was down for the count. So you can’t really hold that one against me. Besides, I bought it off an acquaintance for $75 and a ride home when he thought he needed a pricey brake job when all the thing really needed was to have its brake lines bled. Which, granted, is not something you need to know how to do when you drive a Camry.

My first car wasn’t a Triumph. It was a Rambler. Which I’m not in the least bit nostalgic about. But it did have Nash seats, which made for great car sex. So there are fond memories there too. And much more comfortable ones than the minute interior space offered in a Triumph for sex beyond a simple blow job allowed for. Not that a good blow job should ever be simple. But when you own a British sports car not only does sex too come your way often, but since they are as reliable as a Harley Davidson – and offer the same degree of riding comfort – you find yourself broken down alongside the road frequently. With nothing much to do other than to knock off a quickie. Before trading in hands coated in lube for those coated in oil, grease, and road grime.

Triumph used to have an advertising slogan that said, One Triumph leads to another. So even the Brits understood how important what you drive is to your sex life. It would have been nice of the designers of thee Triumph also realized how important space is to good sex, but then a convertible solves a lot of that problem, and there’s nothing that beats a good roll bar for a unique roll in the hay.

All of which tumbled through my mind as I made a quick, illegal, U-ie and pulled into the dealership last week. The amount of time I’ve spent repairing Triumphs alone should have kept me driving down the road. But in addition to all of the great car sex I’ve had, the sight of that TR6 reminded me of something else too. I used to be sooooo butch.

There is something about a man covered in grease from doing his own car repairs that is undeniably sexy. It is one of the more popular scenarios for gay porn for a reason. And when you own a British sports car, you don’t have much choice in the matter – you will be covered in grease often; repairs are a fact of life. But there’s a fine line between fixing a blown head and getting head, and I can’t tell you how many times a buddy dropped by while I was working on my car when the repairwork quickly gave way to me lubing his chassis. See? Even auto repair euphemisms for sex sound butch.

It was thanks to my love of British sports cars that I learned everything I ever needed to know about metrics too, a trick most of my fellow countrymen have never mastered. Not that I can convert kilometers to miles mind you. But I have become adept at looking contrite when I tell a friend, “Sorry, I can’t fix your car ‘cuz all of my wrenches are metric.” Which, needless to say, quickly segues into a discussion of inches and with a mechanic’s creeper just lying there begging to be used . . .

Auto repairs these day require a degree in computer science and that virile mechanic of yore has been replaced with a techno-nerd manning an iPad instead of a wrench. I used to be able to pop a car’s hood and, at the every least, identify what was what. What’s under a car’s hood these days bears little resemblance to what Henry Ford had in mind. I blame Bill Gates for that. And I think it was on purpose. The computerized state of auto mechanics today is all about Bill’s revenge for being such a nerd in his youth that he never got to experience the joy of being done by a grease monkey.

One of my first pseudo-sexual encounters that I can recall was with the little boy who lived next door. We’d managed to find a secluded spot in the backyard to show each other our pee-pees. A the age of five, I didn’t know what dick was for. But did know I was drawn to it. And wanted to play with those belonging to other boys. I should note for the record, this was the little blonde boy who lived next door – blondes, even at the age of five are bimbos – and not the little Italian boy who lived on the other side of our house, who had not yet blossomed into the stud he’d become in another ten years (and with whom I had one of my first non-pseudo sexual encounters). In any case, I distinctly remember using a plastic toy wrench to explore the wonders of the blonde’s penis.

With auto repair tools becoming a thing of the past little gay boys of today will never know the pleasure of playing car mechanic with their neighbors. But then I guess with the ease of dialing up gay porn on the internet, a preview clip from Hard Mechanics is almost a good a the real thing. At least until you turn twelve. And until all cars are only offered with automatic transmissions, the ease of moving your hand from the stick shift to your buddy’s will still be an integral part of the coming of age process.

I guess there are worse way of spending a few grand than on a third vehicle whose primary purpose is allowing you to indulge in pleasant memories from your youth. And undoubtedly my new Triumph will spend more time sitting in my garage than on the road. Phil was less than impressed with my purchase. “Oh, you bought a new sex toy,” was his initial comment. But then we took a spin in it without ever leaving the garage, and I showed him how much fun a roll bar can be. I haven’t had to make any repairs on my car yet, but the interior needed a good cleaning. And the little Latino hottie who moved in across the street last month has been over twice already to admire my car, so I’m expecting another triumph any day now.

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