Malibu
I wanted my neighbor’s 65 Chevelle Malibu. I coveted it. I had
to have it. I knew it was a sin but I was willing to do almost anything, and I
did.
My husband wasn’t into muscle cars. Oh sure, he liked them. But
not like I did. The first time the neighbor pulled into his driveway with that
car was like the first day I came alive. I was watering the Geraniums when he
called me over to “check out his new baby.” I couldn’t even speak. I was
overwhelmed with emotion.
That was when it started. I wasn’t interested in the neighbor in
any way other than being “neighborly,” but because of The Malibu, everything changed.
I started wearing a two-piece bikini to water the lawn. When my husband went
away on business trips, I sat outside in the swing and smoke Virginia slims in
mini-skirts. The neighbor was always out there of course, loving on his new
baby, taking pictures of the two of them together to post on Facebook. I
started asking him about the car, innocently at first. His eyes filled with a frenzied passion
and he eagerly answered each question, while hungering for more.
He asked me if I wanted to tag along with him to run a few
errands. I said “awesome,” and he opened the passenger side door for me. I stuck my head out the window and he
apologized that there was no stereo.
We drove around for a while and he seemed happy to have someone sharing
his passion. We pulled through a drive thru and he bought us drinks but
insisted that we wrap napkins around them to prevent them from leaking on the
seat. I understood his concern. I
understood his obsession.
I started getting up in the middle of the night when I knew my
husband was asleep and walking across the street to his house. The car was locked up tight in the
garage of course. I was started to
spend more time with him. I had been inside to use the bathroom and had
memorized the layout of the house. I knew he didn’t have an alarm system. I
knew which bedroom was his. And of course, I made sure I knew how to get to the
garage once I was in the house. There had been no hank-panky but he had pinched
my butt a couple of times. His wife had moved out last year and you could tell.
His house was a disaster.
I crawled through a window in the kitchen and nearly fell on my
ass but he had no dogs or animals of any kind. Nothing. I walked to the garage and unlocked it and crawled
on the hood of the car just like Tawney Kitaen in a Whitesnake video. I didn’t wear heels though, because of
his new paint job. It was so luxurious. It was so naughty. I knew it was wrong.
I was already planning to do it again.
My husband had business trips for the next few months. I still
snuck into my neighbor’s garage every night. I just knew I was going to get
caught red-handed. It was part of the thrill. I wondered why it was so easy to
get it night after night. I started thinking it was too easy. The next time I
was more careful. I brought a towel to put underneath me when I crawled around
on top of him. He was a beauty. The daydreams I had. In them, Tom Jones and I
were driving the backroads. He was
singing “she’s a lady.”. We would even have picnics on cliffs overlooking the
ocean. He fed me chicken salad sandwiches. We even made out a little.
After awhile it started to take more to get the same thrills. I
was like a heroin addict. It took more to get the same amount of pleasure. I
started to wear fewer and fewer clothes while I was writhing on the Malibu. I
also started to add some verbal sound effects. In the daydreams, Tom and I were
taking our relationship to the next level. I decided to give the car a pet
name. I named him Tom of course.
“TOM!”
“Show me I’m your lady!”
The next day I went out to get the mail and noticed the neighbor
staring at me. He had a big smile plastered on his face and had blushed a deep
shade of pink. He quickly looked away and I began to think he knew a bit more
about my nightly romps with Tom than I knew about.
I waved but he had already snuck back inside the house.
The next few nights were a misery for me. I felt hot all over.
To say I had chills would be an exaggeration but I swear it felt like I did. I
knew I had to stay away from Tom. I paced the floor.
“Hon?” my husband called to me from the bedroom.
“What ya doin?”
“Having trouble sleeping?”
“I’m fine, honey, just getting a drink of water.” I yelled back.
I
was totally miserable.
When the sun finally came up I made some coffee and looked out
the window. I had survived a night without Tom.
Gradually I was able to do things without getting drunk to kill
the emotional pain. I took up new hobbies, I developed new obsessions.
My neighbor took up with a new woman. I caught her pulling Tom out of the driveway a few times by
herself. I noticed she was the one
washing Tom on the weekends.
She was
also wearing a bikini.
