Wretched, Unscratched

Never mind that you had almost no sex in high school.  You were always thinking of sex and thinking of having sex and always elaborating on fantasies about where you could pull it off: hide the sex from teachers and preachers and mom and police and gossipy friends and livestock.  This was when you ran around with Siege, an older girl who had an even older boyfriend but you loved her anyway and she let you touch her body as long as no one ever knew.  Homes were out of the question and parties were out of the question and cars were fine but not parked at any of the usual high school sex spots (because those are, weirdly, public) and she drove a stick shift so moving car sex (while exhilarating) was difficult except in fourth gear but that seemed unnecessarily dangerous especially when it dawned on you that automated carwashes move the car for you (conveyorized-tunnel) or allow you to sit parked (inbay-rollover) and both provide an effective shield from lookers.  Not to mention the aesthetic considerations: teenage infidelity should happen somewhere cool but parking lots and beds and closets are dull.  An automatic carwash sprays pink foams and blue foams and yellow foams and the water pressure charges and trickles as the gears grind, the steel shines, brushes roughly kneading and everything in time with the muffled roar and after much consideration you could not imagine anything more glorious than being in an automatic carwash while having sex.  But it never happened.  You had almost no sex in high school, went through so few carwashes because alone they are such a devastating tease.  You might have dealt with the problem by jerking off in a carwash but, after some consideration, you could not imagine anything more lonely and miserable than jerking off in a carwash. So it grew into a wretched, unscratched fantasy that reappeared bigger and more complex every few years as you studied up on types of carwashes and studied up on having sex and eventually devised the Feasible Plan of Actualization.  If you had a girlfriend she might notice you driving slowly past the carwash, reaching across the armrest for her hand or thigh, wondering aloud if the Buick is just too damn dirty to stand for one more minute.