Coming Clean on a True Story of Mutual Autoeroticism Between me and my Best Friend at the age of 15.
The first time is always the hardest. I thrust and lunge for what seems like hours in my position of choice, left only with the thought of baseball to help put up with the tiresome monotony. Sweat drips down every inch of my body and collects in little pools around the joints, folds and crevices in the bare flesh not currently in motion. The whole affair is turning into a slick, sloppy mess. Pain sings in my muscles as I expand and contract like an inchworm, tapping into the depths of my energy reserves for the home stretch.
My partner grunts and grimaces below me. He teeters on the brink of exhaustion and perhaps unconsciousness. He gasps for breath like a drowning man, and would still be moaning in pain if any steam had been left in him. The two of us suddenly collapse in a muddled heap, the last joule of energy spent, and the task at hand complete. A wave of endorphins floods my delerious brain from the thrill of the moment and pride of taking things to completion. I extract myself, stretch, and high-five my partner with a clap that punctuates the stillness like a rifle report. He fishes out a silver-lined case of Lucky Strikes, lights one for each of us, and we sit puffing away, relishing the afterglow and chatting away at the job only just put behind us like a bunch of old sea hands.
I never knew priming a car could be such an intense experience.