Les Liaisons nocturne by George Vincent

I’d never had sex in my car before. It always seemed ridiculous. I drove a blue 2010 VW FOX, which is the least sexy car imaginable. But the old girl hadn’t packed in on me yet.

Mia seemed to know a fair bit about dogging spots, which irked me. Cruising along my mind lost itself in ruminations pertaining to the nature of her past promiscuity. Was I merely another one of her willing fools? I could understand it. She was a babe, the best I’d ever had. Still, it was important for me to maintain a level of sexual superiority over her. This came down solely to number of previous partners; like goals scored in football, I had to be the one winning. How sad is that? I let it slide, presently.

We deekied the Quarry first on Mia’s suggestion. An old slag-heap mining site transformed into an urban nature reserve with a pond and ducks and swans on it in the summertime. A haven for middle class dog-walkers and their wannabe-hooligan children alike. I parked at the top of the bank.

Here?

Hmmmm, I dunno.

Aye, me either. That car over there has its windows all steamed up. I think they’ve beat us to it.

Keep driving then.

The only other place I could think of was a carpark by the cliffs in Sluice. 20-minutes’ drive away. I was freezing and all the mincing about and indecision was turning me off a bit. I tried to blame Mia for the fuss. I drove along aggressively. She promptly put me in my place.

Why you being a dick, like? 

I’m not.

Aye, you are. Why’ve you gone all weird?

I’ve not gone fucking weird, alright? I just dunno where’s gonna be quiet.

Well, me fucking neither. Just stop anywhere, I’m not arsed. Or better yet, take me home.

Nah, howay.

Don’t you just want to spend the time with me, or what?

She said that and it near broke my heart. One of those emotional gut-punches which floors even the cuntiest of cunts. Why was I being a freak? I really liked this girl, I’d been smitten, SMOTE! for months. Here I was acting like a clown. I checked myself.

Sort your act out, BONNY LAD. Sort it out quick.

Here, I’m sorry, like. I do want to be with you, of course I do.

Well, me too. Why don’t we head to Sluice and park up and watch a film on my phone or something?

Aye, let’s do that.

I parked up. Not another car in sight. Over the cliffs the North Sea was thrashing about wildly in massive sprays up the side of St Mary’s lighthouse, which was only just visible in the thick dark. We climbed over into the back to get comfier. She cuddled into me and put The Blair Witch Project on.

The windows started to steam up. We weren’t really watching the film. I pulled her in. We got to it and did it in every position we could think of in the limited space offered to us by the FOX. The old frame rocked side to side. I’m surprised the handbrake held out. I came all over the back seat and rubbed it in mingled with the sand and the dirt from old boots and sandals I had neglected to remove from so many days on the beach and up the mountains in summer.

This car is a fucking mess mind you. You should really clean it.

I know.

Seriously. It’s gross. Manky. You’re lucky I even got in.

Aye. You must really like me, then?

She rolled her eyes. I took her home.

The next day I took the boots and the sandals out. There was a dry white patch where my muck had stained the seat. I cleaned that up, hoovered the sand and the dirt and put the old McDonald’s bags in the bin. I even went to Halford’s and bought an air freshener. Little trees: Caribbean Colada.

George Vincent is a writer from the Newcastle Upon Tyne. He used to be a chef, now he is a delivery driver.