Old muscle cars from the 70's have big wide front seats. That's what I love about them.

For a brief moment in time, that parking space was the center of the universe.  You, stretched across the green vinyl bench seat of my Buick LaSabre, in your black velvet prom dress, resting your head on my lap.  Me, basking in the post-blowjob afterglow with the windows down and the cool night air drifting through the vehicle.  The orgasm had racked my body like a spoonful of hot heroin shot into my veins.  When two freshmen girls dressed like Disney princesses passed by the car walking into the dance, I didn't even bother to cover my dick. 

It slowly came to me that we weren't going inside.  You had finished up by jerking me off down the front of your dress.  If we were going inside, you would have swallowed it.  Not that I was upset.  I hate dancing.  But I expected you to want to go in and socialize.  You were the moodiest oboe player in the marching band, but you liked to socialize.  You were the nerd-sexy one in your clique. 

"So what's up?"  I love the fact that we can speak plainly to each other.  It's like a no-games type of verbal shorthand.

"I don't know.  It's just like I don't want to go to our last dance right now."  You swirled semen between your thumb and forefinger as you said it. 

"Things change"  was the best I could come up with.  We both knew the status quo would end in the next couple of weeks.

The End

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