#car porn
A few frames from two hot and long days of racing at New Hampshire Motor Speedway while covering 2 series. Shot for NASCAR.
One-Sided Meeting (Remember Me?)
You were standing at the back of the line and you couldn’t contain your smile. Of all the places in the world, this was the place where you finally get to see him again. In the most humiliating place possible. For him that is.
The shoe was on the other foot. It was a jack boot, and you were about to shove it so far up his proverbial ass you’d be able to control his facial expressions by wiggling your toes.
Another customer served, another link in the chain busted free, another step closer. You couldn’t wait. Those long gone days. You remember them like they were yesterday. One memory in particular, likely because of how similar it was to where you were now. In line in your old elementary school cafeteria. Standing just behind the blonde girl you had a crush on. The edges of existence itself felt blurred whenever you were around her. Everything looked like a dream sequence in the cartoons you got up early to watch ever Saturday morning. Except things felt more real, not less, whenever she was standing near you.
You couldn’t feel your legs, as if you were floating. She was inches in front of you. You wanted that moment to last forever.
Then suddenly: “Hey, Dirty Sanchez. Mind if I cut in line?”
You turned around suddenly to see him standing there, a full 2 and a half feet taller than you. Unluckily, everybody else in line turned to look as well. They started laughing at his pet name for you. He just looked down at you with that smug grin.
“I hope you don’t mind me cutting in front,” he said as he did, “think of it kind of like jumping the border. I’m sure you know what that’s like.”
Your classmates didn’t get the reference. But you did, and you were trying real hard to fight back the tears. You knew that once you let just one loose, the rest would follow in force.
“I saw that.” You turned around to see your teacher, Mrs. Botaccelli, approaching. “Cutting kids in line? Really?” Her look of disgust was palpable.
“What?”
“Get out of line before I go to the superintendent.”
“The superintendent? Why not go to the principal?” he suggested, smug grin and all.
“Well, maybe it’s because a little bird told me that the principal is actually your uncle. And I was wondering who would hire you for this job. I knew it had to either be stupidity or nepotism. Turns out it was both.”
“Looks like you won this time. Now turn around and leave.” He stepped out of the line, smug grin still affixed to his helmet.
Mrs. Botaccelli just smiled as she walked off. He stared at her as she did.
“I like her even more when she’s walking away,” he said. He looked over at you. “You ever seen a butt that nice?”
You just stared up at him. You have. You saw it everyday at home. Little did he know, in the next few weeks, he was going to see it too.
Another customer was served, and you were another step closer to his dead-eyed gaze as a he piled food onto the tray of another satisfied customer. Service without a smile. His hairnet was the cherry on top of this fulfilling sundae.
You were lost in thought yet again. To the first day he saw her. She had come in to help with student reading week. I’m talking about your mom of course. She was bent over the desk, having a conversation with Mrs. Boteccelli. He looked over at their slightly bent over butts as they leaned over the desk. It was bittersweet. He loved seeing those two gorgeous asses lined up so perfectly next to each other, contrasting each other beautifully, but he didn’t want Mrs. Boteccelli to tell your mom about what a real piece of work he was.
“Hey, Dirty Sanchez, how do you like the look of that? If you look at the line in between her forearm and her bicep, you can tell what her butt looks like. Man, that’s a nice tan shade. Is she your mom?” He clearly asked that as a joke, because when your mom turned around, and catching your eye, waved to you, smiled, and said “hi” silently, his face turned white. Whiter than usual that is.
Mrs. Boteccelli gave him her patented disgusted look as she ushered your mom off to where the books were kept.
You could feel him next to you. You could always sense him when he was near. But now he was different. Like something inside him was missing. The same thing that made him so imposing to you.
And when he finally got a chance to start talking to your mom, it was clear what that something was. His confidence. He had no way of knowing what your mom knew. Has she heard the stories about the way he talks to you? Does she know about the time he tripped you when you were playing soccer with your classmates just to see you fall? Does she know about the way he openly brings up Mrs. Botaccelli’s butt to the students?
He had no way of knowing, and this uncertainty was what robbed him of his swagger. It showed in the way he talked to your mom. For the first time ever, you had lost all fear of him. He was like an injured bird or a chastised dog. You almost felt sorry for him. Not for too long though.
Eventually, reading week ended, just like any other week, and your mom was gone. This was enough to restore his mojo, robbing you of the satisfaction of knowing your mom, and her “gorgeous butt”, would be away from him, because, when it came to how he treated you, he just picked up where he left off.
He went right back to calling you Dirty Sanchez. He went right back to treating you like his favorite pinata, beating you with words whenever he got his chance. Except now, he had a new stick to beat you with. Once while doing finger painting, he came up close beside you and asked if you ever saw your mom’s butt naked before. You didn’t know how to answer that. He said that you should draw what it looks like for him.
You were so afraid, as he stood there, kneeling right next to you, that you instead painted out an image of your mom’s friend’s butt, which you had accidentally seen once.
“That’s your mom’s?” He asked. You nodded your head, sheepishly. “Cool. Can I keep it?” You nodded again.
Another time, he saw you picking pedals off a flower, playing She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not with your blonde classmate in mind. He came up to you and asked you what you were doing. You stood there quietly, afraid to move, never mind speak. He asked you if you were playing “My Mom’s Butt, Mrs. Boteccelli’s Butt.” You didn’t answer. You just pulled off another pedal. He said “Mrs. Boteccelli’s butt.” You looked at him. He stared down at you intently. “Pick another pedal.” You did. He responded with “Your mom’s butt. Okay, another one. Mrs. Boteccelli’s butt. Your mom’s butt. Mrs. Boteccelli’s butt. Your mom’s butt. Boteccelli’s butt.”
When you got near the end, the flower looking dismal and dead in your hand, you knew your mom’s butt would be the “winner” (lucky her…) so you ripped off two pedals at once. “Your dirty spick,” is what he responded with. “Your mom’s it is. The gods have spoken. That’s what happens when you cheat.”
Luckily for you, reading week was reading week and not reading year. If it wasn’t for that one field trip at the zoo, he never would have seen your mom again at all. The best part of all was that even on that field trip, her shirt hung down over her ass, obscuring it from his greedy eyes. He didn’t even get one farewell look at it.
He was trying to make up for his lack of confidence the last time he saw your mom by being as loud and obnoxious as possible. He kept trying to make small talk with her, but she seemed to be responding to him mostly out of a feminine urge to be nice, rather than actual interest in the conversation. Mrs. Boteccelli rolled her eyes at him.
To top it all off, that would be his last day at work. While you and your classmates sat in the dark enclosure, watching the owls sit in the artificial moonlight, something happened in the parking lot involving him that was so beyond the pale that, later that day, his uncle had to find the stomach to fire his own nephew from the gig he initially provided him. Principal giveth, principal taketh away.
Your field trip was over.
On your way back to your classroom, walking past the office, you saw Mrs. Boteccelli describing the mystery event through the glass. You couldn’t hear her, but you saw her rocking her fist back and forth in front of her face and pressing her cheek outward with her tongue. It wasn’t until years later that you knew what that meant. He must have made that gesture at her after they argued in the parking lot over the usual. He might have even groped her. That’s what you gathered from the slapping motion she made with her hand just as you and your classmates were herded around the corner and she was out of view.
It was finally over. He was gone.
For years you wondered where he went. He was the little voice in the back of your head telling you you weren’t good enough. Making you feel like an outsider. You always wondered if seeing him would send you into shock or whether it would de-fang his legend in your overactive imagination. Well, you now how your answer.
You smiled as you took another step closer. The woman before you ordered a crescent and a smoothie. His eyes were dead. He had none of the usual joy he exuded when working as your recess monitor. Life had beat him down. He bitterly, but non-defiantly, handed the woman her tray and she walked off.
You took your step up to his counter. Your palms were sweating. You would have found it impossible to conceal your joy even if your life depended on it. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi,” he said, looking down at the register.
“Can I get a ham and Swiss with a water.”
<tap> <tap> <tap> “Yeah. That’ll be $5.28.”
You pulled the ten dollar bill out of your pocket and before handing it to his outstretched palm, you pulled it back, lifted it to your face, and scratched your cheek. He followed the bill as it moved, across the table, up your stomach and chest, right up to your face, and then he made eye contact.
He froze.
You stood there smiling, from ear to ear, all your pride seeing him in this low state. It had all built up to this moment.
He looked at you for a second, in your eyes which must have shone cruelly as black suns.
Would he say anything?
Suddenly, the corners of his mouth bent slightly upwards. And they kept going. And the lines on his eyes creased, and his lips kept on, until it hit you. He was smiling.
Confidently. Smugly. Wide. Enthusiastically. Genuinely. He was smiling.
He was smiling right at you.
What was going on?
He was happy to see you. Unashamed. Almost as if you were the one who should be embarrassed.
But…
A terror took hold of you like you couldn’t describe. So much so that you knew you were telegraphing it with your face, no matter how hard you tried to hide it.
His smile wouldn’t break. He was a foot away from your face, grinning confidently, as if he wanted to laugh at some cruel joke, or some sad figure. Like he was watching a clown locked in its most ridiculous bit. He was beaming like you’ve never seen him. So familiar, yet so new and sick.
What was happening?
Suddenly, the image of Mrs. Boteccelli standing in that office flashed in your mind. She lifted her fist to her face, rocked it back and forth, and pressed her inner cheek with her tongue. With her right hand, she made a slapping motion, as if smacking a fat bottom, until she disappeared as you rounded the corner.
It kept replaying in your head, as if you were scanning each pixel of your memory for clues.
You were being walked into class by the bus driver because your teacher, wide-eyed in the principal’s office, was passionately describing what she saw in that parking lot. He cheek bulged in and out.
Her typical look of disgust at all things him, which had been burnt into your memory, wasn’t really there now that you think of it. She had more humor in her face. Like she enjoyed what she had seen. At least the messed up spectacle of it. Like she had just came out of a circus tent, excited to relay the contents of the freak to those still waiting in line. She seen something in that parking lot, she wasn’t the victim of it. She was the witness.
The bus driver, when looking back to make sure all the students were following him through the hallway, kept locking eyes with you. One of the teachers was leaning over the librarian’s desk speaking to her in hushed tones, as if sharing news she shouldn’t be. When your class passed by they looked over. They watched with concern in their faces as the cloudy mass of students passed, waiting for them to disappear so they could continue talking. No, they weren’t looking at the class with concern. They were looking right at you.
The bus driver brought you all into class and got you to sit down. He had you play classroom games to pass the time until your teacher was back. Usually the recess monitor would do that, but he was in trouble for whatever he did in that zoo parking lot so he wasn’t there. But if the recess monitor wasn’t there, then the parent volunteer should have….
….where was your mom during all this?
The beads of sweat fell thick along your face as he stared into your eyes, grinning at the gift God set before him.
Mrs. Botecculli, trying not to laugh, excited to share what she saw with the principal, jerked her fist in front of her face, and poked into her cheek comically. Then she lifted her hand up and made a smacking motion in the air, and she said something. You couldn’t hear it, but you could see her mouthing the syllables out in a way that was familiar to you. You could see it now, as clear as day and in slow motion. Each syllable isolated, but said in quick succession. It was a name.
Oh god!
No!
She disappeared as you rounded the corner.
He stared into your eyes. Your face was red hot with shame and submission. The bulge in his beige khakis twitched. His smile wide and unceasing like the sky. His back straight and his chin up, his eyes twisted at you, maniacal in their ecstasy. But he didn’t laugh. That would have been a release. He held on to the moment and savored it.
Not knowing what to do, you handed him your ten, wet with your sweat, and you walked off, forgetting to wait for change. You went to go sit down, and you tilted your tray, spilling your water all along the table and floor, causing everybody else sitting there to look over at you.
You went over and grabbed a napkin with your stiff limb. You wiped up the mess you made, not very well, and then you sat down, hearing and feeling a moistness on your ass as you did. You lifted your sandwich to your face, taking a bite, as if nothing was the matter. You chewed but you didn’t taste.
He was behind you, and without looking, you could feel him looking down at you, at the back of your head, the smile still there. It was as if he was a giant looking in at you through the window that stretched from one corner to the other. You ate on as if he wasn’t there. The back of your neck and ears were as red as hot coals. When you finished, you got up and walked away without looking back, with a dry throat and nothing to drink to make it wet again.
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