It’s 8 PM on Saturday night and the kids are in bed.  I put the baby monitor on a shelf in the garage and crack the van windows so we can hear it.  Out of the back of the minivan come the stroller and the potty; in go two sleeping bags zipped together.  I bring Sinead O’Connor’s “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got” CD while my husband, begrudgingly participating in my little role-playing, brings Rush’s “Moving Pictures.”  Damn, that nine-year age gap really makes a difference in this scenario.  We agree to take turns spinning the tunes while I secretly curse myself for not making a sexy mix tape for the occasion.  Oh wait, no tape deck in the Sienna.  He brings the Boone’s Farm because I couldn’t seem to find any Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers.  Probably should have procured some pot for historical accuracy but oh well.

Once the stage is set, the suspension of disbelief begins:  We don’t have kids.  We aren’t married.  We’re just two high-school kids looking to have a good time and get laid in the back of their parents’ car.  (Never mind that I’d be 18 to his 27 and we’d be breaking several laws in several states.)

We lie down and look up at the map lights stars.  We talk about what we want to be when we grow up.  (This conversation is legit, BTW, because we still don’t know what we want to be when we grow up.)  He’s so earnest that I can see that long-ago teenager who I never knew.  I fall in love with him all over again.  I let him get to third base.  Who am I kidding, he gets a home run.  (Man alive, even in the back of a minivan, this is awkward.  Maybe I’m just not very bendy in my old age, but how the hell did I used to do this in the back of a Chevy Citation?  But I digress.)  A bit of reality creeps in when it hits me — this is a grown man who loves me more than anything.  Because of that, he hits it out of the park!


We stay out there for a long time, talking about anything but our real lives while “Nothing Compares 2 U” plays in the background.  At some point, he loses patience with the cuddling and switches the song, breaking the mood by rocking the air drums a la Neil Peart to “Tom Sawyer.”  Typical teenage boy.

Not wanting to miss curfew, we eventually pack up and head inside to our adult lives and our comfy, marital bed.  One true sign that you’re a grown-up:  you have sex in cars because you want to.  One night as teenagers is all we need; our real life is better.  But sometimes?  Sex in cars is HOT.


Photo credits here and here .


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