I have to inhale it deeply, and the corrosive petrochemical tang makes my heart sing and my clit grow fat. Everything in the garage makes me think of sex, from the jacks to the girlie calendars to the filthy rags, and once we come to the man in dirty overalls … well. Strong stubby fingers coated with black, greasy oil; biceps taut and gleaming underneath the heavy-duty material; big clumpy work boots; hair greased back out of the way; smudges on his honest, sweaty face. There is only one thing better than that for me, and that is a man in motorcycle leathers. Both would be ideal, but either would do. Either type of rough and ready, no-nonsense, straight on the level shag partner would fit my bill. But I seem to attract rich, ambitious men. Men in suits. Men who buy flowers and dinner. Never a man who flips me over the bonnet and ploughs right in, knowing what I need, knowing the shortcut that leads to split thighs and grunting, melting orgasms. I have tried to broach the subject of purchasing a motorcycle with a couple of past boyfriends, but both blanched and wittered about the danger and the expense.
