I find the German language uniquely sexy. I can’t tell the difference between High or Low German, I just know that while most foreign languages sound sexy when you can’t understand them, there is something especially arousing about standard German with compounded words hung like a horse, and a voice that can turn from lighthearted and flirty to stern and dominant on a dime. Of course as a Jew, there’s an integrated conflict between fear and admiration. Even today you can find many Jews who will either aspire to own a German automobile, or recoil at the very idea. I own one mostly by chance, and it’s very special to me. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

Violet loves to hear me talk about my car. She doesn’t know anything about cars, and neither do I. But I know about my car. I love my car. And I can feel Violet’s eyes getting all gooey and iridescent like 5W-40. But this is not synthetic. I showed her the diagram in my service manual concerning the bolt tightening sequence and torque specifications for the positive crankcase ventilation valve. The factory service manual is almost as big as she is, and when my throat is sore from talking about past, current, or upcoming repairs and services, I simply flip over to the electrical wiring diagrams, which are the most arduous sections to understand, and take up half of the gargantuan tome, and of course are subject to change.

“This is the wiring for the starter,” I tell her. “I had those guys replace it early on. I think they fucked it up and that’s what that one weird problem code is about.” She asks what the problem is, and I mumble something about an open ground to terminal 50 and a return message.

I replaced the intake manifold recently, so I flipped over to the gasoline fuel injection system specific to my engine to show her all connections involved with my engine. Mine. A German engineered, four-cylinder, sixteen valve Dual-Overhead-Camshaft 2.0 liter Turbocharged-Stratified-Injection gasoline powered chain-driven Super Ultra Low Emission CBFA engine, with a semi-manual mechatronic six-speed DSG, or direct shift gearbox, or Direkt-Schalt-Getriebe, in a transaxle design with a dual wet clutch and tiptronic transmission control. It also has seat warmers, moon roof, Bluetooth, and last but not least, an SD card reader with which you can listen to your entire music library. She calls me Garage Daddy, based on an autocorrect, and loves to watch me perform even the most menial of tasks. She even holds the light while I perform various maintenance.

“Do you want to help me change the air filter, Princess?”

“I’d love to, Daddy.”

When it came time to torque specifications for the air box housing, she asked, “What is torque, daddy?”

“Good question. It’s like twisting force, and friction coefficients, and how power translates to…” and I started to mumble. “Let’s look it up.” I pulled out my phone and read, “Wikipedia defines Torque, moment, moment of force or “turning effect” as the rotational equivalent of linear force. The concept originated with the studies of Archimedes on the usage of levers. Just as a linear force is a push or a pull, a torque can be thought of as a twist to an object. Does that answer your question, Princess?”

But she wasn’t really listening, she was just staring at me with those 5w-40s and hugged me close. She said she wanted me to fuck her on the hood of my car.

“That’s gonna be hot,” I said. “the hood, it’s gonna be hot. We would have to take a walk first. Takes like six hours for the turbocharger to cool down. And did you know the catalytic converter can get up to twelve-hundred degrees?”

“What is that?” She asked.

“It’s federal law is what it is…”

Violet loves to hear me tell about the time I went out late one night to help a local dominatrix change a flat tire on her Mustang. She had lent out her lug wrench and couldn’t get off the last nut. Miraculously I didn’t make an idiot out of myself, and even gave her my spare tire iron. After the tire went on, she smiled and was grateful, until I asked her,

“You know what the problem is, don’t you?” Her expression was prepared for misogynist disappointment, but I simply remarked, “It’s a Ford.” She was relieved and chuckled. We chatted a little bit, then she gave me a hug and we each went on our way. That’s the entire story, but the very premise itself inspires Violet to dream up various lewd and lascivious plot points that could be possible in a parallel universe.

I had yet to get a blowjob in this car. I only had it for six months or so, compared to when I lived with my ex and car blowjobs were the only privacy I could find. She said she wanted to be the one. That night, our friend came over to do Violet’s makeup and take pictures of me ruining it. Violet said next time she wanted more mascara so it could run down her cheeks after cumming so hard she cries.

After I dropped our friend off, Violet and I found a quiet spot by the art museum and I adjusted the seat and the hand brake so she could lean over, unzip me, pull me out, and be the first. I turned on the seat warmers and watched the street and held her hand as she went to work on me and earned her place.

I don’t know if this counts, but the Germans have a word for the pleasure you experience when driving. If you know it, say it with me… fahrvergnügen.