I'm a slightly chubby, awkward girl with an obsession. I have a thing for you—and your big, soft hands that are so skilled at working on your classic car—and I walk the streets at night over to your neighborhood just to see if your bedroom light is on. On one such occasion, emboldened by the still and quiet night, I opened the door of your car and slid inside. I slumped down in the seat and was nearly caught by your father when he came out on the porch. A few minutes later, he was back inside and I was shimmying my pants down on the fake leather seat. I started to pleasure myself right there in your driveway. The faint smell of you was still in the car, and I could picture your dark eyes and your bright smile. When I was finished, I pulled my pants back up and disappeared back to my own neighborhood, and you were never the wiser. But anytime you give me a ride, I blush thinking about what happened in there, inspired by you, that you would never know about. —AnonymousSend your rant/confession via email to firstname.lastname@example.org OR publish it practically immediately on our NEW I, Anonymous blog!
Front Seat Franny
The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.