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. —Anonymous

Send your rant/confession via email to anonymous@portlandmercury.com OR publish it practically immediately on our NEW I, Anonymous blog!