Auto Erotica

I drive a 1999 Oldsmobile Alero with only 62,000 miles on it. My infatuation with it, the feeling one gets from owning a brand new car, ended years ago. However, I still tolerate it.

• The vinyl on the dash and on the doors has peeled up from sun exposure.
• The plastic thing that keeps the seatbelt clip from sliding all the way down is broken—so that the clip annoyingly slides all the way down.
• The air conditioning, fixed while the car was still under warranty, barely cools even now, after it's been fixed, supposedly.
• A couple years ago, four months after the warranty expired, the heater was broken for a cold Christmas Eve drive to and from my in-laws'.
• Last month I got new tires and last week the rack-and-pinion gears were replaced.

It seems in this relationship that I am giving more than I am getting from the Alero. I know the car has caused me other distress, the specifics of which now allude me, that the mechanic has assuaged through the years. Just this Wednesday after work, I met my Alero in the lot and was disappointed yet again. The intense July sun somehow weakened the bonds in the glue holding the rearview mirror on, and it hung by wires, mocking me, seeing how far it can push before I call it quits and end our partnership. The car is seven years old, and I'm getting the "seven year itch."

I met my Alero soon after I ended another auto-relationship, which also lasted seven years.

The first car I loved was a 1992 Chrysler LeBaron convertible bought used in 1993. It was a showy turquoise with a white top and had not been ridden hard, with fewer than 10,000 miles. I washed LeBaron weekly for the first couple years we were together, even gently scrubbing his soft-top with Soft-Scrub with Bleach to keep his white bright so that when we were out together, people would exclaim, "How handsome." He'd grown accostomed to pampering as, before I bought him, he'd escorted the dealer's wife on her daily errands. And his good looks garnered compliments through and past his middle age, until he started to go gray on top.

Unlike with my Alero, LeBaron and I had a mutual give-and-take relationship; I regularly dropped him at the shop for his required maintenance and upkeep and he met all my auto demands without complaint. Until 1998.

My husband and I had started dating by then, and I admit that I was growing lax in my care for LeBaron. Mark drove a younger, equally as showy, Ford Mustang convertible whose black top had not faded or grayed. It was a sharp car, and LeBaron grew jealous I think, since I spent many evenings out with the Mustang.

One day that summer LeBaron tried a drastic move to test the Mustang's loyalty to me. The brakes went out. Luckily, I was in a busy area and pulled into a Jiffy Lube lot and called Mark. Through rush-hour traffic, the trusty steed (the Mustang) rescued me.

I had LeBaron's brakes replaced, but from then on through the next year he made regular monthly or bimonthly trips to the mechanic, and when he conked out on me during a drive up the hill less than a couple miles from home, I was forced to seriously consider another car. I don't blame LeBaron; I blame myself for getting involved with a man with a flashy Mustang. There was no way LeBaron could compete, especially with a younger model.

Parting was hard, but I knew it was the best--for both of us. LeBaron could fix himself up again and a cute young thing could pluck him from a used car lot, and he'd be happy. I was almost 30 and was looking for a more stable, reliable relationship. Mark and I were married by then, and he helped me choose a new car. I didn't want anything that would compete with the Mustang. I wanted something that would know its place as the conservative, family car, and so together Mark and I chose the Oldsmobile Alero in silver mist, which is just a fancy way of saying gray.

Ever since my Alero's vitality has been wilting, I've been fantasizing about a fling with a foreigner. A sturdy, well built German model, perhaps, or one from the Orient with a sleek, sporty body. Maybe a Swede!

Even though the Mustang turned eleven this year, has been in two major wrecks, and is an American car, it’s still a great ride. And like so many men, it gets more attractive with age. It has more than 126,000 miles on its still powerful engine, and the only time it’s been in the shop (other than for body work from the two wrecks) was to get new brakes about 50,000 miles ago and last year to have the radiator and hoses replaced.

Just as one in so many cars ends up being a lemon, Mark’s Mustang turned out to be a peach. A juicy, fuzzy, sexy peach.