Transportation Titillation
Sam Hill
Everything begins to pulse in time with the music - the lights, his blood - lifting up, swelling. With one hand free, he grips the firm steering wheel, fingers wrapped around the familiar girth of the rubber-coated steel. Squeeze. His forearm flexes, tendons drawn taut, muscles bulge. Tension runs from his fingertips, up the arm, all the way to the broad lean muscles of his back. Power. Aware of his strength.
This machine, this 4,000 lb mass of steel, hurtling through space at 90 miles an hour. Such force, such potential for destruction, all under his control. He tightens his grip on the wheel; the contraction sends a jolt of electricity up the arm and through his body. He lets out a sigh, tempering the pressure that's building within. East on the 10, to the 405, cruising north, over the hill. He covers miles in seconds. A metal beast traversing its infinite domain. Onto the 101 and east, to the 134, through Glendale, and south on the 2. He drives. And drives. And Drives. City lights rise and fall, looming before him and then fading into the backdrop, an obscure scene seen through the rear view. Electric lines glow red hot overhead, catching the reflection of fleeting tail lights.
The freeway unfolds before him like a racetrack, and He, the artful operator, guides his machine so smooth through bends and banks, in and out of lanes, around slower traffic, never touching the brake, only sometimes letting off the gas, to coast, gliding along the concrete channels like a bird through air.
The stream of traffic is unceasing, eternal, immortal, coursing through the Southland like blood cells in a vein. Cars get off and on, exiting the flow, joining it, but the flow never stops, a constant torrent stretching through miles and miles of sprawling city. A marvel of modern engineering. The efficiency of the system. Progress Transcendent. Gives him his pleasure. He lives in the movement, lives for it; he feels at ease in its tow. He can plug into the flow, become part of the system. He is effective here; he can operate; He has Control.
The music pulses out of tinny speakers, the bass cranked up as high as it will go. Pure, minimal, techno. Textured waves of monochromatic sound wash over him. His skin tingles. The hairs on his arms stand erect. Invigorated by the hypnotic rhythm, he grips the wheel ever firmer. Heat builds within. He begins to sweat. It feels so good. He's about to... No, wait. Onto the 5, heading south, to the 110, around the park and up the hill. The Prius begins to rattle as it struggles up the ramp, a grating sound comes from the engine as it often does; he smells the familiar pitch of burning rubber. The cracked fin quivers, a squeaky sound. He lays into the gas, pushing the car up the hill, pushing it to its limit. He charges around the curve, tires screech, losing traction. Push.
He begins to rise over the hill and there it is. The Metropolis. Shimmering monoliths of glass and iron and concrete loom, rising up to the heavens. The true Gods of this land, towering ominously over the basin with oppressive scale. Brutal and Beautiful. And as he crests the hill, and downtown unfolds before him, one final push and squeeze, and then... release, all over the steering wheel. Pure ecstasy. A groan. He closes his eyes, lets go of the wheel, and, almost, loses control.
This machine, this 4,000 lb mass of steel, hurtling through space at 90 miles an hour. Such force, such potential for destruction, all under his control. He tightens his grip on the wheel; the contraction sends a jolt of electricity up the arm and through his body. He lets out a sigh, tempering the pressure that's building within. East on the 10, to the 405, cruising north, over the hill. He covers miles in seconds. A metal beast traversing its infinite domain. Onto the 101 and east, to the 134, through Glendale, and south on the 2. He drives. And drives. And Drives. City lights rise and fall, looming before him and then fading into the backdrop, an obscure scene seen through the rear view. Electric lines glow red hot overhead, catching the reflection of fleeting tail lights.
The freeway unfolds before him like a racetrack, and He, the artful operator, guides his machine so smooth through bends and banks, in and out of lanes, around slower traffic, never touching the brake, only sometimes letting off the gas, to coast, gliding along the concrete channels like a bird through air.
The stream of traffic is unceasing, eternal, immortal, coursing through the Southland like blood cells in a vein. Cars get off and on, exiting the flow, joining it, but the flow never stops, a constant torrent stretching through miles and miles of sprawling city. A marvel of modern engineering. The efficiency of the system. Progress Transcendent. Gives him his pleasure. He lives in the movement, lives for it; he feels at ease in its tow. He can plug into the flow, become part of the system. He is effective here; he can operate; He has Control.
The music pulses out of tinny speakers, the bass cranked up as high as it will go. Pure, minimal, techno. Textured waves of monochromatic sound wash over him. His skin tingles. The hairs on his arms stand erect. Invigorated by the hypnotic rhythm, he grips the wheel ever firmer. Heat builds within. He begins to sweat. It feels so good. He's about to... No, wait. Onto the 5, heading south, to the 110, around the park and up the hill. The Prius begins to rattle as it struggles up the ramp, a grating sound comes from the engine as it often does; he smells the familiar pitch of burning rubber. The cracked fin quivers, a squeaky sound. He lays into the gas, pushing the car up the hill, pushing it to its limit. He charges around the curve, tires screech, losing traction. Push.
He begins to rise over the hill and there it is. The Metropolis. Shimmering monoliths of glass and iron and concrete loom, rising up to the heavens. The true Gods of this land, towering ominously over the basin with oppressive scale. Brutal and Beautiful. And as he crests the hill, and downtown unfolds before him, one final push and squeeze, and then... release, all over the steering wheel. Pure ecstasy. A groan. He closes his eyes, lets go of the wheel, and, almost, loses control.
Sam Hill is a student at PCC. He says: This story isn't exactly spiritual, although I suppose it could be interpreted as such. It's about getting off on freeways. I couldn't figure out where to go for general submissions, so here we are.