Sex – The Wheel Deal

I have a theory.

It has long been suggested that a man’s car is an extension of his penis. So those little guys who buy a flash car with a big engine are actually saying to the world: “My dick is soooo small that I am seriously overcompensating.”

And if you’ve got the money, why not? For a woman it’s relatively easy (if expensive) to go down to the plastic surgeon and say: “Up the cups from A to D, please.”

I’ve watched Dr 90210. I’ve seen it happen. [Though I’m so out-of-date I switched to Dr 90210 thinking “I wonder what Kelly and Brenda are up to this week?” – up to a C-cup as it turned out.]

Because boobs are a woman's most obvious visual sexual feature.

A guy, on the other hand, can’t go down to the surgeon and say: “I’d like another six inches tagged on, please.”

Because there are so many factors involved with the male plumbing. Blood rushes in to make it hard and is held there in a series of chambers. If you make things too big, then there’s the risk of being unable to maintain rigidity and consciousness at the same time. You can't just insert a 13-inch implant and expect Oscar-winning performances.

"We did have to graft off half your arse to provide the coverage needed... and it does look a bit like a patchwork quilt now..."

But there are some options available. You can have fat sucked out of the love handles and injected into the male mushroom of love. But this doesn’t make it longer, just fatter. So you end up two inches long and three feet wide.

Instead of all these options – of which men are extremely wary anyway; especially when it comes to someone else playing with his python with sharp tools – it’s far easier just to buy a flash car.

I was driving to work this morning and some idiot in a late model Holden was tailgating me down the hill. He then detoured to take a slightly longer route at high speed so that he could emerge from a side street slightly ahead of me down the road and cut me off.

Let’s face it. He was a massive tool with a micro tool inside a massive tool.

And it then occurred to me that everyone’s driving behaviour is different. And I began to wonder: What if people drive like they make love?

Boy racers in their Subarus, fluorescents, mags and twin-turbo engines. These are young guys effectively masturbating in public. They “dress up” and “go out” hoping for some “easy action”. They are car sluts. Sexually Transmissioned Diseases out there hogging the beds of our roads. And if they don't score, they'll get it done themselves.

Other guys will just be rude about it. These are the one-night-standers. They haven’t been caught out enough to improve their behaviour; so they cut you off at intersections, indicate when they remember, and – while less speed-freaked than the STDs – have no real regard for the speed limit. They might even have a late model BMW they keep in a garage and only drive at weekends.

If you get one of these guys in a relationship, he will steal the covers at night, never remember your birthday and dump you when he's reached your credit limit.

Fortunately, many drivers are family guys. They might have some bad habits, but overall they obey the road rules. The well-trained ones are happy to wait just that moment longer at an intersection to improve your day. The generous lovers who want to reach their destination, but also have regard for the comfort of their passengers. They love their car and take time to keep it well maintained without obsessing about it.

[I try to be that guy... try... haha]

Women? Well, my theory might apply there, too. After all, insurance companies keep insisting that women are better drivers than men. I think it could be because they’re confident they’ll get there, but time – and therefore speed – is not of any real consequence.

They're generous, too. Often unselfishly thinking of others. They'll let you in; but most of the time just to be friends.

Now, I’m painting with a fairly wide brush here. But I think it bears thinking about. And I will continue to think about it, as I sit at the lights on my way home tonight, wishing death upon the moron in the ponced up Mazda in front of me.