Stories, Stereotypes & Superlatives

He would turn the stereo up when he hit sixth gear and began his even, high speed pace - in a vastly quieter tone. It might as well have been a terrible drug addiction, his need for gas velocity resonance so great. This would be worth it, the shift into fourth gear, regardless of his wonderings of whether or not females were present in the car ahead. His penis was reminding him it was beach season.

His mental timing and ratio calculations were dead on. His body was on its driving edge, skin feeling heavy, innards feeling weightless. Speed: it's a slight cold, queasy feeling that can never be ignored. The bodies way of saying "this is a stupid idea" when your actions will not listen.

With a speed that came from an experience despite his twenty-eight years, Wyatt glanced at the car in the other lane as he passed at break-neck reflex.

His mind was suddenly screaming at him to slow down shortly after he passed, it had seen something totally un-driving related. It noted the perfect mammories in the driver's window, and the four filled seats of the car with heads poking above the headrest height, but nothing else -- for he was driving too fast, as always.

***

Inside the cute car, the phrases "Holy shit!" and "What the heck was that?" were suddenly audible at the same time over the stereo, from two different voices, both in the back seat. Melissa was the other rear passenger, a skinny, dark brunette with gravity defying breasts stuffed into a designer swimsuit. Her feet were resting on her netted duffel bag on the floor, same as Guinevere on her own, the rest of the bags in the trunk. Instead of a bag, Jennifer was with provisions at reach instead of one of her bags.

It would not matter as Jennifer was abusing her seating privilege.

The moment before all was well as the young women were dancing to the pop music in their seats.

Then, without warning, a screeching, piercing whistle absorbed all sound, followed by a hollow thump, and the leaning of the college student's car without changing course.

It was like a cheap horror movie scare, all of them suddenly heighten by the shock.

Heightened in many different ways.

"Looks like a little dick," said Jennifer over the loud music, from the front passenger's adjusted cushion. She was holding out her wiggling pinkie and putting her other hand over her mouth as she said so, over-the-top to change the mood.

Guinevere and Allison were the above average height women, fit and trim but still endowed, in this car that was all interior. Stunning long legged and stacked beauties they were.

On the other side of things, their car; that is, Jennifer, who was practically sitting on the back of her seat - the only one not buckled - and Melissa, who had her knees against the top of Jennifer's flattened couch like bucket seat, were both buxom beauties. They were slightly shorter in stature than their two other friends, giving them more room to lounge. The four college beauties fit together well, having the perfect set of diverse personalities and plenty of leg room.

They had known each other since childhood, coming together every summer and holiday, now from classes. The shore trips used to be led by Guinevere's mother, but not these days, since they were all matured into beautiful young women. The trips to the ocean started as a week long event in the beginning of the summer. This year, it was going to be all summer, since all of their lives would allow.

"All of those boys are the same you know, I bet you he has a hat on." Jennifer could stereotype the best of them, as she was a rich -- spoiled rich - bleach blonde with a bald pussy and a fake tan. Had she not been gifted with perfect jugs, she would have paid for them to go along with the business degree that her parents were purchasing one semester at a time. Mind never mattered to her, being a bitch did.

Jennifer started the raucous laughter highlighted by giggles, but it seldom ended after that. Someone snorted, upping the ante, and making eight separate breast ripple in chorus; it was Allison, the driver. All four were now looking out the front window at the unidentifiable piece of machinery. The two in the back seat were leaning towards the center of the car, craning their necks.

They had been cruising at an accelerated pace while treading on legality. By comparison to the road devil just moments ago, they might as well have been driving backwards - just as fast. They appeared to be moving slower than standing still as he flew by.

"What is it?" uttered Allison, as the car in front of them now slowed its rapid pace, the occasional flashing of factory brake lights in short bursts. The driver was matching their speed, and closing the distance between them at the same time Jennifer and Melissa were turning to face Guinevere. Allison turned off the cruise control and began coasting slowly losing speed.

"I have no idea," Guinevere said, eliciting surprise from the other three, changing the question on their faces. "No, no, keep going, catch it, I want to see what he does," Guinevere continued, now leaning on the back of Allison's seat.

Melissa, Jennifer, and Allison all rolled their eyes in humorous disgust, since Guinevere had done this sort of thing more than once, but...

This was the most boring part of the drive to the beach house they rented together for their working summer vacation. Well, Jennifer never worked; her family had too much money for it to seem normal. It was a long, boring, mostly straight road, with bridges over marshland or empty, soggy grass fields dotted with trees, as the only real view beyond interior.

Some people are never satisfied, even with the view.

Guinevere's mother always drove this way; they all had it memorized by these days. Still, someone always fell asleep on this stretch of pavement, hence the loud music and dancing. Bumps on the driving surface would have been worthwhile to the college juniors, as combat for the monotony.

So the thought of playing with any boy - the only reason for summer in their minds - would break the boredom on their road trip, especially this part.

The group of four, now twenty-two or three years old, college women had been making this trip since the summer after Guinevere's father died, in his sleep, when she was much younger. The trips had been Guinevere's mother's idea from the start.

***

The brain was telling Wyatt to slow down more, so he evenly lifted his foot from the gas pedal, kissing the clutch long enough to barely flat shift the car into neutral. He knew better then to just hit the brakes, choosing instead to tap lightly, more than once, to match their pace at a distance.

"College chicks..." he said aloud while turning the stereo up, at last forming the thought of what he had seen. Speed begets the speedy actions of reflex, so he had to drive slower to think. He had never gone to college, instead reading like a librarian, but his home brought the spoils. Driving well was no longer at the forefront of his mind. This wouldn't be as much fun as slowly passing a beautiful woman next to her driving man.

"No," he mused audibly, "this will be better than a single woman on a motor cycle."

Wyatt would get to see tits giggle (yup) in unison. Why else would he drive fast and act a fool, except to impress women and absorb their affections?

The once dot was only a few car lengths behind Wyatt, as he could now view the faces watching through the expanse of the front windshield in his rearview.

"Perfect," he said aloud once again, as mischief and hormones took over. "Here goes nothing."

With that utterance, he pulled the e-brake momentarily, making the rear tires scream while he put the car back into second gear. He hit the gas, while popping the clutch, making the front tires join the pain of burnout as he pulled the car into the opposite lane, a lane meant for traveling in the opposite direction. The momentum continued to move forward while the body of the car went sideways, slowing down so the other car would pass as the rear weight of his own swung left and straight ahead at the same time.

Wyatt watched them over the hood of his own car for a time.

It was a backwards shaped 'S' in the middle of the road, around their car, at - in his opinion - slow speeds, while moving forward slower than they were. Wyatt knew where he was, the next intersection was quite a few miles up the road. He assumed he would be safe in the other lane.

"HOOOOOLY SHIT!!" all four women screamed in unison as the visually grotesque vehicle slid parallel, but faced perpendicular, to theirs.

It had moved across the two lanes for a moment before they passed, then continuing normally a few car lengths behind them with a snap to face straight. The screeching sounds of his tires were only overcome by the smoke they emanated. There would be lines on that part of the road for quite some time where he had laid the rubber.

A white cloud was looming in the ever increasing distance behind them, above the marked territory.

"What the FUCK is his problem!" Allison heart was pounding, too scared and enamored by fear to swerve or brake in the short span of time. She only continued on, glancing mostly into her rearview where the car suddenly sat; the road seemed unimportant.

"Definitely a little dick," Jennifer said again, breaking the nervous mood back towards humor in a flash, and turning to look out the back, "...and stupid. That was friggin' crazy." She was only thinking about that movie with those kids and their rides. "He probably thinks he's a movie star, like a stunt man, or something." She was scared by his driving, but would never admit it, using jokes instead, to compensate.

As wrong, illegal, crazy, stupid, and insane as his driving had been, it stated his dominance of the road in a frank manner. He was also clearly showing off. Bravado has an effect on all women, and most men, seldom pleasant. He had just said to them "look what kinds of things I can do" without a word.

"I told you television was no good, but you guys never listen," Melissa chimed in. She was a psychology major and she was always right in her own mind. "I'm going to call the cops," she said sternly, reaching for her cell phone, unamused. She had not bothered to look back.

The cell phone move finally brought fear to Guinevere, as she snapped her hand over to stop Melissa from dialing. "No, wait, just wait. How fast were we going Ally?" Allison, Melissa, and Jennifer all thought to themselves at the same time: "Not again," was the thought in unison.

"Fucking fast enough," Allison spoke, cynically, not wanting to egg her friend on, knowing full well how she felt about boys in cars. "If he kills us, I'm never going to forgive you Gwen."

"Me neither," the other two echoed in chorus.

"Well... I thought that was wonderful... I mean... That was not easy to do." Guinevere said as Melissa put her phone away huffing. Guinevere's eyes had a glassy quality to them, and she almost touched her nose as she pulled her hand from her friend's phone.

"We know you liked it," the three other girls returned in chorus, all four finally giggling again.

"Well, that was sexy," Guinevere always knew cars could move that way.

***

Wyatt was staring at the car in front of him, and at the phone locked to the console. He was waiting for the phone to ring, or for them to pull over. One of the two usually happened, followed by the Sergeant's voice saying, "get the fuck off the road for a little while," or "leave them alone, troublemaker," as a way of keeping up appearances.

One person had actually fired a gun at him. "That was a fun time," he said aloud to himself at the memory, adding to his already generous smile. He told the Sergeant about that event, laughing the entire time he explained. In turn, the Sergeant, not at all amused, requested him to pass as an EMT along with firearm safety classes; even though Wyatt made it clear how he felt about guns. He did it for the Sergeant; it was a fair trade under the circumstances.

"I don't need a gun," was all he said, in return, but didn't argue with the Sergeant further. The man didn't ask him to work the job, just to be trained. Just in case. Just in case Wyatt screwed up everything by causing someone to panic, again.

Most people ratted him out after his first stunt by cell phoning emergency response - if they had service - which dispatched to the Sergeant and his team. This is why he kept stock license plates on the car during normal travel and blocked mostly by the tag trim. Wyatt took them off altogether during nights of practicing stupidity.

As cool as the special tags are, they brought him trouble to the trouble he was bringing, with this beast anyway. The odd combination of letters and numbers he currently used for today's trip made it hard to memorize by common motorists.

They were his actual plates today.

He hung back behind the feminine wheels, knowing the gravity of his actions took a moment to set in for the common driver. He also knew it was a dick move. He had to be patient now. If he was shot an ill sign, or yells, or held up phones, or any other variation of 'go away' then he would quickly depart. Very quickly. As fast as possible. Wyatt knew of a few 'secret' turnoffs. This was his territory.

His patience paid off when he saw two heads looking out the rear window of the car, and a pair of unrecognizable eyes in its rearview. "Oh really?" He spoke aloud to himself, an eyebrow going up. "Time for the cheese," he said as he moved to check the passing lane again.

Seeing empty spaces, he went to business pulling up next to their wheels, as fast as physics would allow. "It's going to be just like Burt Reynolds," he said, smiling, just as the beauty in the rear driver's window became visible.

She was watching his soul, and she looked somewhat familiar.

***

"You don't seriously think he's cute? He's a drug addict, and he needs to shave, and get a hair cut." At this point, Melissa began to yell until she was finished. "If you stopped smoking weed you would have a paint job, loser!" They all laughed, it was funny. Melissa was very smart, and always enjoyed good comedy at someone's expense, though she said nothing about her affection for his 'bad boy' attitude.

In fact, Wyatt had a few things, from the door of the situation, that made all four women like him, though only Guinevere was visually, verbally, with sexually, obvious in the correct ways for his passions. He was living his own code, doing what he wanted to do; doing it with confidence, and doing it well. The cheap spray painted pirate flag on the hood stating how he felt of the consequences.

Wyatt did not back down once he was granted permission, he knew how to car sex.

He was also controlling an uncontrollable situation, and enjoying it, loving it, making their attention raptured. His actions forced their personalities forward. The girl who was driving, who also had the blackest raven hair Wyatt had ever seen, was making kiss-kiss faces and winking at him, pushing her ample brown chest forth with a smile. She was doing everything she could without saying "look at me".

The stunning fake blonde he noticed in the other front seat, had a look on her face like she had known him and his tricks her entire life, but was still gawking his way. His attention to either front passenger was less than momentary; he pegged them both as their true shallow selves at a glance knowing that no explanations would be satisfactory to his requirements. He knew what he liked, and he did not like girls that even acted that way from such antics.

"He's probably just a dangerous jerk, Gwen," Jennifer was judging again, pretending to help, knowing how much she personally loved when men were assholes. He was an asshole; she knew it, because he was ignoring her.

"Yeah, I bet." Allison was agreeing with Jennifer, twice at once, unintentionally and unaware. The cruise control was back on. She was settling into her seat, driving with one hand again, and a little wounded he was not looking at her. Allison really did think he was cute, and mysterious or confusing without knowing which.

Wyatt was dangerous. He was a genetic predator, from birth, though he did not always realize it. He could easily run a woman like Jennifer, or Allison, to their detriment. He could use them, and do as he pleased, by hypnotizing them with his intelligence, personality, and seeming indifference. He could also break their hearts at a moments notice; or make them angrier than thought possible; whenever he wanted. He could do such things by accident equally as well, so he avoided those types.

He would never do such a thing on purpose, to begin with, for his heart was too big. Wyatt had seen many men do that to many women throughout his life. It was wrong; he felt it was wrong, down to his soul. He was called a 'fag' many times because of it, by both men and women. It always made him laugh.

No one deserves to be treated that way for being themselves. 'Just because you can doesn't mean you should' is the reasoning he often used, when he listened to his own advice, always more than often.

That's what drew the majority his further looks to the back seat from that point on. His original intention was to only flirt and look at boobies. The back seat though, was a whole new story, as he observed as much as he could through quick and constant glances between it, and the road. He decided to wave to the car as a whole.

Melissa kept turning away from him every time he looked towards her. He was making her nervous. He knew her type as well, she did not understand him, and she never would. Wyatt made little sense to her because he wasn't only looking at breasts, or eyes, he was reading, thinking, learning, and defining to his own accord. He said 'to hell with convention' from head to toe. He was doing, and rejecting, everything she was studying to be, and he was doing it casually. Melissa could also tell he was doing it better than her professors (like that?).

"That's some personality," Wyatt thought to himself while she avoided his eyes, he watched the dark brunette go flush, her cleavage, face, and neck going red. Those types of females make great friends, because they were honest with their feelings by fighting them. "I bet she's a riot when she's stoned," he thought to himself as memory flew back to all the women in his life that he dated, that loved him, and that he did not love back.

Melissa was fighting a smile for his wave, and the protective crotch of her bikini bottom felt slick. "Why is he turning me on?" Melissa though sickly to herself despite her warmth, as a car appeared on the horizon.

"Car's coming, what do you think he's gonna do?" Allison spoke up when she saw the car in the distance ahead. She was the only one at first, as she was actually driving now. Had she been of another type, his rejection would have brought self inflicted cuts. She was hurt until she recognized he could not be that attracted to her from a moving car, and most of her assets were hidden.

"He's just some guy flirting in a car," Allison was convincing herself silently. "Maybe he just likes cars not girls. Maybe he's gay or something. Maybe he has a girlfriend and-" she was laughing out loud right after Melissa made some joke, but before she could finish the thought. "Men like that never had girlfriends," her humor racked brain soon resolved, "they're whores." The though was turning her on. She was glad for Melissa's joke masking her awkwardness at just the right time.

Jennifer glanced at the car coming, in anger, noting it was a far way off still. "Why isn't he looking at me," she could not wrap her head around the concept, and she was trying full steam. "What's wrong with him," she continued thinking, sticking her breasts out and touching her nipples for his attention, while looking out the front window. Her thinking was entirely: "Now he'll look at me."