The police officer comes to my window, now open. He asks me for identification. I feel small as I hand it over. I'm sure he's shocked to see my age, because in the course of questions and statements I swear he mumbles, "Aren't you a little old for this?" I give him my name; I give him Nic's. (His real one, not "Sexboy.") The cop asks me establishing questions, but the one that stands out is "Do you want to be here?" I stumble on my answer, because it seems absurd. Does he mean being questioned by a cop? Then no. Does he mean with Nic, fooling around? Then yes. I answer in the affirmative. He hands back my driver's license and advises that we should find a better place for... this. 

Nic gets back in the car, and once the coast is clear, the headlights have flashed and turned, we giggle awkwardly. We exchange our stories, and he's also puzzled by the cop's last questions, until the light bulb sparks on and we realize that the cop was making sure I wasn't being raped. I have an immediate feeling of affection for that officer, trying to save me, and then the disappointment he must have felt that I was just a (newly minted) tramp. We dress and decide it's time to get our seats and popcorn.

I don't last much longer with Nic — once he starts playing games, I realize he's more invested in this than I am. I take the next year to have my fun, until I grow tired of my sex-as-validation routine — it requires work and a callousness that isn't who I inherently am or want to be. 

I don't have car sex after him either; I find the fear of getting caught again isn't exciting so much as humiliating, like a twelve-year old getting caught jerking off to his dad's Playboy. I fought the law and won, but I don't want to press my luck.

What I did learn that night was more valuable than a night spent in jail would have been (I'd like to think). Before Nic, I was awkward, nervous, and insecure about my body and my lack of experience. With him and after, I realized that sex wasn't about shame but about adventure and fun. I learned I could have sex "like a man," a phrase I never understood until I could depersonalize like a gigolo. It may not be what I want, but I could be that. I did have power, manifesting from something sexual but really being about being able to command and dictate what I wanted and who I was. 

My number remains in a single digits, but I'm no longer ashamed of that. Without learning that — in the way I did — I'm not sure I could feel as beguiling in sweatpants as stilettos. My current boyfriend is often surprised and teasing about my prowess, reserved for him. He reaps the benefits of my car sex, and the bolder version of me that emerged.

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