I pay attention to what a man drives�it�s an important window into his personality, but not in the way you�d think. I appreciate the fact that the average person in my age bracket does not have the financial wherewithal to select the exact automobile that most accurately reflects their personality, astrological profile, lovemaking style, whatever�otherwise I�d be driving a tricked out, cherry red K-series Blazer with heavily-tinted windows, and not a used Honda. Such is life. But there are a few cursory judgments I can safely make based on the particular vehicle a man drives and the condition in which he keeps it. Keep in mind, these are not industry standards, just my own personal guidelines gleaned from hard-won experience.
The Shit Heap: Here�s one to watch, as it can indicate either a hard-working guy, sans ego and on his way up, or a sociopath bent on destruction. I have dated both.
The hard-working guy will care for his shit-heap like it�s his decrepit grandmother who has the nasty but somehow charming habit of dropping logs while she�s walking. He will apologize all over the place for his car, but then render all apologies unnecessary by treating you like gold. The shit-heap�s interior will always be clean, but immaculate for dates. Though he doesn�t always have lots of money, he spends what little he has wisely and has a plan for the future. Incidentally, this type of guy is often a considerate and creative lover, as he feels he has something to make up for because he�s short on the bling. These guys are usually worth the effort, even if you occasionally have to get out and help push.
The sociopath, on the other hand, is easy to spot because EVERYTHING HE OWNS is in a deplorable state of disrepair, which he makes worse by frequent abuse. He has cheap shitty things not because he�s financially retarded, which he usually is, but because he lacks the commitment, maturity, and responsibility to save up for nice things and then take care of them. Make no mistake, he will treat you just as poorly. Example: I dated �Satan� my freshman year in college and he drove a 1978 Toyota Corona (that�s right, Corona, not Corolla), that he bought off a drunk Mexican guy for $200. It was piss yellow and the interior was filled with several pounds of broken toys, two years worth of dirty laundry, a bunch of dead leaves, and mold. The car was driven by a mixture of witchcraft and abuse and held together mostly with duct tape. He once tried to push it over a cliff, but it got hung up on a rock, so he gave up and kept it. The real mystery here is why I dated him, and I can only claim vast naivety and a poisonous writer�s curiosity.
The Sensible Car: This guy drives a late-model Japanese sedan, the kind Consumer Reports writers envision when they stroke themselves to sleep at night (sensibly, with lube and a tissue ready), and it�s most likely a subdued color like silver or that shiny beige that people like to call �champagne.� He is steady and reliable, but unfortunately you tend to have the same problem with him that he has with his own car: you can�t find him in that Great Parking Lot of Men because he looks just like everyone else. His clothes are unassuming, his conversation usually forgettable, and more likely than not, he�s dating you because he thinks he should. You come with check marks in several important columns, and he�s compiling data every minute you�re together, but it�s mostly based on other people�s opinions. Now, there�s something to be said for careful consideration of a major purchase and for taking other�s impressions into account, but it�s an unfortunate fact that many of these guys tend toward the less imaginative end of the spectrum, and it shows in the relationship. In bed he�s the firecracker equivalent of a Snap Pop. If you�re looking for more of an M-80, try�
The Cock Car: These are your drivers of Mustangs, Corvettes, Firebirds, even 3000GT�s�they like their cars LOUD, phallus-shaped, and brightly colored. Adhering to the evolutionary thinking behind brightly colored birds and insects in nature, they hope to woo their duller, smaller female counterparts with molar-rattling exhaust systems and excessive speed and lane changes. �Look baby, see how I penetrate this traffic with terrific noise and deft authority? That�s how I�m gonna penetrate you!� Unfortunately, that is how he�s going to penetrate you�shouting about himself in the third person and hammering away for about four seconds in the only position he knows and then slumping over utterly spent for the night. Funny how this applies to the performance of most American muscle cars, isn�t it? A good way to recognize this guy before you even have to end up in the parking lot with him: he�s the one who cuts off the ends of all your sentences, talks too loud, and tries to catch his reflection in shiny surfaces so he can see how cool he looks talking to a chick.
The Big Goddam Truck: There are a lot of these guys in Texas. The image of the rugged cowboy, the simple working man who�s not afraid to get his hands dirty but knows how to party just as hard as he works�they eat that shit up. These guys will purposefully pull into a dirt parking lot after a hard rain and spin their tires, just to give their truck that dingy patina of a hard day�s work. A few dings and dents don�t hurt either�after all this is a functional vehicle for a functional guy, right? Wrong. All this guy does is party. Those dings are from when his drunk friend, Mike, backed into a telephone pole, man, it was wild. Anyone who�s ever had a true working truck knows that that the fastest way to fuck it up grand-style is to take it muddin� and slam it over off-road trails at fifty miles an hour, which is this guy�s favorite thing to do, all the while shotgunning MGD and screaming his mating call, �WOOOOOOO!� If you don�t mind sitting bitch and being a glorified drink holder, this is the guy for you. For them, truck ownership is simply an excuse to dress sloppily, smell bad, and drink like an ex-con, all of which are a clever ruse to disguise the simpering little girl inside.
The Hybrid, or the Eco-conscious Car: Everyone knows him: he wears sandals and natural deodorant (which doesn't work-think "mountain fresh b.o."), voted for Nader, and has on and off flings with veganism. The intriguing thing about him is that he still maintains one hidden vice (coke habit, penchant for spankings, petty theft) and if you stick around long enough, you get to see what it is. His car looks like a bath toy, like if you squeezed it, it would squirt water and squeak, but he can tell you all the ways in which it is superior to anything else on the road, except, of course, a bicycle, but he's not that eco-conscious. In all other matters, he is like a walking Harper's index, but can't turn it off-he'll offer you percentages for things like personal feelings: "87% of the time I find myself really attracted to you, but then 12% of the time I'm just not"
"And the last one percent?"
"Margin of error."
Date this guy if you need community service hours, but otherwise, save yourself the sermon and move on
The K.I.T.T. Car: Remember Knight Rider? This guy never got over the fact that his mother�s minivan didn�t address him by name and make complex decisions for him. What he�s done now is buy a Civic and attach so many expensive little gadgets and LCD screens to it that it needs a whole other battery to run the electrical shit. The flat screen TV�s and GPS devices on the market (otherwise known as Manifestations of the Pointless Decadence of the Modern West) were invented specifically for him. This guy moves in an orbit of remote controls and touchscreens and would like nothing better than to have one for you, his latest accessory. Sex is Plug-N-Play and he brings as much ridiculous hardware to the bedroom as he does everywhere else. If anybody actually clicks on those �Enlarge your penis with this simple device� pop-up banners, it�s this guy.
And finally, The Luxury Car: The only guy I ever dated who drove a luxury car was a computer programmer who appeared to wax his eyebrows. This guy had serious issues. He was in his early twenties and owned a house in a bedroom community and still played Dungeons & Dragons. Not only that, he was the fucking Dungeon Master. (Before you even ask: I was set up with him on one date as a favor to a friend). His car was the most disturbing thing I�ve ever been in: waxed to a high sheen, fleshy leather seats, an instrument panel like you�d see in a goddamned SR-71 Blackbird. He drove it at a brisk crawl and never left the exit lane, and played Led Zeppelin very quietly in the background. It was like cruising in a very nice, airtight casket. In fact, everything about this guy seemed like he was preparing for a nice long slide into middle age and walking decay. When he dropped me off, I practically tucked and rolled.
I want to reiterate now that judging a man solely on what he drives is a heartless little shortcut, sort of like reading the Cliff�s Notes to Shakespeare: people who do it should be flogged in public. But don�t kid yourself either�that car spends a lot of time with this guy and may be able to tell you more about him than his mother, who is probably trying to pawn him off on the first girl who comes along with all her chromosomes intact. Listen to the car; run your hand over its dashboard as it carries you through red lights and around tight corners; feel its pain. It has much to tell you�