Driving With My Dick

Because Google Maps Doesn’t Offer a ‘Boner’ Route

Artist’s impression of my twenties

I’ve done a lot of questionable things while driving, but steering with my dick ranks high on the “this should have killed me” list. The fact I’m alive means either God has a sense of humor or he’s too busy watching porn to smite me.

The first time it happened wasn’t planned. Nobody wakes up and says, You know what would make the commute to work exciting? Genitals on the steering wheel. But boredom does strange things to a man, especially when you’re twenty-something, horny, and under the delusion that you’re invincible.

It started with road head because, of course it did. Road head is the gateway drug to every questionable driving decision. One second you’re trying to keep both eyes on the road while also praying the guy doesn’t scrape you like a gas station Slurpee, the next you’re thinking, Wait a minute. Could I…

Reader, I could.

That was the day I learned my dick could handle a straight stretch of highway. Not gracefully, but with enough pressure to keep me moving forward. The adrenaline was half terror, half orgasm, and I don’t recommend it unless you’ve always dreamed of explaining to a cop why your car smells like lube and panic.

What stuck with me wasn’t the thrill, though. It was the weird intimacy of it. Because in that dumb, dangerous moment, I realized I trusted my dick more than I trusted most men. I let it take the wheel. Literally. And it didn’t swerve or overthink and didn’t ghost me afterward. It just… kept going.

My dick has never left me on read. My dick has never claimed it was too busy. My dick has never panicked because intimacy was getting too real. My dick has never ghosted me… although sometimes it pulls a disappearing act and little blue pills have to drag it back from the afterlife. He tried mouth to mouth. Didn’t work.

So maybe I keep handing the controls to the wrong thing. I keep expecting men to drive steady when half of them can’t even indicate before they exit.

These days, I don’t let my dick near the wheel. I’ve grown, allegedly. But I do catch myself laughing every time someone says “Jesus, take the wheel.” Sorry darling, he already let me try.

I mean… I survived, but, barely.

And that’s the thing. It was never just the car. I have let my dick drive whole chunks of my life. I have chased men who were red flags in human form, the kind you could spot from space, but my dick saw “danger” and translated it as “tight hole, proceed immediately.”

I have walked into bedrooms I should have run from, convinced myself that sex could fix loneliness, and mistaken lust for something close to love. Every one of those detours looked fun until I realized they all ended in the same place: me sneaking out at 4 a.m. carrying my shoes like a one-man walk of shame parade.

Looking back, the worst crashes were never the ones with strangers. Those I could laugh off. It was the times I handed over the wheel to someone who swore they wanted to ride with me. The ones who begged for control, promised to take me somewhere new, and then bailed the second the road wasn’t smooth. My dick drove, but they were in the passenger seat holding the map upside down.

These days, I try to keep my dick in the passenger seat where he belongs. He still yells directions, still grabs at the wheel when I am tired, still insists he knows a shortcut. But I am learning how to tell him to shut up. I am learning that if I let him drive, we end up in the same place every time: a hotel room that smells like chlorine and shame.

The truth is, I’ve finally learned: he can ride shotgun, but he’s never touching the wheel again.

I’m writing an entire memoir, a podcast is being finalized, a streaming drama series in production and putting myself back together like I’m the Lego Death Star because of one psychotic dick I trusted.

Upside? Trauma makes great merch. Had he not taken control, none of the cool shit that’s been happening would have happened and I wouldn’t have gone back to writing erotica. Fiction? Please. Half of you are still jerking off to my diary. Which, let’s be honest, is just memoir with better abs.

Construction worker? Best memory ever, but that’s another story. A series actually.

We’re supposed to learn from our mistakes, and maybe I finally have, by turning tragedy into humor and life lessons.

But here’s the thing about dicks behind the wheel: they don’t plan routes, they just slam the gas. I’ve followed mine into more dead ends than Google Maps on crack. I’ve woken up in apartments where the sheets felt like sandpaper, I’ve skipped job interviews, skipped rent payments, skipped sanity just because a guy with shoulders like a Greek statue texted “u up.”

My dick doesn’t use indicators. He doesn’t brake, or stop for pedestrians, he sees an exit with “Toxic” spray-painted across it in red and says, ‘Adventure’.

There was the time I left a perfectly good date to follow a man who looked like he’d just escaped a Home Depot calendar. My brain was saying, “Fox, no, he’s trouble,” but my dick had already merged onto the freeway. By the time I caught up, I was in his shower wondering why there were three different bottles of 2-in-1 shampoo and not a single clean towel.

I questioned my life choices while lying in his bed staring at a motivational poster about teamwork while he snored like a dying lawnmower next to me.

And don’t even get me started on the long-distance disasters. Flights booked on impulse. Cities crossed for a blowjob that lasted five minutes and left me stranded in an Airbnb decorated entirely in IKEA sadness. Who needs a financial advisor when you’ve got a dick determined to ruin your credit score?

So no, I don’t let my dick drive anymore. But I’ll admit it, those wrong turns, wrecks, and dead ends? They gave me the best fucking stories. Which, let’s face it, is all anyone’s jerking off to anyway.

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