after two hours of nervous driving on the gravel road 
we entered, still steamy from the journey, 
the automatic car wash. a thick foam gushed 
from numerous nozzles and the inside went dark. 
i took his right hand and put it on my knee. 
instantly the world picture changed: as if whacked 
by an adrenalin brush, he pushed his hand 
upward: the moisture saturated the panties 
faster than the water cascading madly down the car's slopes. 
without shifting his torso, he suddenly thrust his hand 
under my bottom, his slender nervous middle finger 
starting to conduct a militant rendition of beethoven's ninth, 
known to me mainly from the clockwork orange: a philharmonic, 
a famous jewish soloist with a hard-to-remember name, 
a flickering lamp far away from the stage, 
and a hand conducting energetically. 
i pounced like a jaguar, opening the way 
for him, unzipped his dark blue bermuda shorts 
with side pockets to have the bloom come out, 
and a joyous, well-shaped dick was already wriggling 
in my mouth. i had my tongue bore vigorously 
until the sickly sweet topping reminded 
me of the circumstances. the dashboard clock 
indicated four minutes had gone by, if i had remembered 
correctly when we had slid in. big fan tubes 
were driving the car that shimmered 
in the unbearable sunlight of the hot summer afternoon. 
the green light came on and with a routine flick 
of his hand he put the stick in drive. 
the cashier at the exit waved 
a lazy goodbye.