My Car is a Woman

BLUESGUY:

There are how many psychologists in the world? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? We’ll probably never know, but there’s one thing for sure: every one claims there is a relationship between cars and sexuality.

Start with the basic idea that an automobile with a long hood jutting out from approximately the driver’s crotch level must be a penis substitute.

One would expect a mechanical penis to be vibrant, and strong, and ever-so-masculine. That could explain why those wimpy hybrids like the Prius aren’t selling in mass quantity. No one wants his own mechanical penis to look flaccid. I’ve heard it said that failure to recognize the car as a phallic symbol is the fundimental reason the Edsel failed in the market place. Instead of evoking a mental picture of the turgid male member, its grille had a much stronger resemblance to a vagina.

Then there’s the question of what women buy when they select a car. Was Freud right after all? Is this primal penis envy expressed as a marketing manifestation?

Uh… no. Most women are smart enough to choose a car which will display them to their best advantages. (Hey, would YOU date a woman with a penis? Even a virtual penis which accelerates from zero to 60 in 4.9 seconds? I didn’t think so).

It’s obvious at several levels that cars are much more like women than like men.

Every guy names his car after a woman. Watch how he touches her. Watch the attention he gives her. He knows “how to talk to her,” and frequently does. As they grow older together he learns her every nuance, and caters to each of her quirks.

Yes, his car is a woman. She’s the other woman in his life. After a few years his women (the mechanical one and the biological) may even start to resemble one another.

And on a cold morning, when he really needs her, he won’t be able to get either one to turn over for him.

SANGUINISTA:

The car…. meh.  It’s practical.  It’s kid-friendly.  It’s comfortable.   It’s economical.  It’s just…. meh.  And it’s definitely an “it”.

But my truck…   oh baby, I love my truck.  He’s tall.  He’s big.  He’s brash.  Nothing stops him.  He eats up the road with a roar, and purrs for me at the stoplights in a deep, steady rumble.

In the car, I’m invisible…  just another mom hauling kids and groceries.

In my truck, though, I get noticed.  As I cruise past a man, he’ll glance over, look again, and speed up just a little to to keep us in sight.  The Grand Prix full of teenage boys at the stoplight look, elbow each other, and look some more.  The guys at the gas station stand a little taller, suck in their guts, and watch me and my truck out of the corners of their eyes.

It’s heady stuff, being a woman in a truck.

Maybe I need to stop driving naked.

Discuss Is Your Car a Phallic Symbol? in the forum.

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