Last night, I participated in Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction, a monthly LA show that made its San Francisco debut last night. The competition is split into two parts: in the first, contestants read prepared pieces of erotic fan fiction (topics last night included Animaniacs, Angry Birds, and the sitcom Family Matters). Before they read, contestants from the second round draw topics from a bag, and write their own pieces while the prepared works are read. Second-round topics included Watership Down, Carl Sagan’s Cosmos, and X-Men. I was fortunate enough to draw Driving Miss Daisy as my topic, and I’ve included my piece after the jump.
WARNING: Not Safe For Work. Not safe for anywhere.
Riding Miss Daisy
"Careful with how you’re swinging that big thing around!" exclaimed Miss Daisy, as Hoke Colburn steered the black Packard onto the main road.. "We’re headed to the Piggly-Wiggly, not the Talladega Speedway!"
"Yes, Miss Daisy," said Hoke, wiping the sweat off his brow. It was hot in the car, but Miss Daisy never let him turn on the air conditioning.
"Why, they way you whip the wheel around, it’s almost like you want to plow into someone," Miss Daisy exclaimed, unfastening her ruffled collar and waving a paper fan next to her face.
"Sorry, Miss Daisy," said Hoke, unable to keep from glancing at Miss Daisy in the rear-view mirror. Her leathery, sun-baked neck was exposed, and Hoke had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road.
Miss Daisy gazed at Hoke’s strong black hands, rough from years of gripping the wheel but surprisingly tender. Hoke swung into the right lane and accelerated past a slow-moving jalopy with ease, almost caressing the wheel as he made the pass. Miss Daisy unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, exposing a neck that hadn’t known the lips of a man since the Great Depression.
"Do you, Hoke?" she asked. "Do you want to plow into something?"
Hoke raised an eyebrow as he looked back, his manhood trembling in his poor, workman’s trousers. He could handle the old Packard in any weather or traffic conditions, but damned if he could marshal his desire for this bewitching old woman. “The older the grape, the sweeter the wine,” he heard in his head, and quickly tried to banish the words of the old Negro spiritual from his mind. This was his employer! And this was Georgia in the late 1950s, probably, the wi-fi connection in the bar was spotty.
"Miss Daisy, I don’t quite take your meaning."
Daisy Werthan hadn’t driven a car in a dozen years, and hadn’t known the touch of a man since twice that. But even as Hoke tapped the brakes to avoid a fallen peach tree, she knew she could never tap the brakes on the desire that was rapidly flowing up from her long-dry vulva, her years-barren ovaries, coursing through her all the way to her primitive pacemaker.
"Hoke, pull the car into the orchard," she said.
Hoke looked back in surprise. Had she sensed how he yearned for her, more than he yearned for a race-blind society? He turned to meet her eyes, and though Hoke was illiterate, he could read the look on Miss Daisy’s face as clear as he could Martin Luther King Junior’s Letter From a Birmingham Jail.
"I need you to give me a different kind of ride today."
"But what about the Piggly-Wiggly?" he asked, with a wink.
"Let’s just focus on the Wiggly, Hoke," Miss Daisy said, as she shrugged off her blouse.
Hoke nearly swerved into a ditch as he saw the valley of her cleavage, her languid breasts sagging nearly to her waist beneath the taupe brassiere. He had fought in a war and had his countrymen spit on him when he returned, been harassed at the polls and seen his sharecropper parents driven from their home by cruel white plantation owners, but never had his passions been as enflamed as now.
Behind a patch of bougainvillea, Hoke slammed on the brakes, and quickly moved to the back seat. He’d opened the door for Miss Daisy a thousand times, but this time he wanted to open up more. She reached for Hoke’s belt buckle, hands trembling in the early stages of Parkinson’s disease, and it only served to accelerate his tumescence.
"Hoke," she said. "You’re my best friend."
"Miss Daisy?" he questioned, tossing his chauffeur’s jacket into a peanut patch.
"But now, you’re my friend with benefits," she said. She smelled like lavender perfume and stale hard candy - but Hoke was even harder than that candy - and he wanted to make Miss Daisy twice as sticky. He pushed up her petticoat and slowly traced his fingertips along her varicose veins. "Heavens to Betsy," she sighed, "You do always know how to navigate."
Hoke’s pants hung around his knees as Miss Daisy tweaked his nipples. His cock was free, free at last. “You may not be allowed in my bathroom, Hoke,” she said, “But I want you inside my yearning, born-in-the-19th-century pussy.”
"But what about Jim Crow?" Hoke whispered
"Forget Jim Crow, Hoke, and fetch a jimmy hat out of that glove box."
Hoke spat into his palm, and then spat again, rubbing his hand on her dessicated vagina. As he probed a finger inside of her, he thought of all the times he’d driven her to church socials, to the beauty parlor, to the premiere of Birth of a Nation, all the while never imagining the carnal heart that beat in her racist, privileged, white chest.
Miss Daisy moaned at his touch and cupped her trembling hands around Hoke’s quivering testicles. marveling at their weight and their tautness. He moaned and stroked the tip of his member across her vulva, the sandpaper-like texture repulsing and exciting him in equal measure.
He paused at her entrance until she slipped two liver-spotted hands around his ebony buttocks and whispered, “Hoke. It’s time to drive.”
Needing no further encouragement, he slid his throbbing mass into her. With the first thrust, he heard one of Miss Daisy’s hips shatter; with the fifth, the other one popped as well. “Ohhh, Hoke,” she whispered, “Please don’t tell my son.”
"You mean Dan Aykroyd," he panted.
"Yes. He’s in this movie, you know. And he’s very chubby."
Speaking of chubby, Hoke had gotten even harder upon thinking of Miss Daisy’s employer. He was fucking Miss Daisy, true, but he was fucking the whole system of oppression as well. As he rhythmically pounded her, he thought of the slights, the insults, and the spare but palpable kindnesses shown to him by Miss Daisy.
And then she slid a finger into his butthole.
He gasped, his prostate stimulated even more than his sense of social propriety.
"Fuck me, George Washington Carver" shouted Miss Daisy, showing the first signs of the Alzheimer’s that would confine her to a nursing home by film’s end. He was not George Washington Carver, but he knew hundreds of uses for a penis.
And as Miss Daisy suffered a mild stroke, the quivering proved to be too much for Hoke, and he exploded in an exaltation of passion, relief, and reparations.
They lay next to each other, exhausted. After what seemed like hours, Miss Daisy finally spoke.
"You clocking out already, Hoke?"
Hoke looked at her with a hungry grin. “Miss Daisy? It’s time to take out your teeth.”