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Female Driving Instructor - Dear Hanzy

Dreaming about a lovely Frau driving instructor.

John R. Killion
Feb 24, 2011
Illustrator: Tris Mast

Mein Hanzy:

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Last night I dreamt that my regular driving instructor was unavailable and I found myself paired with a lovely Fraü. We set out on the track in her stunning, white 911 Turbo and after a couple of laps I looked over at her and noticed that several of the buttons on her blouse had somehow become undone, revealing the better part of two very attractive and quite pert examples of Nordic breeding. She was driving fast-very, very fast-and I was becoming dizzy and the effect of all this was nearly overwhelming. All the while this lovely Fraü was standing on the throttle and hammering the gears as if she were conducting the Brandenburg Symphony Orchestra. I’m not entirely sure, but she may have been humming Strauss.

Through my terrible tunnel vision and general state of horrible confusion, I became aware of her right hand on my knee as we pulled back into the pits. We drove past her husband to which she gave the finger, saying to me in a thick German accent, He’ll be polishing your car later. After we parked, she pulled off her helmet with a practiced and rakish abandonment, casually tossing her head back and shaking out her requisite blonde hair ... which set those two vunderbar orbs of pure white Swiss chocolate chortling and rolling like ... well ... need I say more? I was the lucky kid in the candy store. She gently cooed, Now you can take me for a ride.

I found her pigeon English to be quite beguiling and I was surprised to discover that my breathing was beginning to return to normal. She glanced over at my old and beloved 944 as if it were a quaint old cottage with a decent view and declared it marginally adequate. We rolled out of the pits and the next thing I know we are blasting around the track. While careening nearly out of control going into turn three, she shouted, Stop the car, schnell, and take me right here you Irish clod. With that she tore open her blouse and the Swiss Alps flourished before me. I banged Third gear at the top of the hill and she let out a feeble and very feminine, Oooo. Clearly impressed with our rapid progress-down-hill-she began to moan and say my name, Oh ... Jo-hann, Jo-hann ... Oh, Oh ...

Just before the turn-in point at the carrousel, she casually laughed and tossed her button-less blouse out the window, and it immediately snagged upon my rear wing and was now violently flapping in the slipstream; inspiring cheers and guttural taunts from the heathen corner workers.

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Well, my long-suffering friend, as you can imagine from your tedious and trying association with your humble narrator, I blew a high-amperage fuse. We flew off the edge of the track and my clothes and the rest of hers were off before the car stopped spinning. Feeling very little need for any half-hearted attempts at foreplay, the entire adventure was consummated in record time, and let me tell you she was most pleased and grateful by my performance. At the moment of truth, she bellowed, Oh, Oh ... OH ... LAAAAATE AAAAAAPEEEEEX! She left claw marks in my carpets and I thank God I still had my helmet on; I think she tried to bite me.

As we laid with our bodies entangled and our helmeted heads occasionally bumping in a most charming and endearing manner, she whispered about setting me up with a place near the Nurburgring, and getting me a part-time job as a factory driver, maybe just with Audi at first, but it’s a place to start. So, as you can see, this was turning out to be a really good dream but then, all of a sudden there was the Track Master, sticking his head into my window while surveying the scene and stammering, Two wheels off, two wheels off! You got two wheels off, you know.

By John R. Killion
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