[media-credit name=”Natalie O” align=”alignright” width=”220″][/media-credit][media-credit name=”Ian Sander” align=”alignright” width=”250″][/media-credit]Road head is a lost art. Back in the days of curfews, navigating road head was almost as crucial as navigating my trusty Garmin. See, my parents instigated an early, rigid curfew to keep me “safe,” but hah, joke’s on them. Guess who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt?

The concept of road head sounds like pure gold. Turning driving into a sex act? Hell yeah! It makes all of those hours at the DMV worth it, so that you can wave around your underage I.D. proudly, because, yeah — you can’t get into the bar, but you can get it in on the highway.

While driving seems like an easy task (well, for males at least), try focusing on the road and not blowing a load at the same time. Activating both heads at once is like rubbing your stomach and patting your head: hard to coordinate and you tend to make stupid faces while doing it. It’s pretty easy for the girl to realize where the focus lies when he has to do a three-point turn and her head nearly goes through the steering wheel because the dumbass crashed into a mailbox. You think hickies are bad? Try covering up a lump on your forehead for four days.

Also, there has got to be a clear agenda for the guy, because he knows that once the destination is reached, he better be ready to cum and cover. Otherwise it’s blue ball city all the way home. Getting road head: cool. Jacking yourself off while driving alone: problems.

But sometimes the guy can get all shady on you. The girl’s down there trying to hold on as if it was a joystick in the championship Ms. Pac Man game, and taking the inevitable throat weasels that come when the road decides to find every fucking bump west of the Mississippi and throw it on your route home. Meanwhile, the guy is continually repeating the phrase, “Almost there, almost there,” when she finally looks up and snaps, “Exactly how long do you plan on being ‘almost there?’” and discovers that they’ve been circling the Albertson’s parking lot for the past 12 and a half minutes. Dick.

The sketchiest part of all is when you’re using your parents’ car. They always pick the most inopportune time to do something way fucking too precious like going to a pumpkin patch, or something oddly sacred like picking out a Christmas tree, and end up discovering a spew of baby gravy on the center console. Turning it around to be their fault for giving you too early a curfew to properly fellate usually doesn’t work, but it’s worth a try, right?

Also, I should probably mention that this is definitely a nighttime activity. No matter how drunk you may be, daylight is still daylight, and people can and will see inside your car. There are many ways to thank your D.D. for driving you home, but take a rain check on the road head. Get it on once you get home. Delayed gratification, my friend.

The glory of getting road head makes you feel like P. Diddy emerging from his Dirty Money photo shoot: a straight baller. The girl may walk away with a pearl necklace, but the true satisfaction of finishing a job can’t go unnoticed. Actually, maybe that’s where Ke$ha got the line, “Wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy.”

I realize that road head may not be the most practical way of getting it on — not just logistically speaking, but also because of the price of gas. So look at it this way: This is a hummer that’s good for the economy. You’re gonna need to get home somehow, so you might as well make the most of it, eh?

But I should warn you, road head is not for the weak. In fact, it may even be illegal. Regardless, I foresee a lot more late night grocery store runs. I hear they’re pretty lenient on the 10 items or less line after midnight …

Daily Nexus sex columnist Elizabeth Brooks will be stocking up on the Listerine.