The Butch Side of GayProf

I harbor a dark desire. Sometimes I think I have it under control. When I least expect it, though, the unquenchable yearning returns and haunts my sleep. There have even been times where I bought magazines with glossy photos to try to curb my interest. It has taken some therapy to admit it, but I am hopeful that I won’t lose anybody close to me over this. Yes, my friends, I lust for a seventies muscle car.

Sure, it seems like everything in GayProf’s life is golden tiaras and pillbox hats. Okay, it’s mostly golden tiaras and pillbox hats. I also recognize that I am the first person to toss out accusations of compensation for men who drive giant-ass pickup trucks (and there are many of those in Texas). So, feel free to heap on the criticism of hypocrisy.

Still, the recent introduction of the Dodge Challenger concept car at the Detroit auto show brought out my hidden secret and gender sterotype. Let's be honest, though, it's s-w-e-e-t.


Let me clarify some things. I ain’t one of those skanky, anything-with-a-big-engine-will-get-me-going sort of queens. No, no. I am particular in my tastes and those tastes involve only Mopar. That’s why the original 1970 Dodge Challenger exists as the greatest car ever built. Ever. With either the 440 six barrel or the 426 Hemi, this car kicked some ass and looked cool doing it.
Don’t even try to talk about Ford Mustangs. Yeah, they had some style. Let’s face it, though, every model year of Mustangs proved a pile of mechanical crap. Their little anemic engines never did anything. Nothing touches the 1970 Dodge Challenger.


So, I would kill for the new Dodge Challenger. Well, okay, maybe not kill (karma and all). Still, I would contemplate inflicting some serious bodily injury for a Dodge Challenger. Perhaps my love of Mopar goes back to my first car (My parents were, and still are, slaves to the Chrysler/Dodge family).

Yeah, we always remember our firsts fondly. The feeling of awkwardness mixed with excitement. Sure, we tended to be clumsy with the wheel at first, but it ultimately felt so natural.

In my case, I had a 1975 Dodge Dart Sport in fire-engine red. As muscle cars go, it had a modest slant-six engine with three on the floor. It would blow away almost any car on the road today, though. I loved its tank-like qualities and A-body style.


One of my greatest regrets in life involved getting rid of it. At the time, though, it had the inexcusable sin of lacking air-conditioning. In New Mexico, with a black interior, that proved almost fatal.

I also hated that it required me to spend yet more time with my impatient father learning how to do mechanical things. Crawling underneath the Dart to change its oil was, well, dirty. I didn’t like dirty at the time. Like with house repairs, my father predicted with Cassandra-like clarity that I would want to know how to do these things in the future. Now, like so many things, I see the error of my youthful ways. How many other folk can claim to have replaced their car’s radiator? Yeah, that’s right, GayProf replaced the Dart’s radiator. What do you think about that? Man, I want that car back (here I get a bit misty-eyed).

In the end, sadly, my practicality wins out over the dark desires. Now I will get into my Honda Civic (four cylinders, with barely 135hp) and drive away.