"Why Do Men Love Their Cars and Drive The HELL Out of Their Women?"

Prologue

"Girl every time, I look around he is wiping on that car!" she has said or "He acts like he loves that car more than he loves me!" or "He loves his car dearly!" Yeah these are only a few things that are said about men and their obsession with cars. But men loving a machine with no feelings, emotions, or God-giving ability to think, choosing a car, no, no, no! loving a car and literally "driving" the HELL out of their women?

                More than ten per cent of men love their cars more than their wife or girlfriend, a new survey has found.  Why? Well because cars are a part of them. Men talk about their cars as if talking about themselves. Except from gadgets, money, power...motorcycles and cars are very close to a men's heart. As for women, they love clothes, shoes, purses, and accessories. Women are more comfortable expressing their feelings directly and see the car as a separate entity. Not that women don't love cars. They do, but in a different way. In this affair of the heart as in others, women are monogamous and men are polygamous. You won't read about a female millionaire who squanders huge amounts of her money acquiring a stable of cars (unless she is in love with her chauffeur) but footballers who spend fortunes on car after car when they hardly have the time to drive one are commonplace. The bidders at auctions where gold-plated Bentleys and supercharged Ferraris change hands for millions are men.

            If you ask a woman what her first car was, she can always tell you. Chances are she gave it a pet name, drove it for years and cried when she had to sell it. It is equally likely that that she didn't keep it very clean and never polished it, and that it was always full of odds and ends, pillows, spare shoes, kids' stuff, rubbish of all kinds. When a woman drives her husband's cars, she is usually on notice that a scratch, spilt food and drink on carpet or upholstery, dog slaver on the glass or ash in the ashtray means she will never be allowed to drive it again. His car is part of her husband's self-image; her car is her dear friend and helper, her supermarket trolley, her baby-carriage. He would rather take the train than be seen at the wheel of her grubby hatch-back; she pilots his gleaming Range Rover through double-parked streets with her heart in her mouth.

            Much as he might love his car, no man weeps when he sells it on for a better one. The new car will be his passion; he is no more likely to regret the passing of the old one than he would the dumping of an old wife for a newer model. With his new car his youth is renewed; its increased performance endows him with vigor, which is why we see septuagenarian night-club owners risking their hair-weaves in open-top convertibles, regardless of the weather. And why men who have never driven off-road in their lives drive 4x4s caparisoned with bull bars, winches and spotlights.

            Women can be neglectful of their cars, and forget to put water in radiators, refill the washer tanks, replenish the oil or put air in tires but they don't deliberately mistreat them. You won't hear women boasting about how they wrote off a car or blew up its engine. The woman who drives a hundred miles with the handbrake on or the choke out, or leaves the lights on and flattens the battery, or crushes a wheel rim against a curb, can feel nothing but guilt and embarrassment. Men who write off or blow up cars do so deliberately and glory in the deed, stupid and destructive though it clearly is.

            Love, as we know, does not preclude abuse. What love requires in the case of cars is that none but the car's owner gets to abuse it. The already intense relationship between a man and his car is cemented by shared transgression. As car-and-driver run the gauntlet of speed limits, speed cameras and police stakeouts, and park on yellow lines and get away with it, they become partners in crime, bonded by their irrepressibility. Which might go some way to explaining why a man will so swiftly get ratty when other people insist on sharing his car. The sound of an extraneous voice saying, "Please slow down, please drive nicely, please don't knock over the traffic cone, please don't chase the car that just overtook you," disrupts the perfect communion between misbehaving man and accomplice car. And now that middle-range cars are equipped with satellite navigation systems, female passengers are not needed even for map-reading, which they were never very good at in any case. The ever-obedient, unfailingly responsive car now has an ingratiatingly servile female voice which begs the driver to "please prepare to turn left" but never to ease off the accelerator.

            A man who can never remember to use a lavatory brush or swill the shaving lather out of the hand-basin will devote hectoliters of water to washing his car. He will hose out the wheel-arches and remove every last insect corpse from the windscreen and the trim, and then leather off every inch of the paintwork so that not so much as a water-spot dims its radiance. A man who cannot tell you what color his wife's eyes are will be able to tell you all the specifications of his motor. He will know how it measures up against all the cars in its price range, year or model, and be able to prove that he is not the kind of sucker who buys the wrong car. The suckers are all the other drivers who think that they can cut him up at roundabouts or burn him off at traffic lights, all half-wits driving the wrong car and driving it badly.

                Though no man will admit that he has bought the wrong car, he remains on the look-out for a better one. The newsagents carry nearly as many car magazines as they do soft porn and men read them in much the same way. Just as they gaze at endless depictions of nice, round, fat derrieres on what appear to the uninitiated to be identical sexy babes, they contemplate image after image of what seems to be the same car. And they will remember which one is supercharged and which has optional four-wheel drive and how you engage it, and which has a movable steering wheel and which will raise itself to avoid raised manhole covers and which won't. The images are filed in an instant recall system. When an unfamiliar car flashes past, the car enthusiast can instantly identify it, even though he cannot easily bring to mind the date on which his first child was born. As Peter Marsh, one of the authors of The Secret Life of Cars and What They Reveal About Us, said that the attachment of men to their cars was often translated into feelings of annoyance at the threat, or potential, of someone damaging their vehicles. There is a survey in UK that shows that men love their cars more than their wives. So the question remains; Why Do Men Love Their Cars and Drive The HELL Out of Their Women? A study has revealed that cars feeds into the man's need for possession and a sense of belongingness and acceptance. Just observe and notice that men are very confident when it comes to car topic, almost any man can give his information on the subject of cars. They can speak and talk confidently to other men openly about their cars. It is that topic that engages men into conversation. Men have the highest number of visitors in online blogs of cars and asks the most number of inquires about car sales and car models.

            The old Freudian explanation of men's devotion to their cars used to be that cars satisfied automatic erection fantasies. The car is one female thing that a man can get inside of whenever he wants and it will provide unfailing evidence of his potency unless, that is, the two of them find themselves trapped in traffic. Then the man can only yearn towards what he and the car would get up to if they had the world to themselves. So much car advertising shows us man and motor alone together in the wild world that there must be something in it. In fact, this love affair starts long before puberty, when a boy baby meets his first wheeled toy and knows that it represents something that makes him go faster. The little girl may know it too, but she is less likely to care.

            Join me as I go through the history of cars and the history of men and our relationships with both women and our beloved vehicles together.  My sincere hope is that we both learn from the information that I have researched from not only my studies, but from living life as well with both loves of my life.....