Sexualizing a Tractor

Psssst. Can you keep a secret?
I think I’m in love.

No, really. This time it’s different—I feel it deep inside, the way my pulse quickens, the way heat rises every time I’m near. When you know, you know, right? And I know. Ohhh, baby do I know. 

My love is bold. Impossible to ignore. Bright, commanding, always dressed to stand out. I can pick them out from a mile away, but even if I couldn’t see them, I’d know them by the sound—the low, throaty growl that vibrates through me, settling somewhere unshakable.

When I’m with them, it’s electric. The way they move, the way they let me take control, yet stay completely in charge. They’re strong—so, so strong—but there’s a precision in how they respond to me. Every lever, every switch, every slick, well-oiled gear feels like a secret shared between us, a quiet, knowing exchange that leaves me breathless.

My love is relentless. They take on anything and make it look easy, surging forward with that intoxicating hum, that powerful rhythm. They grip me tight, their strength surrounding me, making me feel unstoppable, invincible.

And they shine—God, do they shine. Gleaming under the sun, their every curve catching the light in a way that draws me closer. I can’t help myself. The way they smell, the way they sound—it lingers, gets under my skin, stays with me long after we’re apart.

But they’re particular, my love. They need tending. The right oil in all the right places. The right fuel to keep them running hot. It’s a careful balance, a kind of intimacy that’s ours alone. Knowing their needs, knowing how to meet them—it’s addictive.

I think about them constantly. I crave the way they make me feel, the way they roar to life under my touch. I wish we could spend all our time together, but I know it wouldn’t work. The fumes would be too much, the noise too loud. And let’s be honest—they’d never fit through the front door.

Because my love isn’t what you’d expect.
My love goes by the name of Crunch and Crunch is a 1982 Caterpillar 963 loader.