“Sexy, sexy, sexy. If you like that sort of thing.”
Brown doesn’t avoid sexual references. In fact, there were several – as they related to the car, of course. The car, he writes, “turned out to be a beast of a machine. It was a sexy beast, too.”
The columnist attracted maybe a little too much attention to himself by driving the car. But that was unavoidable.
Crowds formed around the Gran Turismo Convertible in Northern Virginia parking lots. Women called out to me, especially when the car’s automatic convertible top was lowered. Some made unprintable verbal offers. My God! If they were cougars, what am I? I am 63, with rapidly thinning and graying hair.
But it’s not the one for me. I much prefer private indiscretion over public exposure, the latter of which is patently inescapable in a car with a deliberately provocative body and an exhaust note reminiscent of the call of the wild – or, in this case, the call of all law enforcement personnel within hearing distance.
I felt sheepish every time I pushed the throttle, emitting a deep, bass “varrrooommm,” appearing ready to peel rubber when all I really wanted to do was move gently from “stop.”