Yeah, I did. I’m not proud of what happened, folks, but I have to come clean on this matter…I’m only human, and I have my dirty little secrets, too. Here it is: I had impure thoughts and had a serious lapse in judgment. There’s really no excuse, but I was so smitten, so hot and worked up, so primally excited, that I got lost in the heat of passion and all reason and principle flew right out the open window. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and in all honesty it’s probably not going to be the last either.
It started with a simple glance and a fleeting thought, and ended with me taking a self-indulgent trip down memory lane with my first true love.
This afternoon, while boyfriend was at work and I had too little to do, I went out to run some errands. It was a gorgeous sunny day; I was driving through the desert, radio blaring, windows down, and the wind was in my hair.
That’s when the little siren came cruising up alongside me. I glanced over casually; suddenly, every ounce of blood in my body fled south. My mouth went dry, and a fucking tympany was pounding in my chest. Over in the next lane was the hottest, sexiest little beast I’d seen in ages – a wet dream, her obscene curves and lithe figure dressed outrageously in red. Even over the wind and my stereo, I could hear her voice — snarly and silky, sensuous and raw, seductive and dangerous all at once.
If you’ve ever seen a Lotus Elise at speed on the highway, you know exactly what I mean. The beast is pure sex. Hot, sweaty, raunchy, slam-you-against-the-wall-and-make-your-eyes-roll-back carnality.
I was mesmerized by her sleek lines, the waspish curve of her hips, her leering open-mouthed visage, the banshee wail of her exhaust and angry glow of her four round taillights as she pulled past me. I had no choice; I had to follow this beauty. With a sharp downshift and a blip of the gas pedal, I managed to keep on her tail.
At that point, I would have followed her anywhere, done anything to remain in her presence for another few minutes of sheer and absolute bliss. Even if that meant taking the next freeway exit, turning in at Jack in the Box, and going through the drive-through.
Yeah, that’s right. I blew my diet clean out of the water this afternoon, negating an entire weeks’ worth of hard work at the gym just to sit in line drooling over a damned car.
I’m not proud of the fact, but even knowing the caloric and gastronomic consequences, in all truth I’d probably do it all over again if I had the chance. I couldn’t help it; the sight of that four-wheeled vixen brought memories flooding back that I couldn’t ignore.
See, slinky little Lotuses always have been and probably will never cease to be my most enduring love. It’s an affair that began back in junior high, when I’d spend long nights pawing through the folded, creased pages of a magazine, tracing the rectilinear angles of a late-eighties Esprit coupe. It continued through high school; when other boys were having dirty thoughts about Jenny Gordon and Lacey Rodriguez, I was fantasizing about the things I’d do if I came home to find a shiny metallic blue Elán parked in my garage. And Jeremy Orcutt and Ellis Ott would surely want to hang out with me if I tooled around in one of those, I figured.
My love affair with the tiny Elán continued for years, through high school and into college. I nearly wet myself with excitement the first time I saw one – a shocking red missile – streaking down the road near my grandparents’ house one summer, and I had a then-inexplicable urge to get down on my knees and worship a guy who’d actually ridden in one once in college. When Lotus cut the car from its US lineup due to sluggish sales in 1995, I mourned and jealously hated Europeans, who got to keep the car for several more years. And when the stubby and odd first-generation Elise was unveiled as its successor, I viciously hated it just on principle.
Like all schoolboy obsessions, the Lotus’ luster waned over the years as newer loves came and went in my life. These days, the few remaining Eláns occasionally showing up on Ebay Motors (only 300-odd were sold in four years’ US sales, and yes, I check them out online every now and then and tell myself someday…) are considerably worse for wear, their fiberglass bodies faded, canvas tops ill-fitted and sagging, their once-sleek lines dated and quirky. More often than not, their then-vogue pop-up headlamps are permanently open, thanks to the wonders of the faulty electrical harnesses that plague limited-run British sports cars.
Still, you never forget your first real love. These days, the sight of a sinewy, brutish Elise or Exige rumbling around on the roads or a sleek and stunning all-new Evora in the pages of a magazine bring back that familiar rush of adrenaline, that giddy light-headedness, that teenaged tightening of the pants and beating of the heart the Elán did all those years ago.
And that’s why I found myself ordering an Oreo cookie shake, burger, and fries this afternoon. Love makes us do crazy, foolish things.