I love love LOVE the Porsche Cayman. I have from the second I saw it the first time. I am almost sure, although I don't want to over promise, but there is a strong chance I would be able to solve world peace while driving around in that car. And I would feel like a rock start doing it. No more suites for me; my new Cayman wardrobe would be the Beyonce body suite and 5 inch heels. You would never see me wear paints again.
This isn't a mild fancy like when people say "I really love the way BMW's drive." This is a serious infatuation. I can sense when one is pulling up next to me at a stop light. I'm sitting there, minding my own business, and here comes that beautiful sleek profile sliding herself right next to me. I am gone. It is orgasmic, just seeing that flirty little vixen gets me off. (Yes, I said orgasmic, now please, re- focus…I'm trying to tell a story here).
Picture it, I'm sitting at a light, enjoying my full sun roof, extra cup holders, and anti-lock breaks singing along to Elle Varner. Then this shiny silver Cayman siren saunters up next to my Tiguan. The purr of her engine as it idles let's me know she goes fast. I don't know if the driver is playing Rihanna's "Birthday Cake" or if it is just playing in my head. Either way, I wanna put my name on it.
I've never been the "I love your fast car" girl. But when this one pulls up, I look at the driver, whose name could be Bob, sitting there with his receding gray hair line and "its been a good life" beer belly. My mind wanders - "If we went out for one drink, he might just let me drive."
I don't ask, even though I want to. I let Bob go off into the sunset to deal with his mid-life crisis in MY car alone. I think it is selfish on his part, to keep me from her like this. Considering all the things I could do in that car -- including solve world peace. I might have to talk to him about it at the next light.
Your BC Girl has icing on her fingers
