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1984 Trans Am. Not quite mine, but as close as I could find.
She was beautiful . . . the perfect balance of flash and class . . . long and lean with just the right amount of curve. Her voice had that low, throaty growl men are powerless to resist. She inspired desire in all that laid eyes on her and no one could avoid looking. She was every teenage boy’s wet dream and the answer to any male midlife crisis.
She wasn’t my first dance, but once I felt her power surging through me as the pavement was devoured by her sleek, sloping frontend, there was no going back. She forever eclipsed the allure of the petite, foreign cuties I had boogied on down the road with before. I sold the TR8 and let the spouse-of-the-moment have the Alfa Spider. I stopped lusting after the 911.
There was something about the weight of her and the way her low-profiled, 101-inch base hugged the road. I was never happier than when I was wrapped in her butter-soft leather, Recaro seats pushing the RPMs toward redline. She was raw power and sex appeal. She was in-your-face with not one wit of apology about her. All-American muscle – built-to-spec down to the factory-painted, Vette louvers on her rear window – she was special ordered by a retired cop. He may have had her built, but she was meant for me.
I left her behind with all my other dreams when I fled to Washington. She was a California girl in every respect. It’s where she belonged. T-tops and ground effects weren’t designed for the road and weather conditions where I was going. I needed four-wheel drive, not cross-fire fuel injection. My heart broke as I watched her pull away ablaze in all her glory . . . seducing her new driver as she once had me.
I couldn’t replace her if I wanted to . . . she was a once in a lifetime love. I’m good with my current little, front-wheel drive, fuel-efficient model. It meets my needs. Still, when I close my eyes, I can feel the wind in my hair as I would fly down the open desert highway – tops off, engine in overdrive – behind the wheel of my ’84 Pontiac Trans Am. Don’t call her a Firebird or I’ll have to hurt you. Anyone even thinks firechicken and they’re going down! And you thought I was going to be all serious and stuff. *wink*
Miss Demure Restraint 