I want to buy an Aston Martin DB9. I want it in ash grey. You know, the kind of car that makes ugly men feel fine, and fine men feel alive. I’ll run it up and down this roads day in and day out. From the beauty shop to the outlet malls. Drive it and drive it until the phone lines buzz in time with the engine, ‘till the gray streets are dark with tread.
I won’t need a radio, nope. Just the whistling of breath stolen gawkers and if my man wants to ride maybe I’ll let him… but only if he takes his shoes off. He’ll get in, leather and Turtle Wax mixing with his masculine designer scent, wearing that shirt I love so much he will lean across the upholstery and whisper “Nice car.”
Then we let loose with his free kind of laugh, throaty and honest. We’ll grind that damn machine until the hubcaps tremble and the bumper shakes. And when it’s all said and done, when my midnight dream rattles at stoplights and smokes when it’s cold. We’ll park; sip fancy wines with Italian names, while the neighbors polish up their compacts and mini-vans. We laugh like gulls at high tide. Sigh… that’s the dream.