SEVEN40iL / GTA7

I’m not going to call this short story NSFW. It’s not explicit. However, it can have an effect. Rather than whinge about my overly indulgent, detail-orientated phrasing that could potentially lead to irksome feelings of mechanized erotica and inner debate regarding automotive paraphilias — save it for later. Or for ‘not ever’. It was a treat to write as an exercise. So, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did whilst putting it together.

If a Ferrari was a woman — a business man’s mistress — it might go a little something like this.

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Nobody walks like you do. You have your very own staccato beat proffered by both the hollow echo of those black Berluti wingtips on the cement and the metallic clink as you twirl that key ring over your pointer to strike your palm. I hear you from a hundred feet away as I rest there waiting for you all alone and on my own in such a cold and incommodious meeting place. But, these were the arrangements made by you. I am in no position to argue. You’re the boss.

A press of the keyless entry and I stir to see you close the distance between us. As you move nearer to me, it only becomes even clearer that it’s been far too long. Ah, the cursed black Gucci Caiman attache case that used to belong to your father. One of these days you’re gonna let me destroy that thing. Who needs that when you have me? Those keys briefly disappear out of sight right as the knot to your Brioni silk tie is pulled loose after a hap hazard unbuttoning of your shirt’s collar. I can feel your eyes on me as your suit jacket is relegated to hang over the handle of your valigia del commerciante. Hard day, honey?

The first touch happens with your skin meeting the flawless, chilly surface of the Argento Metallic’s layered clearcoat. Your stroke lingers over the high cut of a curvy hip before gliding down to skim along an impeccably flat stretch of my bodywork that has been conditioned by  design to be both graceful and athletic. It feels so good. Why don’t you come play for a little while? Let me take your mind off those numbers and lines that confine you day after day.

The Daytona-style trimmed leather driver’s seat gladly accepts the weight of your form as you settle in against the textured and drilled Nero upholstery. The voluptuousness of its considerable bolstering both supports and cradles to encourage clocking longer and longer spans of time behind the controls. A perfect fit.

There’s something about that key’s textured grip. The mix of the smooth chiseled veneer of the prancing stallion in contrast to the surrounding coarse material as it’s held between the sensitive pads of both your thumb and pointer finger. Then comes the intrinsic wave of excitement as the sensation of the carved metal strip rubs its ridges along the insides of the ignition’s tumbler. Don’t you love the way it feels going in?

Confidence demands a willing foot to find its place on the drilled brake pedal setting alight the two circular crimson lamps so artfully wrapped into the sculpted sheet metal of a muscular rear. A click of a tight fit precedes the magical twist. You know what’s coming. As if I were seeing you again for the first time, a celebration of colour dances across your face with electricity now flowing through my veins, which conceal miles of equally vibrant wiring. Switches, gauges, buttons, and displays come to life standing at attention. Missed me?

The rekindled round pair along with a matching bar across the top where back glass meets roofline dim as the dissonant sound of the high pressure fuel injection readies the striking of the match. Brighter than ever, the illuminated set of three now blaze with the sudden arrival of the growl that lies somewhere between rumble and snarl. Ahead, quad headlamps slice without hesitation through the invading dark of the night revealing your path. What was once a wall of porous white behind you now seemingly glimmers a supernatural shade of scarlet. I’ve missed you.

A flex of your ankle and you fan the flames burning inside my 5.7L twelve cylinder powerplant mounted before you only a few feet beyond your touch. Sprinting  towards redline, the needle passes along the satin black tachometer sailing by the large crisply printed numbers gracing midway between the seven and eight before collapsing back just as quickly. Matching drumfire explodes out of the rear quad exhaust reverberating against the cement of the empty carpark. The harsh blast ends with an intimidating crackle before settling down into what could almost be described as a purr of contentment. Five hundred and thirty-three horsepower never sounded so good to you.

Bypassing the dial controlling the opaqueness of the electrochromic glass panel, a finger curved over the raised switch situated to the side activating the roof’s motor. The smooth and graceful rotation brought it into an effortless flip down onto the rear deck aft of the cabin. With perfect timing of which only Mother Nature is capable, a pleasing yet brisk breeze skimmed the debossed ebony headrests and their contrasting white stitching. Exposed. You couldn’t ever resist the temptation, could you?

The late Monday night has drifted to somewhere in between damp and cool. Just another one of those exceptionally early spring mornings soaked in ozone with drying tarmac available to be used and abused. Its soundtrack — a subtle symphony of clicking traffic control devices, twittering katydids, and trilling crickets — is accompanied by a distant bass line thundering off shore over Hillsborough Bay. Your score is lacking the acrobatic and operatic vocals from our last little get together. The sounds I made when you lured me out and wound me up replay over and over in your head inching along the back of your neck only to tease their way down the skin against your jugular. Make me sing for you.

Pointer and middle fingers split to curve like mischievous bunny ears down around the polished t-bar shifter belonging to my electrohydraulic, six speed F1 box. If only you knew how good that feels. The muscles of your hand flex bringing the soft skin of your palm down against the bar. Another press of a leather sole to nudge loose a languid stretch of power from beneath the long and gently sloped sheetmetal of the hood. I can sense my playful coos melting away your hesitation. You know you want to.

Shoving it forward, you engage my drivetrain fully letting those Pirelli P-Zero Corsas rotate with the nineteen inch, five spoke wheels on which they are mounted. Coinciding with an obedient moan, both glowing needles now sweep along their respective measurements as we creep out onto the deserted street together. Rolling up to the worn white markings of the asphalt, stillness returns while you look at me. Be gentle.