I am not a materialistic person—except when it comes to cars. From the first time I drove a Bavarian sports sedan 35 years ago, I have been ruined for anything without wide tires and a growling autobahn attitude. I've had a bunch of them, usually leased by my business and vaguely justified by the amount of business driving I do. Normally frugal, I have loved every guilty mile.
I had just completed a productive year when my lease came up for renewal and the firm rewarded me with a car allowance large enough to pay for an especially decadent car. In addition to its engineering excellence, the car had an elegant interior, upholstered in leather so soft and fragrant that it seemed to soak into your pores.
My wife, Fiona, has her own history with performance cars and when she suggested that we go to dinner and for a drive afterward, I suspected that she might something more in mind. Fiona is the ultimate cool blonde. Particularly in public she is reserved and often difficult to read. That night was no different. Dinner was at a quiet neighborhood place that we both enjoy. We split a bottle of wine and then lingered over desert, talking idly and flirting in a very low-key way. After a long while, Fiona suddenly stood and announced, "Let's go for a drive."
She then led me to the car and kissed me deeply as I held the door for her. By the time I was behind the wheel, Fiona had reclined the passenger seat and was sprawled cat-like on her side facing me. She kissed my cheek and put her hand on my crotch. "Take me some place dark," she whispered.
