My Night with an Exotic Part 2
When I last left you all, I was pulled over by the police, freaking out. I seriously thought that my one night would only last a few more minutes.
But it didn’t.
The police officer came up to the driver’s side window and asked me to rev the engine a few times for him. I obliged and he smiled.
A fan no doubt.
He explained that he simply pulled me over to ensure the paperwork was in proper order, made a few inquiries and went on his way. A very nice gentleman but getting pulled over always makes your heart pump a million times a minute and gets the adrenaline going. But that’s now over and I need to make a decision… where to go? East or West?
North.
Guelph.
Why? The reason is pretty simple actually. My friend spends quite a bit of time in Guelph. Now, that particular question of why isn’t so simply answered. We’ve often wondered why, but on a personal note, we figured it out earlier this year. It’s the same answer as always. But at the time, I needed to see what the fuss was all about. I’ve heard stories, I need to see the car grace the tattered streets and be a sight that people marvel at.
The perfect spot for a few hours. With me behind the wheel.
Given my recent run-in with the police, I was originally thinking about avoiding the downtown area of Guelph. There’s always a police presence, always. I’ll deal with that though, this is something I need to do. After trying to avoid the potholes and extremely rough roads, I reach my first of many destinations.
I was told about this phenomenon known as Funk Night at the Albion Hotel. I park the car about a block away and make my way inside. It’s a quant club with multiple floors but it really didn’t hold my interest. Until word spreads a little bit that there’s a Ferrari outside. And I’m inside, with the keys.
The owner of the car is a rare guy. He just turned 28 but absolutely refuses to take full advantage of the piece of art on wheels that he owns. Take it to a swank nightclub? Nope. Proudly display the keys for people to see? Nope. How about wearing a Ferrari shirt while driving the car? Nope. In his words “…that would make me look like a douche.” Nice. All of his friends pound their heads against the wall. Why must he be so difficult? Life should be easy but it isn’t for him, and it’s by choice.
Morals, standards and ethics? What are those? Hell if I know, I won’t let that ruin my fun. Giddy up.
I stride on to the dance floor, with a level of confidence I’ve never had before in my life. It’s a little strange but makes complete sense. Having a car like that, if only for one night, is an ego booster.
A few girls make their way over to me, and I play along. A few pleasantries are exchanged, but they just don’t do it for me. Normally I’d be all over them, but I’m not wasting the rest of the night on them. I leave shortly after and walk towards the car. There’s a small crowd looking at the engine in the back. Whoever thought about putting a piece of glass over the engine bay was a genius. It’s so unique and different, that people can’t help but look.
I walk over and push down on the remote. The lights go off and the siren serenades two chimes. Their attention immediately shifts from the car to me. Who could be driving such a car?
Me.
That’s right. I’m about to sit in that Ferrari. I casually strut over and when I say strut, I mean strut. I’m feeling like a million bucks, someone straight out of GQ. I jump in the drivers seat and let the car warm up yet again. I hear a small knock on the passenger window and notice a pretty nice set of breasts pressed up against the glass. Amused, I open the window. The girl brings her head down and asks me if the car is mine. I confirm her hope and offer to take her for a drive. She ditches her friends; I can hear some of her girlfriends calling her a whore.
Nice.
She jumps in the passenger seat and I take a small trip around the block. She begins to tell me a route I should take. I comply. A few minutes later, I end up at her place. Wait? What? Yep. I get taken back to her place…
I would normally say that I’d leave the rest of the details to an R-rated blog entry, but nothing happened. Not worth it. I end up leaving and return back downtown. Right now you’re probably thinking I’m pretty gay. But I’m not. Far from it. Like I said earlier, I would have been all over it but tonight is special and I’m holding out.
I can only do so much after all.
I get back downtown and look for a second place to go to. I drive right past the one pub I’ve been told that under no circumstance am I allowed to go to. When you get told that, there’s something inside you that says, “Go ahead, you know you want to”. But I need to respect the owner and pass it with only a few seconds of hesitation. In general, the streets of Guelph aren’t that busy and I decide to leave. I head back south. But that question of East vs. West rears its ugly head once more.
I reach the base of highway 6 and must make a choice… Hamilton is much closer, so Hamilton it is. Downtown Hamilton has a cool little area called Hess Village. It’s a series of a few bars on one street. You can bounce between them. In years past I’ve seen guys in Corvettes show up and think they are the coolest guys imaginable.
Out classed.
In Southern Ontario, the Corvette is the unofficial car of a midlife crisis. They are everywhere. And behind the wheel of each and every car, is a 40-something year old man wishing he were young again. But don’t we all? When you show up to a club, pushing the high 30s, or past 40, trying to pick up a 20-something girl, I lose respect for you.
When I get to Hess, there’s a blue Corvette with chrome rims sitting nearby. The guy had to be about 38, hitting on a group of three girls, likely 23 tops. I pull up pretty close, getting out of the car, looking better, being much younger (25) and quite a bit more attractive.
The girls ditch the old guy and come my way. He’s pissed. He tries to tell me that I’m driving a rental. Of course I deny it within a second of the statement. It isn’t a rental; it’s my friend’s. Big difference. I tell him it’s June and the weather does not necessitate a leather jacket. I’m a fan of leather but in the summer… leave it to the guys on the bikes. Not an overpriced car.
He gets pretty close, trying to verbally beat me down, but I trade each barb with my own. We’re getting pretty loud and guess what?
The girls are getting turned on. Sweet.
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