My Passion for Mustang Gts

Not all just about writing erotica, this story is about car buff stuff for car buffs. Peppered with humor, Susan discusses her other passion the automobile.

Mustang GT's and Mustang Cobras are my favorite cars and, wishing he was the Dad I never had, Carroll Shelby was my idol. God rest his soul. May he rest in peace in the great automotive junkyard, race track, and new car dealerships in the sky. I loved his cars the best. If I had grown up in Dallas, Texas instead of Boston, Massachusetts, I could have been a genuine cowgirl riding the range bareback on horseback. Only with so many tall, blonde, busty beauties in Texas, I would have gone unnoticed as opposed to the way that I was noticed walking around and working in Boston.

For sure, when not riding horses on the range, I'd be driving a brand new Mustang Shelby Cobra right now while making him proud. Mixing metaphors, only with horses so afraid of snakes, I always thought it odd that Ford would combine their Mustang pony logo with Carroll Shelby's snake logo. Just as in the way that he spent all of his money on racing and on making cars, I'd be spending all of Daddy's money not on men but on cars. I love cars and, never able to afford a Mustang Cobra, I love Mustang GT's the best.

"Hey baby. Want to ride around in my new Corvette?"

"No, sorry. I'm a Mustang type of girl. Ask me again, when you're driving a real car, a Mustang GT."

"You're just a bitch because your Dad is Carroll Shelby and my father is Zora Arkus-Duntov."

"Duh."

Excited enough about seeing a car show to endure the company of the non-stop, sexually inappropriate dialogue of my always incestuously horny brothers, my brothers were always attending car shows and I'd always tag along with them. With the four of them, the blithering idiots that they are going on about which car they'd buy, as if they had unlimited funds when most times they were unemployed, it was fun to watch them drooling over cars in the way that I was lusting over cars too. Somehow car shows and a tall, busty, beautiful blonde went well together and they seemed happy for my company while telling me why this make and model was better than that make and model.

In some ways, I enjoyed playing my role as the sexy baby sister with them as my big, bad protectors. With their hand always around my shoulder or waist and with their horny hands threatening to grab my ass at the most inappropriate time, secretly, showing me off as if I belonged to them, they enjoyed pretending that I was their much younger girlfriend. I'd leave them at the beer and hot dog stand to go my own way. Already prearranged where we'd meet, we met back at an agreed upon time when we had enough of lusting over new cars that we couldn't afford and were ready to leave.

Born, educated, and raised in Boston, because I lived in and grew up in and around Beacon Hill and Boston's Back Bay, we listened to NPR, National Public Radio's Car Talk with Click and Clack, Tom and Ray Magliozzi, also known as the Tappet Brothers. Broadcast from Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the radio for 35 years, nearly all of my life, with nothing really fun and funny about car repairs, those two guys made car repairs fun and funny. Even for me, especially for me, they made car repairs easy to understand by injecting huge doses of laughter with humor.

Making fun of one another, along with their telephone call-in guests who'd identify their automotive problems by making the noise associated with their car for one or both of the men to diagnose over the phone, both men could have been comedians instead of mechanics. They even had a car related puzzle for their viewers to solve and gave funny prizes to the winner. With both men graduates of MIT, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Tom has advanced degrees from Boston University. Intelligent, articulate, educated, and informed, the average grease monkeys they're not.

Even though I love cars and always wished I could afford a better car, I never had a really good car. I always had a Chevy or a Ford. Yet not settling for an old man's car, a used Chevy Impala or a used Ford Crown Victoria and willing to wait until I could afford a new car, I preferred new cars to used cars and two doors coupes to four door sedans. I preferred sportier cars with rear wheel drive, powerful engines, high back, bucket seats, and manual transmissions to family cars.

Being that my four brothers were all gear heads, loved Mustangs, and worked for different subsidiaries of Ford, until they worked for Ford directly in their factory building cars, my last two cars were new Ford Mustang GT's with standard transmissions. Even though I realize that the Mustang is not considered a true sports car, in the way that Porsche, Corvette, Viper, and some Audi, BMW, and AMG Mercedes models are, Mustangs are still a fun car to drive, especially in the GT version. Moreover, the best bang for the buck and the best sporty car that I could afford, with other true sports cars costing two, three, and many more times than a Mustang, without a doubt, even now, the GT is a lot of high performance car for the money.

Not nearly the same driving experience, it's sacrilegious to buy a Mustang GT with an automatic transmission. If you want a car with an automatic, as far as I'm concerned, buy a Hyundai or a Toyota. Yet, nearly 60% of all Mustang GT's sold today are equipped with automatic transmissions, which is why Ford charges a premium price for an automatic transmission by equipping their Mustang GT's with a six speed manual transmission as standard. If more customers opted for the manual transmission, then Ford would include the automatic transmission at no charge and list the manual transmission as a pricy option. Despite the driving sensation of manually shifting gears over having gears automatically selected for you, admittedly automatics have come a long way.

In some instances, removing the reasons for buying a standard over an automatic, as in the case of the Volkswagen's GTI, some automatic transmissions are a tick quicker from zero to sixty, to the quarter mile, and are a mile or two more fuel efficient at the gas pump than their standard counterpart. Yet, automatic transmissions are a pricy option and VW, as does Ford, charges a premium price for opting for the automatic transmission option instead of buying the car with the standard equipped manual transmission. Ferrari, say that it's not true, will soon no longer offer a manual transmission. All of their cars will soon be equipped with automatic transmissions. Enzo Ferrari must be turning over in his grave.

In the way that my brothers acted over their beloved Mustangs and assorted Mustang models, sort of like switching from Democrat to Republican or turning Muslim from Catholic, I once bought a new Camaro Z28 over a new Mustang GT. Doing everything short of keying my car, I never heard the end of my decision to swap my automotive allegiance from Ford to Chevy. It was if I had denounced the Boston Red Sox and become a dreaded New York Yankees fan.

Not since the time they caught my mother with three midgets, when the circus was in town at TD Garden, or caught her with sailors, when the naval fleet was in Boston Harbor, I've never seen my brothers so angry. Die hard Ford Mustang fans, perhaps I bought into the Chevy bowtie instead of the Mustang pony to anger my brothers. Truth be told and as an aside, even though I love Mustangs, with the Corvette the top of the heap of American sports cars and with Cadillac a much better car than a Lincoln, General Motors makes a better car than Ford with Chrysler a distant third, always has and always will.

Forget about Japanese and German cars, still holding a grudge going back to World War II because they tried to kill my grandfather, whoever he was, I wouldn't be here if my grandfather had been killed in combat. Had they won the war, we'd all be speaking German and/or Japanese today instead of destroying the English language by combining American slang with Boston, New York, New Jersey, mid western, Californian valley girl, and southern accents that no one from outside their areas can understand or tolerate without poking fun at them. Truth be told, something that never made any sense to me, I don't understand why a Jew would buy a German car after what the Germans did to their people. Maybe Jewish people are bigger than me to forgive but never forget what happened in the past for the sake of owning a quality, German engineered car.

Perhaps if Israel produced automobiles, bulletproof cars with a machine gun turret attached to the roof in the way of an armored tank, they'd buy cars produced by their own country in the way that I more favor American cars, even though most American cars aren't made in America. Although I love 3-series BMW's, I'd never own, unless one was given to me for free and I could sell it to buy a real car, a Mustang GT. As inferior as American automobile cars may be, they've gotten much better in quality control, reliability, and dependability. Having never owned a foreign car, I've only owned American cars. If given the choice, I'd only saddle my ass to any one of Carroll Shelby's Mustang Cobras, especially the new ones with six gears on the floor instead of five.

"God bless America."

Yet, with exceptions to every rule, I'd make an exception to my rule of not owning foreign cars to own a Ferrari, a Bentley, and/or a Rolls Royce. Those are just three of the half dozen foreign cars I'd buy, if I had money to burn and could afford them. Say it's not true, terrible, just terrible, bought from the British, Bentley and Rolls Royce are now owned by the Germans, first Volkswagen and now BMW.

"Are you kidding me? When did that happen? How did that happen? Why did that happen?"

Too precise in their engineering, unwilling to get their stark white lab coats dirty, the Germans can't possibly appreciate Bentley and Rolls Royce in the way that the English did by making every car by hand instead of by robotic machine. Knowing the Germans as I do, they'll no doubt change the mystique of car by making the car better, more drivable, dependable, reliable, and more livable, all while getting better fuel economy.

"How dare they! How could they! God save the queen!"

Ford bought Aston Martin and Jaguar then sold Aston Martin to venture capitalists, one from Kuwait, while BMW bought Mini Cooper. Now that Ford doesn't own them and no longer outfits them with the cheapish interior mechanicals of a Ford Focus, although they still own a large share of the company, Aston Martin is another car I'd buy if ever I could afford to buy one. I love Aston Martins.

What were the British thinking I wonder when selling off all of their automotive history and the cars that made all Brits proud to the highest bidder? What were the British having a car manufacturers sale or have the Brits gone mad, totally bonkers to sell their beloved Marques, Bentley, Rolls Royce, Jaguar, and Aston Martin? Maybe they needed the cash to pay for the royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton and for the Queen's diamond jubilee. With much of their manufacturing base shipped overseas, is it any wonder why their economy is just as bad there as it is here. Soon the only cars sold will be made by the Chinese.

"Yes, every car comes with a fortune cookie. We never know what's inside the fortune cookie. One man had a coupon to trade his new Chinese reverse engineered car in for a real car, a Ford Mustang GT."

"Wow."

Except for Morgan and Land Rover, the manufacturer of the Range Rover, are the Brits now out of the new car manufacturing business? Except for the Queen and her love for Range Rovers and hunting birds with her dogs and shotgun out in the field, because of sky-high gas prices, nearly everyone across the pond drives a Fiat 500 anyway.

"Say Mate, every time I start my car, a voice says Buon Giorno and every time I turn it off, it says, Ciao. What the bloody Hell is that?"

General Motors bought Saab and Volvo from the Swedes before killing off the Saab, the Oldsmobile, the Pontiac, and Saturn as part of their agreement in accepting TARP money when emerging from bankruptcy. We need a scorecard to keep track of which manufacturer makes which car. Now that General Motors has put so many people back to work and is leaner and meaner while making better cars, I'm glad we didn't listen to Romney's advice to let GM go under.

Back to my personal adventures with Chevrolet's Camaro, a car that I shouldn't have bought instead of the Mustang that I should have bought. Maybe because I detested the Camaro is the reason why I killed the car. I had that Camaro for 4 months before crashing it into a wall and totaling the car with only 4,400 miles on the odometer. There's nothing funny about crashing a car in a wall or is there?

* * * * *

Young and dumb, I was inherently injected with too much testosterone from hanging around my dumb brothers too much. Not things that I'm proud of now that I'm an intelligent woman of class and distinction, besides having their forced, wicked sexual way with me, they taught me many things that came in handy at the time. They taught me how to spit without getting any on myself, how to whistle with two fingers, how to drink a can of beer in one gulp, how to burp the alphabet, how to drag race, and how to crash cars like a man. Feeling more like Ellie Mae Clampett than I did Susan Jill Parker, always a Tom boy type of girl anyway, unfortunately with writing erotica on a porn board, my brothers, no doubt, were responsible for making me who I am today.

Who am I today? Who is Susan Jill Parker? Having endured and survived some dark days, sometimes I don't even know who I am. A question that I continue asking myself, while still in transition and undergoing yet another transformation, my answer changes each time I ask myself the question.

Nonetheless, a constant, still unemployed, broke, homeless, and living in the spare bedroom of a kind Mennonite woman, yet having found my passion for writing stories, I'm much happier now than when I was when working and was self-reliant, solvent, had my own apartment, and a new Mustang GT. Go figure. I never thought that I'd ever write that in a story, that I was happier now than I was when I was driving around in a new Mustang GT. Not the first car that I crashed into a wall due to drag racing some cute guy on a desolate highway, a real crash test dummy, I'm an official air bag tester too.

"If you catch me, you can have me."

Taken from one of my favorite car movies, Gumball Rally, instead of using a white glove to slap the face of my challenger, as if I was waving the pink registration slip for my car, I may have been known to say that while waving my pink panties out my car window. Looking back at all the dumb blonde things that I've done, my personal flag of dishonor, I never should have removed my panties, especially when meeting my Ex. Had I known then what I know today, instead of opening my hand, my mouth, and my legs, as if a turtle hiding in its shell, I should have kept everything closed.

Young and dumb and looking to prove myself as a worthy competitor, a woman against a man in a man's world, when driving like a maniac, I could have died. Along with myself, I could have killed someone. Yet, I learned from my tragically, stupid mistakes and I haven't had an accident since my last accident. Furthermore, I plan on not having another accident until my next accident. How's that for positive thinking?

Having experienced it first hand, take it from me, if you're going to crash a car and have a conscious choice of where and what to hit, crash your car not at an angle but flush into a wall head-on instead of crashing it in a pole, a tree, a bridge abutment, or an oncoming car. It sounds absurd making a conscious choice of crashing your car into a wall but I'm still here to write about it after crashing two cars that way. Only, before hitting a wall, make sure you scrub off as much speed as you can by liberally applying the brakes while praying before impact.

"Dear God in Heaven, if you allow me to survive crashing my car in this wall, I'll go to church every day and twice on Sundays or is it Saturday's now? I'll eat fish on Fridays and will never make disparaging remarks about priests having sex with boys again. And I promise to not make fun of Bishops and Cardinals living life like kings in their own private accommodations while lowly nuns take the vow of poverty and live their lives in convents as if prisoners to God."

I was lucky enough to have a newer car to crash. During the crash, the airbag slapped me hard enough in the face for me to know that I wasn't dead for being so stupid. Even though I was wearing my seatbelt and shoulder harness, even when bracing myself for the impact, my steering wheel still tattooed my chest through my clothes and bra with enough force to leave my car logo on my chest.

A conversation piece when wearing my barely there bikini and a continued source of embarrassment for a Mustang lover, as if my way of continuing to pay for my mistake of buying a Camaro, as a grim reminder of my crash, I had Camaro on my chest for six months before it faded. Then, after the impact with the wall, as further punishment and as if watching the aftermath of the crash unfold in slow motion, an amazing sight to behold, the items in my car that didn't hit me in the head, slowly passed by my head and went through the windshield. Glad that I was still alive, I hope you'll think of me and thank me for my advice to hit a wall flush and not at an angle instead of hitting a pole, a tree, or an oncoming car when you have your next accident.

Only and alas, if you don't make it and die in the car crash after hitting the wall, once you see that familiar bright, white light and see all of your deceased friends and relatives smiling down at you and beckoning you upward, don't go. I'm just glad that Carroll Shelby was still alive, otherwise, willing to spend eternity endlessly talking about Mustangs, I may have left this Earth to live forever with him. Trust me. You can still save yourself after seeing the bright light.

Say no to the light because as soon as say no to the light and tell the Lord Almighty that you want to continue to live, you'll return to your destroyed car with time enough to climb out before the car explodes into a fireball. If you don't say no to the light, the car will explode with you still in it. Hopefully, I'll see you on the other side one day when I meet my maker too.

Never will you experience such peace as when you see that bright, white light. Difficult to pull yourself away from the light, in the way that I did, you'll need something to break the hold that it has on you. All I needed to do was to think of something else, a loved one. Only, when I thought of my whore of a mother and my incestuous brothers, no longer wanting to live, wanting to die, I moved closer to the light.

It wasn't until I thought of Carroll Shelby making my beloved Mustang Cobra that I moved further away from the light. Then, I thought of the Boston Red Sox hoping to win the pennant that year and the new Mustang GT that I'd buy from the insurance money that I'll receive from the totaled Camaro. Assuredly, even after thinking about all the things that I still wanted to see and do, with all my woes and worries gone, instead of wanting to move further away, I wanted to go closer to the bright, white light. I wanted an even closer inspection of it, especially as I recognized more familiar faces beckoning me forward.

"Grandpa? Grandma? Is that you? Fluffy? Is that you? Good dog. Good girl. There's my favorite, third grade teacher, Miss Crabtree with Judy Garland as Dorothy holding Toto."

Yet, there are those who, even after hitting a pole, a tree, or an oncoming car in a horrific non-survivable accident, will never experience the bright, white light. Suddenly with everything gone black, all they'll see is darkness, that is, until they see flashing colored lights and hear disco music as if they're about to enter a strip club in Las Vegas. It may be more appealing especially for those of you who enjoy watching topless pole dancers dancing naked but trust me, don't go there either.