Mustang GT
- 1 year ago
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My Passion For Mustang GTs Ch. 03 free porn video
Not all just about writing erotica, this story is about car buff stuff for car buffs. Susan discusses her other passion the automobile.
Never comfortable with the Camaro Z28, just my personal preference and opinion, I didn’t feel as in control of the car as I felt in the Mustang GT. A heavier car than the 3,500 pound Mustang GT at the time, comparable in weight then to the much heavier 3,900 pound Mustang Cobra GT 500 of today, the Z28 felt too heavy in the turns and too light with the steering. Rumor has it that the 2014 Camaro Z28 will not only be 300 pounds lighter but more powerful too.
Relative to all the positive hype given to the Chevy in car magazines about the performance of the car, I found the Camaro to be a slow, ponderous car saddled with an automatic transmission that wouldn’t allow me to rev from first to second gear. Maybe had I bought the Camaro with a manual transmission I would have had a totally different opinion of the car. Maybe if I was driving an old Divco, Detroit Industrial Vehicles Company, milk truck, I’d need to go from first gear to third gear to get up to speed when carrying a heavy load, but this was the sporty Camaro Z28.
Understandably and in their defense, General Motors was more concerned with the legal liability than the performance of their sporty cars. After General Motors was sued and settled their lawsuits out of court back in the late 70’s and early 80’s, when drivers of Pontiac Trans Am’s emulated Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit by using their cars to jump off ramps, they learned their lesson by using movies to hype what their cars could do. Nonetheless the subsequent lawsuits, not just Trans Am’s, GM and Pontiac sold a lot of cars thanks to Burt Reynolds and Sally Fields.
Undeniably, their sissy automatic transmissions were a Big Brother preprogrammed move to limit GM’s legal liability should their drivers go to the bright light to eternally live in Heaven or dance with the Devil in Hell. Killing some of the fun of driving ’90 era Camaros and Corvettes in the way they should be driven, the Mustang was still a free revving machine. Before I bought the Camaro, I wish I had rented one. A test drive around a few blocks with the car salesman sitting shotgun beside me wasn’t nearly enough to know what this car would be like as my daily driver. A personal preference, from its outside appearance to its Spartan interior, I just didn’t like the car. A ’90’s era Camaro, I felt as if I was sitting in an American Motors Pacer.
When stomping on the gas, in the way of trying to get the best 0-60 time, bypassing second gear, the transmission would jump from first to third gear and skip second gear altogether, the best gear in the Mustang, as far as I’m concerned. What the Hell? I thought there was something wrong with the new car but, a killjoy of a car company, this was how GM purposely made them.
The first and only automatic car I ever owned, after that fatal fiasco, figuring all automatics in all makes and models were all the same when they weren’t, I vowed to never buy another car with an automatic transmission. Moreover, I vowed to never buy another Camaro, more about that later. Call me a car buff snob but I’m more comfortable and feel more in control when driving a car, any car, with a standard transmission, especially when short shifting while wearing a short skirt that climbs nearly up to my crotch.
‘Hi Susan, how are you? You stay in the car and I’ll fill your tank, wash your windows, and check your oil,’ said my mechanic peering in my window and ogling me and my exposed panties. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing.’
Strange that he never pumped anyone’s gas, washed anyone’s windows, and checked anyone’s oil but mine, not even his wife’s car, especially not his wife’s car, I had the cleanest windows and topped off gas tank and oil of any car in my neighborhood. Call me suspicious but I think my neighborhood gas attendant serviced more than just my car. I think he serviced his sexual needs by stealing peeks of my panties while washing my windows.
Call me a car buff snob but I’m more comfortable and feel more in control of the car when driving a Mustang GT. There’s just something sexy about seeing that galloping pony logo run along with me, even though it’s galloping sideways. A lot invested in a name, when we were all busy watching Gun Smoke, Rawhide, Bonanza, and John Wayne’s old western flicks, Mustang evoked the image of the wild west. Seriously, what does Camaro mean anyway?
In old French, Camaro means companion or friend, a slow, overweight friend, I guess. In Spanish, chicken of the sea, it means a small, shrimp like creature. An anonymous automotive journalist was quoted as saying that the name, Camaro meant loose bowels. Being that Chevy was naming all of their cars beginning with the letter C, GM hoped that Camaro, once driven in races, would mean Mustang eater. Personally, I think the name was a mistake. Camaro is a name that doesn’t evoke anything in the way that the Impala, Corvette, or Monte Carlo did. Chevy did the car a disservice by naming it Camaro whatever the meaning is in any language.
Yet more than just a name, the Camaro had difficulty compensating for its automatic transmission. For one thing, when shifting gears and listening to the engine rev while watching the tachymeter needle climb in the Mustang GT, the experience of driving a car with a manual transmission feels more like driving. The redline in the new ones, specifically the Cobras and Boss 302’s, are 7,500 rpm’s instead of 5,800 in the old GT’s. Lulling me to sleep, instead of dozing off with the gear shift in drive, the radio blaring, and the cruise control set on 60 mph, automatics are for people who don’t like to drive but who still want to look cool driving a sporty car.
‘Hey, baby. Wanna ride in my Camaro Z28 with an automatic transmission?’
‘No, thank you. My boyfriend is picking me up in his Mustang GT with a 6-speed.’
Call it an automotive video game with sights, sounds, and sensations, but I’d rather listen to the car, to the loud exhaust sound of the Mustang GT, and to my radar detector warning me of a police radar trap ahead, than to mindlessly drive a car that has an automatic transmission. If I want to drive mindlessly, I’ll listen to the mindless chatter of truckers on their CB radios warning one another of bears in the chairs, smoky on the road, speed traps, and busty blondes driving topless down the road while flashing truckers her tits.
‘Oops. Sorry. That’s so embarrassing. I didn’t mean to write that in my story. Where’s my delete key?’
Able to hear them singing their baritone opera from blocks away, especially on a cold, damp day, there’s nothing like the exhaust sound of a Mustang GT whether standing still, idling, lopping around in second gear, or blazing by at full throttle. Unless it’s an aftermarket exhaust, there’s not a car with a better sounding exhaust, that is, except for Ferrari and Lamborghini. The Luciano Pavarotti of exotic sports cars, Ferrari has a higher and sweeter tailpipe sound while the Lamborghini, no doubt, imitating their logo of the mad bull, has a deeper and angrier growl. Even louder than the Mustang GT’s are the exhaust sounds of Mustang Cobra GT 500’s and Boss Mustangs. Yet, the unbefitting whining sound of the supercharger in the GT 500 isn’t a sound that I prefer hearing and something that would drive me crazy listening to all day when driving the car. I’d rather have a car that doesn’t have a supercharger whining or a turbo buzzing.
If given my druthers and a check for nearly forty-five thousand dollars, I’d much prefer owning the perfectly pitched sound of the new Boss 302 Mustang. The new Boss 302 is a car that I’d love to own but not the fifty-thousand dollar Laguna Seca version of the car. With the back seat delete, the splitter in the front, and the much stiffer ride with huge Brembo brakes in front, that car is too much like a race car to me.
In the way that Mary Tyler M
oore loved her six cylinder Mustang on her show by the same name, my dream car, at around forty-thousand dollars, nearly twice what a house cost in 1972 the year I was born, is still a Mustang GT. Of course, forget about the glass roof, I’d spring for the track-pack and a six speed manual transmission. A girl can dream, can’t she? Make mine gotta have it green or grabber blue metallic with the Recaro sport seat option, black wheels, and thick black stripes running the top, length of the car.
‘Wow!’
Returning back to my detestation for sporty and sports cars with automatic transmissions, basically categorizing them all as Buicks with different name plates, instead of driving numb, I’d rather listen to what the tires are doing and feel what suspension is telling me. Unless stuck in traffic, holding the thick steering wheel of the Mustang GT with both hands, too focused on driving and enjoying the driving experience, I didn’t even play the radio when driving and that’s a huge sacrifice for a woman. Instead of being distracted by anything else, I wanted to feel the sensation of driving the car while listening to the exhausts to make me feel as if I was driving a high performance car.
Being that the exhaust sound is all part of the experience of driving a Mustang GT, why muffle the sound with the radio? The new Mustang GT’s and Boss Mustangs actually have the sound piped in the passenger compartment by removing some of the car’s insulation. Hearing the sound before seeing the car, every male from 4-years-old to 94-years-old turns their head to watch a Mustang GT drive by them.
Great for slick and slippery roads, instead of stepping on the brake and upsetting the balance of the car to slow the car, all I’d have to do in a car equipped with a manual transmission is to take my foot off the gas. Especially on a level road, most times just taking my foot off of the gas was plenty enough to slow the car down to where I’m more able to control it in bad weather. Once in motion, because of the idle speed set higher than a car with a manual transmission, a car with an automatic transmission doesn’t slow down quickly enough by removing one’s foot from the gas in the way a car with a standard transmission does. One needs to apply enough pressure to the brake pedal that may work against them by upsetting the car’s balance, especially when the road is slick.
Especially when going downhill, the automatic transmission equipped car will keep going while steadily increasing in speed. Even though the manual transmission equipped car will do that too, increase its speed when going downhill without benefit of stepping on the gas, the engine in a standard transmission car serves somewhat as a brake to limit it’s freefalling acceleration. As an aside, however, it’s less taxing on the engine to use your brakes instead of only relying on the engine to slow the car. Having more control over the car, all I ever had to do while going downhill in a car with a manual transmission was to gently and occasionally pump the brake whereas drivers in an automatic equipped car continually must apply the brake when going downhill, especially when nearing a curve.
Moreover, in a manual transmission equipped car, I have the option of slipping the shifter in neutral to allow it to coast, or shift to a lower gear to pass, or shift to a higher gear to lower the rpm’s and save on gas. I’m aware that the driver can pick their own gear changes by pushing up or down on their gear shift in the newer equipped automatic transmission cars, but ask any car buff nut, bumping the automatic gear shift lever isn’t nearly the same as shifting gears yourself with a manual transmission. Without doubt, especially for those who love cars and who enjoy driving as I used to do, feeling more part of the driving experience, it’s more fun driving a car with a standard transmission than it is driving a car with an automatic transmission.
Even though I prefer standard transmissions, taken from Formula One race cars, drivers who prefer not to remove their hands from the steering wheel, I don’t much care for the new paddle shifters they now have to change gears on some cars. No longer using a clutch to change gears, I imagine that most true Ferrari, Lamborghini, and Porsche aficionados hate them too. Much in the way that the Viper is set up, devoid of computerized drivers’ aids, professional drivers don’t want anything interfering with their driving abilities. No traction control, no anti-lock brakes, no stability control, and no Big Brother internal computer tattling on how fast they go and how hard they turn and brake, it’s just them in the car as one.
Manufacturers won’t even admit which cars have those Big Brother computers now. Using us as their live guinea pigs, we all know that Corvettes have had them for years. Playing it safe, I figure most cars have those Big Brother computers installed in them now, even your car, especially your car in the way that you drive.
‘Slow down! Big Brother is watching you.’
If you think you’re getting away with something by traveling at 140 mph and telling your insurance agent, leasing agent, rental agent, or the police that you never had the car over 55, they just need to do a download.
‘I swear, I never had the car over 55 mph.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said the rental agent holding the printout.
If you think that no one will find where you dumped that body, the FBI just needs to do a GPS download to get your exact location.
‘I didn’t dump that body there. I was nowhere near the Detroit River.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said the FBI agent handcuffing you, reading you your rights, and charging you with murder.
If you think your girlfriend or wife will never suspect you’ve been cheating on her with Tiffany, that stripper downtown, no longer needing a compass, pins, and a piece of string on a map to coordinate your last location, all she needs to do is a download your last location from your GPS on your Smartphone.
‘Did you have sex with Tiffany?’
‘No Honey? I swear. I never left the office.’
‘Yeah, right. I downloaded your GPS coordinates from your Smartphone and her home address was one of the addressed that appeared.
If you think you’re alone in your car and able to roam the countryside free as a bird while picking your nose, your wrong. With satellites that can read a license plate from outer space, no one has any privacy anymore. We now have infrared and X-ray technology that can see through things in the way that Superman could and in the way that a TSA agent can see more than just my underwear through my clothes. Able to see in the dark with night vision as if it’s daylight, why did it take our government as long as it did to find Osama Bin Laden and Whitey Bulger of Boston crime family fame? It makes me wonder how really hard they were looking for them.
After our government has lied to us about everything else, seriously, without the proof of a dead body, they expected us to believe that they dumped Osama Bin Laden at sea? It makes me question if they ever landed on the moon.
‘One small step for man and one giant leap in our NASA and military defense budget.’
I’d still have to believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and that the reason why we went to war with Iraq was because they had weapons of mass destruction to believe that Osama Bin Laden is dead. For all that I know he’s alive and living in Boca Raton Florida or relaxing while drinking pina coladas in Key West. How dare they think we’re all so stupid!
Back to paddle shifters, fortunately, the paddle shifters are still an option on most cars. Just another gimmick, paddle shifters are for race cars and exotic sports cars, not for mass produced cars. Those cars that have paddle shifters as standard, such as Mini Coopers with an automatic transmission only, are more of a gadget decoration than of any performance value. Paddle shifters don’t make much of a difference in performance as they would with cars that have huge
amounts of horsepower, such as the paddle shifters on a Ferrari or a Lamborghini. Hard getting used to them, missing a gear or over revving the engine and scrubbing off speed, I always managed to hit the turn signal or the windshield wiper when trying to use paddle shifters to shift gears up or down. Besides, my personal phallic symbol, as if I’m holding a cock, I prefer the feel of a shifter in my right hand.
Forsaking the simple pleasure of driving, just a dumb blonde who was persuaded by faster 0-60 and quarter mile times, that the Camaro had over the Mustang then, I don’t know why I bought a car with an automatic transmission when I really wanted a car with a manual transmission. Perhaps, at the time, it had something to do with me spraining my left ankle rollerblading just before I ordered the car. Perhaps, as I eluded to before, buying the Camaro instead of the Mustang had more to do with me pissing off my brothers. I would have been okay driving a car with a manual transmission with a left sprained ankle had I lived in the United Kingdom, Australia, and a dozen other countries where they drive on the wrong side of the road.
Maybe I was thinking that an automatic would be easier to drive while drinking my coffee, eating my muffin, talking on my cell phone, and/or doing my hair and makeup in the mirror. I don’t text when I drive and once I returned to driving a sportier car with a standard transmission and needing a free hand to shift, I never talked on my cell phone when driving again. Besides, not wanting to be distracted, I didn’t want to miss any of the fun of driving my Mustang. Now that I no longer have a cell phone or a car for that matter, texting and talking on the phone while driving is no longer a safety issue for me.
Not an easy thing for a car buff to do, even though I’ve acclimated to not having a car and getting a ride or taking the bus to wherever I need to go, I still read about new car models online. I lust over the new car models in the way that men lust over naked women. Maybe one day, when I get my life back, I’ll be able to afford to buy a new car, one with a manual transmission and too much horsepower.
‘Giddy up!’
The thing that I didn’t like about the Camaro and the same for the Corvette is that the driver and, for that matter, the passengers, sit too low in the car, sort of like sitting in a bathtub that’s sliding around the ground. Uncomfortable to drive and to see out of the windows, even with the power seat option at its highest, the driving position was too low for visibility sake. The Camaro feels more like sitting in a Formula One car or in an Indy car than it does sitting on a Nascar seat in the way that the Mustang more does.
The Mustang requires the driver to sit on the seat instead of in the seat, almost as if the Mustang seat is a throne or a catbird seat. There’s better visibility in a Mustang. Even though there are blind spots in both cars, the Mustang has fewer blind spots than the Camaro. I haven’t driven the newest Mustang and Camaro but, from what I’ve read online about the two cars, I assume that little has changed between the two cars. With an equal number of loyal Camaro and Mustang fans, buying one car or the other is just a matter of personal preference and sometimes price.
Having driven both the older Mustangs and Camaros, having more seat of the pants feel or in my case more seat of the panty feel, there’s more road feel in the Mustang. Maybe just more used to Mustangs, being that was the cars my brothers all had and that I learned to drive with, I prefer Mustangs. Happier driving the Mustang than I was driving the Camaro, able to just feel what the car was doing when transitioning from turn to turn, I know when the Mustang is at the limit. I can feel it.
The Camaro may be a click faster around the track but, easier to drive and to live with as a daily driver, the Mustang is a better and more comfortable road car for me. Unlike the Camaro that gives little warning, when driving the Mustang at the limit, I can feel the back end wanting to swing out and have time enough to catch it by simply taking my foot off the gas or gently stabbing at the brake to rebalance the car to neutral. Maybe it’s different with the new Camaros and Corvettes, but the Camaros of old, much like the Corvettes of old didn’t tell the driver what’s happening with the car and didn’t tell the driver when they’ve reached the limits of adhesion until it’s too late. Much like the Porsche 911’s and the BMW 3 series of old, those cars were responsible for the deaths of many celebrities, sports athletes, and yuppies, those who thought they knew how to drive a car at the limit. When pushing those cars too hard and going too fast, when driving the car recklessly and unbalanced in the way that a professional driver would never do, the car would just suddenly and uncontrollably spin while taking the driver and passenger for a deadly ride.
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