Perhaps the scariest thing about it wasn’t the violently refined acceleration.  Maybe it wasn’t the total lack of visibility to the driver’s side rear. It probably wasn’t even the fact that everyone in every other car on the street, and every pedestrian in this southern California neighborhood on this Super Bowl Sunday evening (in other words, not too many) looks in your direction with primal bloodlust.  No.  I think that the scariest thing about it was having a brief premonition of being decapitated by the top of the door when the car owner pushed it closed from the outside to send me on my way.  See, the top of the door swings at your neck like a horizontal guillotine if you’re at least six feet tall. Your eyes are on those of your friend, and you can see the reflection of his face on the top of the blade, er door, as it starts coming your way.  Yet, somehow, you make yourself short and the whoosh passes overhead, taking only some hair with it, followed by a soft thump as the door latches closed.

You search and fumble for the window controls.  Are they cranks?  Does Ford even make a crank window any more?  Are buttons somewhere?  Hmm, wonder if they’re in that line of toggle like switches on the dash?  Maybe they’re on the console like the Bimmerboys think God intended them to be.  Doors? Pat, pat, pat.  What’s that?  Did I just lock the doors?  ZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz…the window goes down.

So, there I was, nearly in command of the Team WTF?! poster car.  A 550hp street car styled after a race car but whose chassis and drivetrain have no actual competitive roadracing history.  That history, or lack thereof, matters to some stuffed shirt, self styled autointelligentsia for reasons that can never be conveyed in a clear and convincing manner.  No, to ass scratching, dirt under the fingernails Team WTF?! types like myself, all I can say is, “Who gives a shit?!”

What the car is about is a super sexy shape wrapped around more power than mere mortals should be able to tap on public streets.  It’s the kind of car that should confuse old men that didn’t take their Viagra that day.  It’s the kind of car that should inspire barely legal girls to discard their clothes and promise you pleasures that would make your wife say, “You have my permission.”

And now, finally, after years of waiting, I’ve penetrated the cockpit, and to be quite honest, I don’t really know what to do.  But I think that I’m a little bit wet.

Ok, what did the car owner say? I don’t remember him saying, “Don’t break it or bend it,” but I’d rather not do that anyway.  I had told another friend the day before that within 24 hours I may have driven a Ford GT by now…or have killed myself in one.  I haven’t moved yet, so I haven’t really driven it yet.  I may have died and gone to automotive heaven, though…not sure.

What he did say was this:

“When you get in, just fall into the seat.  Don’t try to slide.  It won’t work right.”  Okay, put one foot in and try to sorta grab something that doesn’t quite exist as I bring the other foot in and…plop…I’m in the seat.

“See the row of toggle switches?”  Yeah.  “The first one on the left is the lights.  You should probably turn them on.  Do what you want in the car, but try not to outrun them.”  Check, Chief.

“Okay, put the key in the regular place.  Now, pretend that you’re playing Nintendo.  Push the red button.”  Sweet.  Just all new boy racer wannabe cars.  Sigh.  Oooh…sounds a little different, though.  Like, maybe it means something.

“Reverse is all the way over, really hard over.”  No problem.  “Are you sure?”  Back into neutral and really hard over.  Uh, No. “See?”

The final instruction before being let loose on the deserted streets of Orange County on Super Bowl Sunday evening?  “You can’t see out the back too well, but no one is going to catch you, so…”

I gooses the throttle a little bit, just to get an idea so I wouldn’t unintentionally do a burn out in reverse while backing out of the parking spot.  Feelt…mostly tame.  The eight fire breathing dragons snored quietly below their whistling master and barely seemed to wake up…purring, but not at all like cats.  My dick was harder than a crankshaft.

Clutch in, clutch out.  Clutch in, clutch out.  Clutch in, clutch out.  Is it really that easy?  Yes it is, my son.  Yes it is.

Try them both together and it’s like two great tastes that go…well, maybe not so great together.  How super can a car be if it’s as easy and effortless to back out of a parking spot as an Accord? The clutch take up and throttle tip in make for what would be a completely forgettable routine maneuver except of the fact that it’s so completely forgettable.  Well, that and the fact that there is absolutely no view over the left shoulder except for part of the door and some part of the car’s structure that couldn’t be made out in the dark.

I leave the owner and my wife alone in the mall parking lot as I take off down the lane.  Turn around and head out towards the street.  Drive it normally, and it drives normally.  Just like any other car.  Nothing special, at least nothing other than a slight whine from the superchargers on slight revs and a quiet, but nice, burble from the exhaust.

After coming to a stop at a light before leaving the mall parking lot, I begin to notice the eyes on me.  Well, maybe eyes on the car.  They don’t notice at first, but as I sit there, just a limp penislength above the pavement, the people in the SUV next to me take notice, and I wonder if they think there’s a connection between the car and my penis size.  I don’t care if they do since they’ll never see it, never touch it, and never lick it.  But I still wonder if they think it and now that I think about it, I’m not really sure why.  Maybe it’s because I like to think about my penis.  Or maybe the car made me think about my penis.  I suppose that there is a connection, but so what?  I like my penis.  And so far, I liked the GT.

Waiting for the light to turn I felt my neck throbbing.  Maybe it was my penis.  It’s but a blur now.  Trepidation.  My single goal is to return to the parking lot alive.  To feel my wife’s tender touch again.  To someday see my children’s faces again.  To give the keys back to my friend.  Well, no, I didn’t want to give the keys back.  But I did want to return to the parking lot alive.  What’s going to happen when the light turns?

My stomach tied up in knots like it did before that first autocross run or track session.  Like before that first kiss. It was like sitting in a doctor’s office chair, waiting for what you know is going to a fatal diagnosis. It was like moments before the first time I stuck my hands down someone else’s pants.  Green light.

Motor on through a left turn like nothing special. Very short shift into second.  There was only so much time available in the car and I was not making the most of it.  I started rolling on the gas.  And it started going.  Shift.  Easy.  More gas.  Oh, I wanted to turn there, looking over my right shoulder.  Next one.  A little more gas and then brakes.  Lots of them.  No drama.  Right on red?  Hmm.  Don’t want to get hit.  Gone.

Easy shift to second.  Slowly but surely I eased my right foot to the floor and invoked a Star Wars hyperspace effect.  And it wouldn’t stop.  It just keept going, never feeling like the end would be reached.  The only reason for the redline, I surmise, is to give me something to do. And that was doing it gentle.  Holy shit.  That couldn’t be real.  More testing was called for.  I find a red to stop for.  I shoot dirty looks at those looking at me, I mean the car.  The light turned green.  I didn’t launch it, but just started moving easily, and then just rolled it on as quickly as I dared until my foot was flat on the floor.  There was no drama.  It just threw me into the rear bulkhead and kept moving.  Approaching redline, I shifted to second.  Moderately firm, but nothing excessive, and it just picked up where it left off.  Just flat acceleration at a rate that has no business being available on the street.  There wasn’t exactly a lot of time to ponder those finer points as the tach needle quickly spun towards redline again.  Shift to third.  How fast am I going?  Where the fuck is the speedometer?  That ain’t it, that ain’t it, no stupid! That’s the tach! WTF?! is that? Oh, boost.  Temp.  Gas.  I just want to know how fast I’m going.  There it is…95 without really accelerating further in third gear.  Shit.  That’s pretty fucking fast.

What is so remarkable about the ungodly acceleration is just how unremarkable it is.  There was no          wheelspin, never any sense of impending doom.  Only a harder and harder penis.  It’s as smooth as the inside of a vagina and just as enjoyable even if you can’t spend as much time there.

Unfortunately, this part of Orange County doesn’t really have much in the way of curved roads.  What curves that do exist need to be taken at truly insane speeds in order to make them feel like curves of any sort.  Fortunately, the Ford GT has no problem generating the necessary speed. I drew no conclusions other than the car feels pretty well balanced at speeds that are nowhere near its limits, but may be well beyond mine.  The nose was responsive to the throttle and the steering felt good enough.

I know the description of the handling is a letdown, and I’m sure that it will leave a lot of you feeling like you were gypped by reading 1,700some words to this point and only getting *that* for a description of the Ford GT’s handling.  A car that very, very few of you will ever be fortunate enough to drive, but each and every goddamn last one of would give your left nuts up for. At least you would if you had a pair to start with, anyway.

Midway through my test drive, I found a quiet little elementary school parking lot to pull into and try to come to grips with what I was experiencing.  I just wanted to revel in the moment.  I was still rock hard.  I took a couple lousy photos of myself in the car.  I wanted to masturbate, but didn’t want to soil the car with my mess (although I wasn’t sure if it could be avoided anyway).  While I was struggling with this conundrum, a flock of teenagers pulled into the lot in their fancy Orange County cars.  They were interested.  I wasn’t.  I did want to leave them a trail of tire smoke, but I figured those kids are spoiled enough and getting to watch me leave like a normal person driving a Camry was all they deserved.

After two more near-maximum acceleration runs, I returned to the mall parking lot and found the car owner and my wife.  I parked, got out and the three of us spent some time talking and looking over the car.  It was all rather anti-climatic.  In a number of ways.

Notice that there was nothing in this review about the comfort or support level of the seats?  Nothing about the fit or finish?  Nothing about the texture of the plastics in the interior?  Nothing about whether any of the parts came from the Ford parts bin or any of its parts being contributed to other Ford products?  In other words, nothing about any of that shit that doesn’t fucking matter?  Everything that’s important was there and it worked.  WTF else would you need to know?

It’s not about dick and it’s not about pussy.  It’s not about the party you get when you put them together.  It’s not about showing off or putting on appearances.  It’s about stimulating and then satisfying yourself in a way that only you can do. The bottom line is that the Ford GT is all about autoeroticism.  That’s something that I’ve enjoyed since I was a kid.  And probably will until I’m dead.  When that happens, please make my coffin a Ford GT.

Special thanks go to my very good friend, Henri, for making this happen.  Car or not, I miss you, brah!