Oh, it was a sweet ride. 1968 Gto convertible, canary yellow, black interior, bucket seats with wood grain trim, sigh. It had a 400 engine, four speed, on the floor with a Hurst shifter, (way cool), triple deuce carb and Thrush mufflers, blub, blub, blub. The posi-traction meant I could burn rubber for a half a block without even trying, and it was fast, very fast. God, I loved that car!
It was my husbands, (then boyfriend) and after a lot of begging he taught me to drive it when I was seventeen. He even taught me to power shift, which is shifting from one gear to another without using the clutch, just going by the Rpm's and the sound of the engine. Usually I drove my mother's 1966 Chevy Impala, which was okay, but nothing like the Gto. No way, that car was a man/boy magnet. I was pretty cute in those days, long blonde hair, 5'2" about 100 lbs of girly girl and I got plenty of attention when I was driving that car. The really bad thing about it was my need for speed. Seriously, I loved to race and at seventeen you're practically immortal, right? It didn't matter if it was stoplight to stoplight on the boulevard or out of town on the four lane highway, I had a thing for dusting doors.
One day, I asked if I could take him to work and use the car and he agreed. I drove him the thirty miles or so and dropped him off at the moving company he worked for, promising to be back by 5pm to pick him up. I was ecstatic! I had the car for the whole day. I had a blast. My best-friend and I spent most of the day just cruising around, taking on a few hot shots and generally enjoying ourselves. After I dropped her off, about two in the afternoon, I was idling at a stoplight on the blvd, top down, tunes cranked when a sweet little Z 28 pulled up next to me and started gunning his engine. A challenge if I ever heard one, so I smiled, gave him the eye and nodded my head. As soon as the light changed, I took off like a rocket. I don't think he was expecting me to be able to hold my own, but I blew him off three lights in a row. It was great! Turning around, I was headed back down the blvd feeling pretty proud of myself when I heard a piercing two-fingered whistle. Now that wasn't too unusual in those days and I ignored it at first, but when it happened again, I started looking around.
There, standing next to a service road was my husband. It was pretty obvious he'd witnessed the whole thing because from my vantage point he looked like 6'2", 210 lbs of royally pissed off male. I was literally shaking in my short shorts. He never said a word, just pointed to the road in front of him and walked back into the building. You see he was moving a new business in there that day, lucky me. I circled the block and parked where he pointed, figuring I was already in enough trouble. Two minutes later he came out and walked to the drivers side of the goat as I hopped over the console.
I didn't say much as he drove me home, I mean what could I say? Pulling in my drive way, I jumped from the car and hurried into the house, but he was hot on my tail, in more ways than one. While I was trying to think of something brilliant, he was pulling me into the living room, sitting on the couch and yanking me over his knees. He scolded, I screamed! Seriously, it was horrifying from the moment he pulled my shorts down. His hand was like a machine and for my first spanking ever, it was Hellascious! I swear, sometimes I don't know why I married that man. No, wait, I kinda do.