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I was the kid with the poster over his bed: "Body by Lamborghini. High Fidelity by Alpine." Farrah's nipple was nice, but it was the curves of that red Countach I spent endless solitary hours tracing with my eyes. The car was pure pornography to me as an adolescent. Its name was one I dared not utter in front of my Italian mother, lest it mean something as dirty as it sounded, but saying it aloud with my friends, complete with squinty eyes and Don Corleone hand gestures, felt sinfully good. I fantasized about sliding beneath its scissors-style door and blasting off but, like many things I fantasized about back then, never thought I'd actually get the opportunity to do.