Our next door neighbour has a candy-apple red Ferrari hidden away in his non-imposing garage. He takes it out a few Sundays a year to play with. Revs up the engine right there in the street, too early in the morning. You can feel his boyish glee vibrating through the air, carried out on the sounds of the engine. A special engine sound these Ferraris seem to have. A strange mix between kitten and lion, a ferocious purr that tickles the testicles of the happy man. He then circles his wild baby, much the proud lion tamer, checking headlights and mirrors, breathing in fresh beauty through the crisp morning air. He lights her up, a hot-red cigarette that’s fused with the lips of the sexy babe who’s smoking it. Twin tailpipes puff precious smoke, calming the bucking stallion impatiently awaiting his master’s push. As he goes to leave, his Italian immigrant mama leans in the passenger window and wishes him a good ride. She’s a 75 year old bomb shell, bleach blond with a body to die for. He’s her only boy, their bond so tight that he obviously bought the house two doors down from hers. Or did he have it specially made? I’ll leave that question for his wife to ask. It’s a tiny house, squeezed in between two others, no side or back garden to speak of I believe. Arid bushes in the front that demand little or no maintenance. And tucked away in its modest interior lies Smooth Baby, the testicle tickling temptress.