Spotting the new Pagani, her eyes gleam as she starts stroking her hair, as if the inanimate object itself is going to flirt back at her.
While she's bouncing from exhibit to exhibit, clearly excited by seeing the world's top cars in the flesh, I have to admit I'm more interested in seeing the flesh than the cars.
I'm a car-show virgin, and I'm geared up for the full-on, testosterone-charged, cars-as-sex experience.
Even the display mounted by Ford (that ol' stiff-necked Protestant) is blasting the bump-and-grind bars of 'Freak Like Me' across the showroom floor.
Mais quelle deception!
LIVING MANNEQUINS
For starters, the flash cars sit in artificial pits created by low walls, so you have to wait your turn to step up and pay homage to all their manufactured glory.
If you actually want to sample one of the luxury cars (or more truthfully the sponsor's champagne), c'est impossible! without a VIP pass.
So most people end up peering over a wall, oohing, aahing and occasionally even ooh-lah-lah-ing at the unattainable objects of their desire.
Worse still, unlike the official website—and pretty much every car-show photo you've ever seen in your life (even if you don't subscribe to Auto-Wank Weekly)—there's an appalling lack of 'booth babes.'
Sure, the Ferrari, Maserati and Lamborghini showcases have some female accessories on display, but they're mostly doe-eyed and diaphanously-robed, as if they've just stepped out of a dodgy chocolate ad from the Seventies.
They're living mannequins who waft it rather than work it; nice girls in too much makeup doing their best to approximate sexy without really getting it.
Lena reckons they're just the type of doll a man who buys a Flamberati goes for. I suppose they make a change from the blow-up variety.
Instead of wall-to-wall models, the motor show is one big traffic jam of pedestrians.
For the most part, the crowd's made up of overgrown boys with cameras who've somehow managed to convince their long-suffering wives and girlfriends to accompany them to a car show—the slippery end of a slope that culminates with 'Honey, why don't we visit a swingers' club so I can film you getting gangbanged?'
The guys happily pose for fantasy photos of themselves pretend-driving cars as they banter manfully about how the new Longhodongo's 4.0-litre V8 engine can bash out 453.6bhp and blow off a whopping great 351.2lb ft of torque.
Which is all code for: 'Does my penis look big in this?'
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