‘I picked up men in a $350K car’
IT'S A cliche as old as time that women find men with luxury cars more attractive - and it's one I've never really understood.
When I think of sports cars, I think of older, boring, predominantly white corporate types splashing the equivalent of a studio apartment to make themselves feel better about going bald.
Surely there is no woman on earth who would actually unclip her bra solely for the logo on a guy's keys, right?
Well lo and behold; it turns out science backs the cliche as straight up fact.
Researchers at the University of Wales found women rate a man higher if he is behind the wheels of a "fancy motor rather than in an old banger". The same researchers found the male participants were not as impressed by whatever car a woman drives because they "judged purely on her face and figure". Alrighty then.
But because I am forever on my gender equality bulls**t, I decided to put myself in the driver's seat to find out exactly how the science stacks up.
And seeing as I don't do anything in halves, I picked up a just over a third of a million-dollar sports car for the week and squeezed into some seriously spicy numbers to hoon around in to meet men.
For context, I usually drive a Hyundai i20. To date, it has gotten me laid precisely zero times, but on the other hand, it hasn't exactly impeded me converting any tries either.
It does what it says on the box - getting me from A to B and drawing little attention from traffic authorities when I sneak home after having three glasses of wine instead of the (technically) legal limit of two.
Now this was hardly a BMW 6 Series that I'd traded up for (and it definitely wasn't a Hyundai). No, it was a McLaren 540C, the car equivalent of a Rolex, costing roughly five times my annual salary (you can buy one for $350k here in case you have a spare few thousand in the bank) and going from zero to a hundred real quick (three seconds to be precise).
On first inspection, this thing is seriously impressive, more Batmobile than car, and when I picked it up from the dealership, I had to undergo an exhaustive hour tutorial to learn all of its functions (I'm pretty sure most personal trainers have less schooling than I got on how this vehicle operates, but moving on).
Just getting into it almost required a degree in quantum physics
But once I worked out how to lift the wing door open and slip into the carbon fibre tub, it felt more akin to putting on the car, rather than getting in to it. When I hit the engine button though, the real fun started.
It literally sounded like a racing car, with a roaring 3.8-litre twin-turbocharged V8 engine and seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox. In other words? Serious big dick energy - on four wheels.
Logistically, driving was tricky. First up, it had blind spots bigger than the one that appears dutifully on my chin two days before each period, so using the mirrors was imperative. Stopping at the lights, the engine riffled down through six gear changes, obnoxiously pulling up to a halt. And it drew some serious attention.
I was forewarned about people stopping to look, so I figured I could delete Tinder and drive around Sydney's streets, just yelling my number through the window at men. Evidentially, this was not the case.
While I did wink at some men through the open window while listening to Drake's Scorpion, they generally just stared at the car's chassis, less interested in my chassis.
So, for my first date, I picked up a Tinder match, Ryan, for dinner on a Friday night.
To test the theory to see if men really did notice the "face and figure" before the car, I wore a dress that required both of my housemates to zip me into it, and three coats of mascara. I looked like I'd stepped straight out of a Bachelor rose ceremony as opposed to my usual Doc Martens and denim jacket mood.
I'd met up with him before and knew he was into nice things and told him I would pick him up at 7.30pm, not mentioning the car I would be in. He was kind of weird about it but agreed nonetheless.
When I arrived he was clearly smitten with the car, walking towards the driver's side door, and assumed he was driving, which, of course, was not the case (the insurance on a McLaren is no joke, let me tell you).
We spent the whole dinner talking about the car, cars and other related luxury goods and services. Somewhat surprisingly, he did not mention the dress or allude to the fact I'd spent two hours getting dolled up for this encounter. If my boobs were the third guest at dinner, the car was most definitely the fourth. Next.
The second date, which was organised by a friend of a friend, was much the same. Ugh.
Big dick energy or big premium 98 debt?
By the time Sunday rolled around, I felt more like a luxe Uber service than a powerful woman swinging her dick around. I saw more of my friend's boyfriends and platonic male friends than ever (love you guys, but it was a bit counter-productive for the aim of this story) and frankly, the fuel in a sports car costs a bomb.
Evidentially, men are just plain intimidated by a woman with money - and a sports car is the ultimate symbol of wealth and prestige. When I would swing the door open and hop out, a throng of men were staring at the car but when I said, "Hello", their gaze shift downward. Some didn't even hear me say hi because they were too busy taking photos to no doubt drop in the group chat. I swear I could have jumped out naked and the result would have been much the same (I didn't test this out because my nan and employer read these stories) but all signs point to it being true.
To be fair though, the car definitely gave me a boost of confidence, similar to that feeling you get when you leave a hair salon, exaggeratedly moving your shoulders so your hair bounces while you walk. Then again, a blow dry is a hell of a lot cheaper than a sports car. Spend those hard earned dollars accordingly, ladies.