I used to drool on your car when I parked beside it at the deli. There was nothing subtle about the way I hung over the side to get a look at that luxurious interior, imagining the feel of the leather on my thighs on a hot summer's night.

Jeanne Sager is a freelance writer and photographer living in upstate New York with her husband and...read more

Don't laugh. It's what you wanted. The jam handprints on the butt of these jeans are proof enough -- I've got all the anatomy that your little sexmobile demands.

I let my fingers run over the frame, itching to give the sports steering wheel a test spin. One look, and that car did everything you bought it for and more. It made me want to climb inside and, well, . . . drive it like I'd stolen it.

I caught a glimpse of metallic blue exiting the gas station last week, and I knew it was you. Heart racing, I pumped the pedal of my Mommy machine, urging her to fly. I wanted to watch that little roadster in action. I wanted to indulge a fantasy that I would never have to be the mad mom in the minivan.

I could feel your bumper was magnetized, the little blue Beemer singing a siren song to my sturdy beige Jeep. In a matter of seconds, I was on your tail. Woohoo. The mama wagon's still got it!

And then we stopped. Literally. In the middle of a 35 mile-per-hour zone, you'd applied gentle pressure to the brakes, and you were waving to a sedan backing out at the post office. Ooooh. Chivalry is not dead. I shivered. The voiceover in my head was being provided courtesy of Sean Connery's Bond -- my personal favorite.

But when the sedan turned off into the deli parking lot a few hundred yards down the road, I expected some action. Nothing. Bupkus. He's waiting to get out of the residential zone, I thought. What a wuss! The mental image flipped to Connery a la Darrell Hammond in the Celebrity Jeopardy skit on Saturday Night Live. I giggled.

I pulled it together for the straight-away I knew was yet to come, the 55 mile-per-hour zone that is generally unpatrolled. We rounded the corner, and I depressed the pedal, already anticipating the slight incline out of town before the roadway would open up and we could move.

I've watched enough episodes of "Top Gear" on BBC America to know  --- that baby can go from 0 to 100 in 5.7 seconds. Even if you opted for the smaller engine, it's a mere 6.5 seconds to nearly double the speed limit.

Still, you picked the vehicle Car and Driver calls a "compelling and satisfying sports car." They call its engine "silky smooth" and "powerful." They compliment its "impressive handling."

To say I was expecting great things is like telling you the fat kid likes cake -- it's a given. You expect me to gaze in wonder at the power of your mighty vessel. That's why you bought the thing, right?

We crept up to the speed zone sign, and I punched it. And I nearly ran through your back end.

We were still driving 35. On a straight road. With no cops in sight. In a BMW Z4.

I was mad. I wanted to walk up and flick your bald pate through the flat top roof of that blue machine. I could have. We were going slow enough. Instead, I flicked my blinker, spun the wheel to the left and spun out of sight, my kid punching the air in the backseat. "Faster, Mommy, faster."

Now when I see that blue shape ahead, stopped at a traffic light or waiting to pull in front of me at the grocery store exit, I know I'm in for a long drive home.

I'm stuck behind the one little blue pill that can't get it up. ...read more blogs