By Ann E. Funck

“What kind of car are you looking for?” the car salesman asked me on the phone.

“A cheap sexy car.” I know this kind of car is as rare as a blushing bride, but why not ask a bored salesman named Brad a hard question and see what happens?

“With distinguishing characteristics, like side vents and turbo dual exhausts,” I added. “New or gently used.”

Brad suggested a pre-owned Crossfire. “It’s a 2005 with a Mercedes engine for only $15,900, with a 5-speed transmission.”

What would I do with five speeds? The intersection cameras are spraying tickets willy-nilly in our city, and the speed limit lowers with regularity. What’s the point of power? I need a sexy cheap car, not a fast one.

“Mileage?” I asked.

“Fifty-seven thousand, but that’s barely broken in for a Mercedes engine,” Brad said with conviction.

“That’s been rode hard; my car has just 75k. But what color?”

“A medium blue called Mirabeau Blue — you won’t see yourself coming and going.”

But I need to see the car while I’m coming and going — I want to eye the unique Mirabeau Blue while driving. I’d passed over the 2000 metallic gold Mustang because I couldn’t see the shimmering shade from the sepulchral interior. The Crossfire would be blinging carefree passersby while I was stuck at the dark dashboard scratching up the monthly payments. At least the Volkswagen Bug has large panels of the chosen exterior paint color on the inside of the doors.

Brad talked me through his dealership website so I could see the Crossfire’s video.

“The price is $13,900 on the website,” I said.

“That’s because I put my best price on the Internet. If you come in, I have to start negotiating somewhere, so I start at $15,900.” In two minutes, I’d saved 2k.

“I see your Crossfire is rear wheel drive like the Mustang. I have to drive in snow.”

There were too many negatives. Besides, I don’t have to replace my car just yet. I shop around so when my sweet Duster is totaled or collapses, I’ll know what model to buy. Even if my insurance company would find a “loaner,” I’d still have only a few days to decide what to snag as a replacement. Therefore, I constantly do research for my dream car.

I discussed my driving desire with my son Patrick. “You want a sexy slow car,”he said. “Sexy cars are not slow. The Porsche that’s $80,000 does 70 mph in 3rd gear.”

I recalled the cartoon in the newspaper with the man kneeling in supplication at his bedside, asking, “What part of ‘Porsche 911 Targa 4S with direct fuel injection and VarioCam Plus’ don’t you understand?”

“Do you like your car?” Patrick asked.

“Yes!” (I had opted for cute — Plymouth Duster — over sexy — purple Probe — and saved 6k at the time.)

“Then fix it,” he said. “Last month, my coffee nearly spilled in the cup holder when I drove it over 55. Buy new wheels so it doesn’t shake. New wheel covers… with locks. It will still be cheaper than buying another car.”

Fancy wheel covers or spinny rims will not make my Duster’s lines resemble those of a Porsche Spyder, or a low-slung Corvette, or a feral Dodge Viper in “Viper Violet.”

Maybe there could be a cheap and sexy concept car. But the car czars command their styling studios to appeal to the masses, who evidently want family sedans that accommodate child car-seats. My search for a dreamy model is as futile as Diogenes’ quest for an honest car salesman.

But I want one — deep-chested, narrow-hipped, well-muscled — the car, not the salesman. Visions of contenders spiral in my mind: the original Hyundai Tiburon (before its styling was dumbed down), its “replacement,” the Genesis Coupe (sadly, rear wheel drive), and Mitsubishi Eclipse with super spoiler (company still in bankruptcy court?).

Why is it impossible to build a sleek, well-defined chassis with FWD and a 2.5 liter putt-putt engine? Slow but steady. Like The Man (Sinatra) sang, “Nice ‘N’ Easy Does It… Every Time.” Like a good man, all I need is one. Bodacious eye candy with the perfect body mass index at a lite price. What a concept!

I can dream all through the new year. Then next holiday season I’ll repeat and repeat my plea in Eartha Kitt’s irresistible voice that echoes in my head:

“Santa baby, slide it down the chimney tonight!”