My obsession with Porsche began in the early '70s when the two partners of my father's firm would occasionally grace our driveway with a 1972 Carrera Targa and a 1974 914.

Though completely captivated, I had zero expectations of ever being an owner — the reality of a kid growing up in a blue-collar suburb where muscle cars reigned. But I read everything about Porsche I could uncover, and I had a special appreciation for their underdog status in a world of massive V8 power, when cars were measured by the quarter-mile.

In the summer of 2008, I saw my first Cayman. She crossed the intersection in front of me, turned her hips and then disappeared down a side street. I sat paralyzed in the moment, knowing that I had to have one. It took almost a year of self-persuasion before I finally pulled the trigger and signed the agreement to realize a dream that began decades ago. For the first time in my life, I simply stopped looking for my next car.

Not to sound melodramatic, but the Cayman has changed my life. My wife and I became active members in the Riesentöter region of the Porsche Club of America. Our calendar is consumed with activities, and our closest friends are also members of the PCA family.

I'm not a track guy, principally due to the fact that I need my car to get to work on Mondays, which tends to govern the depth of my foot on the gas pedal. I slowly customized my Cayman with subtle modifications that appealed to my own personality. My life was busy, content and stable.

But that changed this summer when I attended the Porsche World Roadshow (an event conceived by Porsche and supported by local dealers), offering their customers the opportunity to drive new models in an exhilarating track environment.

Distracted a bit by the hype of the new Carrera Targa and Macan, I was not prepared to be blindsided by the recently announced Cayman GTS. But when I approached the pits and saw the silhouette and open door awaiting entry, my palms began to sweat and my heart paced with the idling flat six.

Here's a look at the red devil temptress, the Porsche Cayman GTS.

The understated Carmine Red paint scheme with black accents looked angrier than a wasp. I lowered myself into the Alcantara sport seats, wrapped snugly like a leather driving glove. Punching the PDK gearbox into Sport 2, I checked my mirrors and launched onto the track.

The tone of the sport exhaust was glorious. Oversteer corrected easily through the light-as-meringue electric-assisted steering. Acceleration was astonishing, the PDK transmission simply transferring power precisely as required for every single maneuver.

I didn't even touch the shift paddles positioned perfectly under my fingertips. I negotiated the course with scalpel precision, and one lap in this car convinced me I could realize my potential. Stepping out of the cockpit, I backed away slowly, realizing now I was in serious trouble.

I still love and respect the bond I've developed with my Porsche, but now I feel like I’m cheating. I'm asking questions and doing the math in my head. I still want to take my Cayman to dinner and weekend events. But the honest truth is, I'd rather run off with the Cayman GTS.