My story begins on a sunny afternoon, in the Southern California suburb of Cerritos. It was April or May, I'm not sure which since all the months back then just blurred together. I just know that it was springtime, which seems quite appropriate since this is, before anything else, a love story ... of sorts.

I hadn't been feeling too well. I was recuperating from an accident that nearly killed me. But, you probably heard that story, it was in all the papers with head lines that read: "Federal Agent In Near Fatal Accident." There had been a lot of therapy after my hospital stay, then a lot of time at home, in bed. The loneliness hardly affected me at first, it was time to catch-up on my reading. I'm proud to say that I even finished "War and Peace?" Then, with fewer and fewer visits that eventually ended completely, I found myself feeling empty and lethargic. I'd call friends, but they were busy and active and usually "out."

I started reading every page in the paper, even the classifieds and the personal ads. I remember thinking: "How interesting, maybe I could make some new friends." I certainly didn't think I'd meet some woman. That was when I saw it, the ad, her ad:

I was compelled to write.

Curiosity, lust, loneliness.

I don't know what to call it.

Whatever motivated me, it was strong,
and before the first week was over, I wrote three letters to her.

It took a while, maybe three weeks,
and six or seven of my own letters sent out), but eventually, I got her answer. Then another letter and another. In each letter Angela told me more, revealing herself to me. I felt as if I knew her soul, her inner-self. With her mix of innocence came a contradictory worldliness, with her European seriousness was an eclectic sense of humor that could make me laugh at the drop of a hat.

In short,

she made me feel alive and yes, if it's not too perverse a thing to say about someone whom you never met, she made me feel in love!

There is no way that you will be able to appreciate just how much joy I felt when Angela wrote to tell me that she was coming to America and that she wanted to visit me. My spirit soared, my heart leapt with joy, and in the time allowed I felt the motivation to exercise my sore limbs!

Even I was amazed to see how far I came in those few short months.

By the day her flight was due, I got out of bed, brushed my teeth and flossed, shaved, took a hot bath and rinsed off with a cool shower so I wouldn't perspire. I put on some cologne called "Eternity." I put on my best navy-blue double-breasted suit. Simple tasks for you maybe but for me this was a miracle. Then, I had to do something I hadn't done since the accident, I got in a car and drove.

The freeway was crowded and it took longer than I thought it would to reach the Bradley Terminal at the Los Angeles International Airport. With minutes to spare, I parked the car and waited just beyond the Immigration checkpoint through which she had to pass. I waited and watched.



A voice announced the arrival, or it appeared on the screen of some television monitor. I just know I knew she was there. I watched the people. Italians one and all. I couldn't tell if anyone was a tourist, I couldn't see her. Then, an angel, a goddess, a fantasy walked in and passed through the checkpoint. I knew it had to be Angela Rosa Giovanelli, somehow, she knew it was me.

We both walked and then ran straight toward the other. Her hair was jet-black, almost blue-black it was so dark and perfect. The make-up on her angelic face was flawless as nature itself. Her mascara and eyeshadow only high-lighted the most beautiful deep, brown eyes I had ever looked into. Her blush and cheek rouge had to have been applied to the contoured tapestry of her face by nothing less than an artist. From the scarlatto lipstick on her full and pouty lips to the opera red nail polish on her well-manicured, child-like hands, she was, in a word, "enchanting." Her simple clothes, a white blouse, midnight-blue (almost black) skirt, stockings, and high heel pumps, simply could not have been sexier or more alluring. By the time we reached one-another, I was aching in anticipation. We hugged, we squeezed, we kissed hard and passionately. As our tongues wrestled, I tasted the sweetest, most fulfilling love I had ever imagined. If I hadn't been so occupied, I might have actually pitied every other living being for not experiencing this completeness that I felt.

Pulling away slightly, pushing her pelvis ever so gently against mine, she smiles, lighting up the whole airport and, in a charming accent asks: "You like?" I could only close my eyes and take a deep breath of her Italian perfume. "Il Bacio", she tells me: "That's the name of my perfume." "It means the kiss" she says with a giggle, again asking: "You like?" At this very moment, I was in love, and I think she sensed it. I couldn't say that of course! You don't just meet somebody and say: "I love you!" They'll think you're crazy and all that. So, I just nodded my head and said: "I like!" She laughed and kissed me again. I opened my eyes and saw an Immigration Inspector, some woman who, well, maybe a long time ago was young and cute, her name tag said "Lopez" looking out at us. she looked annoyed. So, I pulled back and asked my new found love if she might like to leave. "You could take me anywhere" she whispers submissively into my ear. I want to melt into a puddle on the floor, but instead I take her to the parking structure and my car. I forget to ask where her luggage is.

The drive is a blur, the walk up the stairs is forgotten, all I know is that when we kissed in my apartment, I became an impassioned animal! I took off, she took off, we took off our clothes. Yet she wasn't vulgar or naked, she was my fantasy laying under me, on my bed. I had to move a little, lay on my side to drink in all the beauty that laid before me. We kissed, my hands roamed, I was drunk with her. Intoxicated! She was a vision in a shimmering midnight-blue satin and lace contour-cut French Decollete (a kind of bustier) with garter straps holding up her midnight-blue, lace-top, thigh high shear silk stockings. Bending her knee, she brings up her right leg, my hand suddenly reaches out and glides down to her well-shaped calf, down to her foot still couched in the fine Italian leather of her six inch heels. I take the shoe off and consume her petite foot in my large hand.

My hands, my legs, my whole body makes love to every part of this woman. I adore her, I worship her, I belong to her in every sense of the word. Yet as I pet and stroke, lick and kiss, rub and massage, I consciously beg time itself to stop. She touches me, and kisses, she hugs me and moans and trembles. I slowly and gently drive myself deep into her, she is hot and wet. Her love muscles contract and relax, contract and relax, she squeezes me, engulfs me, our bodies slam harder and harder against the other. I slide in and out, faster and harder, our bodies sweat and slap together. We drive each-other into a crazed frenzy as our love making grows to a fevered pitch! I thrust harder and faster, she humps and grinds her thirsty pelvis into mine! She contracts and relaxes and meets my every thrust! She throws her head back and opens her mouth slightly, she gasps in pleasure! At first her body trembles slightly, then she convulses as I explode deep within this Mediterranean beauty! My body grinds itself into hers and I convulse spasmodically, joyfully!!!

My love juices may have been spent, but within that very same moment of orgasmic ecstasy, my bodily fluid still flowing into her, her mouth found mine and we began making love all over again! Her hands, my hands, her legs, my legs, our bodies could not stop. And so it was through the night until sometime after dawn, sometime near noon maybe, I heard the mailman open and close the gate and drop our mail off. She laid in my arms asleep. Gently, gingerly, I slip out of her grasp, out of my bed, and then slipping on my pants I went down to check my mail.

My box was full, I could see that as I approached. It would be odd for me to get that much mail before, but now, after the accident, it would be a bloody miracle! A bundle of letters stuck out from my box, tied together with a string of twine. The letters looked vaguely familiar, I thought. The letters looked like...NO! As I took them in my hand I read the name, "Angela Rosa Giovanelli." I, I read the familiar address: "via San Giovanni 180." I, I couldn't believe what I was holding! I refused to believe it! The bundle of letters were all the letters I had sent to her!
They were all stamped: "MORTE!" Italian for: "DECEASED!" My eyes bulged, blood rushed to my head, synopsis fired and neurons connected! Thoughts flew through my brain at the speed of light ! My own sanity came into question!

I ran up the stairs, I flew! I wanted to know that this was a bad mistake, a terrible joke, a sick prank by some friend of hers in Italy. I wanted her to hold me, to tell me... to ask me if: "I like?" Just anything but what this seemed to be.

I opened the door and saw nothing in my bed but a smoldering and singed ring around the area where I left her sleeping so peacefully. I opened the door and saw all my dreams gone. I opened the door and fell to my knees to cry. I must have laid there for about two days before I looked-up and found her shoe, her midnight-blue, high heel pump. I can still smell her "Il Bacio (The Kiss)." I can still hear her giggle.

Ugh...(laboriously picking-up a large stack of newspapers). So, now if you'll excuse me, I, I, I have to get to work. Ya, You see, I, I, I spend my days now, well, just going through all these papers looking for her ad.

I know it'll be in one of these. I, I, I know I'll find her again. I have to. You see, I can't explain what happened. I, I can't explain anything about it. I, I, I can't even expect you to believe me, but I, I' m in love.

Created: April 2, 1997r.
Last Updated: May 23, 2005r.
Illustrated by: Edgard Rosales, San Cristobal, Tachina, Venezuela