Van asked me to have a word with you fine gentlemen.

[VLJ_imp]

Hello. My name is Monica Bellucci. According to the press, I'm an "Italian actress/model." Mio Dio, I loathe that description. Yes, I'm Italian, and also an actress, but I am not a model, capice?

Oh, whatever.

Anyway, Van invited me here to talk a bit about myself, as he put it. He's a nice enough guy and all, but I have to say, he's a bit loopy. See, apparently there's this Honda motorcycle called a CB1100 EX, and Van says it reminds him of me. A lot. A whole lot. As in, it's rather disturbing, just how much this motorcycle reminds him of me. I try to tell him, "Van, how can that motorcycle be me, and I, it? That beautiful lady is certainly dressed in red, but she is not Italian. When you caress her just so, she does not respond with the seductive purr of bella Tuscany; rather, she has a certain Asiatic allure, which is wonderful in its own right, but it's more saki than chianti, don't you see?"

Always, he dismisses my gentle remonstrations with a knowing grin. "It's not about birth certificates, or colors on a flag," he tells me. "It's about who you are...what you are. In any language, born of any nation, this bike is you."

He is convinced. He is immovable.

He is also so sweet about it, so flattering, that I'm willing to play along. What he's asked me to do is to describe the 2017 CB1100 EX to you, from a first-person perspective.

Interesting. If I come across as vain, please forgive me, for such is not my intent.

I came into Van's possession by happenstance, as it were. Apparently Van tried to purchase me months ago from his local dealer, only to prove unable to come to agreeable terms with said local dealer. Now that it is the dead of winter, and I continued to sit languishing on that dealer's showroom floor, unloved, barely noticed—the notion of which Van simply cannot abide, where I am concerned—he attempted yet again yesterday to come to terms with his local dealer, and was again rebuffed.

Undaunted, and dogged in his determination to bring me home, he went on the internet and looked up every 'Monica' within driving distance from his home in northern California.

Here, I should add that his faithfulness was sorely tested, as a certain winsome geisha by the name of 'Ninja 1000" nearly lured him away from me yesterday. Following his second unsuccessful attempt at purchasing me from his local Honda dealer, he promptly struck a deal with his local Kawasaki dealership, pending the successful outcome of a test ride. There was something about a windshield, and noisy turbulence, he said. He wouldn't purchase that bike without a test ride; true heart that he is, however, he decided to forego the test ride and walk away from the comely Asian temptress, back into my arms.

Upon arriving home from the Kawasaki dealership, he called a Honda dealership located an hour and a half away, and was able to complete the very same deal that his local dealership would not accept.

Today, he came to Concord and picked me up.

Fair disclosure: In my former life I was, unfortunately, a fashion model. Yes, I know, I know. There is no need to remind me, nor to disparage me. I am not proud of that period of my life, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do, no?

Well, one thing I still carry within me from those days is the desire to appear fashionably chic and properly haute couture when I'm out and about in public. As such, I loathe getting my hair wet, after spending countless hours doing my hair, makeup, and clothes in an effort to have everything look just right. One never knows when the paparazzi may be lurking, cameras at the ready.

So, imagine my chagrin upon learning that Van chose a day of frogs and locusts rains to come rescue me from bondage. All my primping for him, for all of you, a certainty to go to waste! Soaked to the bone, I was sure to look like a common ragamuffin!

Van didn't seem to mind. Oh, sure, he cursed the foul weather, grousing just a bit about "not even getting one day with me" before he'd have to to clean me right up again, but that was the extent of his displeasure.

I must say, he does seem extremely happy with me, following our first tryst together.

I'm blushing now. Forgive me.

As soon as he thumbed my starter button and I began to purr for him, he grinned with satisfaction. "Yessss," he said. "You sound so much better than the '14 Standard. You feel so much sexier."

I was inclined to take offense at such a forward remark, especially since it was an admission of some fling or another he had obviously enjoyed with another woman, until he explained to me that those days were over for him, and he was merely stating the differences between myself and this other woman.

I'm sure she's a wonderful lady. (She's probably a shameless tart.)

But I digress...

So, he loves my sultry voice, and my warm pulse...my soothing heartbeat.

I'm glad.

As soon as he pulled in my clutch, dropped me into gear and headed out, he told me, "Ohhhh, yes, you handle exactly as I knew you would, wearing your new heels. Fabulous, babe!"

Apparently the '14 Standard version of me that he dated had very heavy steering, which he felt was almost certainly the result of squared-off tires that may have also been under-inflated. I steer and turn quite easily, he says, and dead neutrally as well, which, believe it or not, he deems a compliment!

"Dead neutral and easy," a compliment?

My sainted mother would be aghast over such talk. What has the world come to?

Similarly, after shifting me up and down many times, he said, "You're as slick as moose snot!"

Now how am I supposed to take that as anything but the most mortifying of degradations?

Nonetheless, he again assured me that he was paying me the most ardent, sincere compliment imaginable, explaining, "mickey will be thrilled, because your transmission is every bit as slick and and snick-snick-snick easy perfection as he says his is, and you shift a million times better than Eric's '14. His bike made audible 'clunks' when shifting. You? You're just like my XSR."

Again, with the comparisons to other women. How very gauche.

Oh well, American men never were particularly housebroken.

The hits keep coming, too. A bit further into our lovely ride together, he mentioned that I have none of the drive lash of Eric's bike, which, again, is a good thing?

I think it is. He seemed very happy about it, which must be a positive sign.

I do admit, men have often complimented me on my legs. In this regard, Van is no exception. On at least a few occasions, usually when taking me over sharp expansion joints, he was quick to note how smoothly my supple legs eased over those nasty bumps in the road. "Much plusher than the '14. Very nice," he cooed, with another knowing smirk. "Ulvetanna will love you," he added, which didn't sound very gentlemanly of him at all, I must say.

In fact, it sounded rather caddish. A gentleman should never kiss and tell, yet here he is, already planning on sharing me with his friends?

My mother must never hear of this. You must promise me this. These lurid tales must be kept safe within our little group here.

"You know what I love best about you," he said to me, when we were stopped at a red light. "It's all the little details...the things that don't show up on a spec sheet."

"Like what, baby?" I purred, as he gratuitously blipped my throttle. Yes, I know, I seem to purr all my answers. What can I say? I'm built to please.

"Just so you know, I would never do that on the '14 model. With you, though, you just sound so good, and feel so awesome, I have to do it. Anyway, it's a million little things, like your switchgear. Eric was right, the turnsignals on my Yamaha are too small, and kinda flimsy. Your switchgear seems like it was built by Cartier, or Rolex. Everything is large, elegant, purposeful, and so very well engineered. Everything about you is built to last, even as it's all so effortless to use. Your mirrors are amazing. The only way they could be any better is if they somehow reflected the image of your gorgeous dash, or your sculpted perfection of a gas tank. Everywhere I look, I see another beautiful contour, another artisan's touch. The person who built you cared deeply about you. I can feel it in every surface, every smooth utterance. You sing and breathe with the warmth of the neck pickup of a really good ES-335."

I told him right then and there that he's a crackhead, and all he did was laugh.

"I'm just a girl, like any other," I added teasingly, and he blipped my throttle again in response.

"Sure you are, and a perfect sunset at Lahaina is just another ray of sunshine," he said, smacking my bottom and goosing me into action, as we jumped ahead of traffic.

Yes, I think he's a more than a bit smitten with me.

I pride myself on being a rather demure, respectable, classy woman, so imagine my surprise when he positively revved me up and made me race down the road like a wild banshee, yet that's what he did with me, all the while sniggering to me, "Sundials, my patootie. You accelerate like a champ, pretty lady."

Yes, I am aware that I'm known for being a rather smooth charmer, with precious little vibration to speak of under normal circumstances, but I was pleasantly surprised to see him notice and acknowledge my more passionate nature. Yes, I dearly love donning a formal gown and tripping the light fantastic at a swanky ballroom affair, but I am far from averse to throwing on a pair of yoga tights and a sports bra and getting after it during a hot and sweaty Crossfit session. In fact, don't kid yourself, people. Beneath these elegant curves and enchanting colors and textures, I remain a hot-blooded minx, through and through.

If you want to dance, just cue the band, and I'll boogie your pants off. Even the classiest girl still wants a bit of excitement, you know.

Make no mistake, however, and I'm under no illusions to the contrary; it's my looks that have brought me this far, and it's those same looks that have captured Van's heart. "You are the most beautiful thing out there," he tells me, with no reservations or qualifiers. "Even if you didn't work so amazingly well, I would still love you, but I sure am glad your beauty isn't merely skin deep."

At the conclusion of our first date, as he climbed off of me with a satisfied sigh, he let me know that this will not be a fleeting affair. He informed me he was so sure of his long-term devotion to me that he took the "absolutely unheard of, totally drastic" measure of signing me up for his first-ever extended warranty.

He told me, "Sometimes you just know, and this is one of those times. You're the one."

And you know what? I believe him.