La ragazza di Via Condotti

Rita Barberà walks abandoned at the summner[sic] of la piazzoletta, in an estival Rome burning

the Cloaca Massima is clogged with merda and putrid smells start flying over the Eternal City like ghosts from the yesterevenings.


Because in July, the evening is eternal over Rome.


Rita Barberà is just hips and tits and ass and vajina: his flamboyant dress sways at the breeze of the Sirocco, warm wind arrived from the northern Africa that brings immense libélulas floating on its suffocating sheet of air:
the silvery jet of the fountain beholds the Roman dogs rubbing their penises on the pavement, among Zanella scooters fueled by a syrup made with benzine and crushed mozzarella.


Rita Barberà is named Rita Barberà, but she could be named indistinctly Eva, Concheta or Juliette, her cunt would be the same:

the tamed ozone of an oblong sky fed up of being blue observes her now wanking seated at the edge of la fontana di Via Condotti, using a giant dildo of lattexxx, which wisely scrutinizes the cavernous delights of her concha.


15 italian men, all looking like Marcello Mastroianni with eyeglasses and smoking Chesterfield's get surprised when they pass by Via Condotti, and see the wanker nymph abusing of her sex with no morals



Rita Barberà doesn't realize that she's observed, and even recorded by the Canon's and  Minoltas of two filmmakers from Cinecittà, she's too absent minded in the oneiric onanism of branlette, and cums with unbearable orgasm after massive clitoris rubbing:


1, 2, 3, 6: the truck of the fire brigade passes running urgent to extinguish the fire of the Vatican that's burning down in flames, the Pope must be saved in the name of Europe: everybody turns his back to see with Eurolatin curiosity the huge and red automobile crowded by men with helmet shouting and fat pipehoses


1, 2, 3, 6: the truck already passed and everybody turns his back to see la ragazza again, but she's not there anymore... disappeared?
Was she only a figment of our imagination? Un puto fantasma? A poltergeist? An emissary from the very Hell?


For some seconds the 15 men who looked like M. Mastroianni in Metrocolor and the filmmakers stayed looking around, dumbfounded, like the child lost in the supermarket.



The sequence advances in fast forward screeching on the tape of the VHS, because I push the fucking button once for all:



Rita Barberà walks at the summner[sic] of la piazzoletta, in an estival Rome burning

the Cloaca Massima is clogged with cacona and putrid smells start flying over the Eternal City like ghosts from the yesterevenings.


Because in July, the evening is eternal, over Rome.