The first time I saw her, I fell madly in love. It was the week before my 19th birthday and I was invincible. And she was going to be the one to complete me.

I whispered affectionate words as I ran my hands over her, feeling my touch slip against the smoothness of her. I had never felt euphoria like this. She hugged me as I sunk into her, leaning against the soft dark fur.

Canary yellow. I had dreamed forever of a canary yellow Porsche. And here she was.

1977-1/2 Porsche 924. Black interior. Furry seat covers.

Roxy.

This precious, beautiful creature was held together with duct tape and bubble gum. But she was mine.

And we became one while flying down open roads at 110 mph.

I was known as "the girl with the Porsche" – everyone wanted to touch her.

We had a torrid, sweet nine-month love affair that ended tragically when she became a money-hungry bitch who broke down monthly and refused to take me to the heights of ecstasy we had once shared.

I don't even have any pictures.

But I will always have the memories…