"So whose room am I staying in?" she said quietly.
Just what I was wondering, but I must have gone white when she said it out loud. I gave him a worried look -- that wasn't my idea. "His, from the looks of it," he smirked, "but come back to mine later if you think of it. Kind of a cold night. Well, have fun, kids," he said. Only the way he fidgeted with his motorcycle helmet and gloves gave any apprehension away, but he covered that by quickly getting out his card key and disappearing into his room.
Yesterday afternoon, I had seen them. No, let's be honest. I saw her first, then I saw him. Maybe it was the Joe Rocket jacket, but more likely it was the long brown hair, or maybe it was the tan. Or the breasts, covered by a Lycra top (and partially by the jacket, which made it a tease and not just another woman showing off her big tits in something tight).
I saw all this while I was paying for lunch at a diner in Perry, Florida. She was the most interesting thing I had seen since breakfast, and perhaps all week. My week on the motorcycle had accomplished what I intended -- I was beginning to forget. But boredom was starting to creep in. Boredom with small towns and motels, boredom with questions about my motorcycle (an older model BMW) whenever I stopped.
And boredom is deadly on a motorcycle. I was debating with myself, as the waitress counted my change back at the register, whether I needed to stop for the day or try to make it on down to Crystal River. I'd be fresher the next day -- if I didn't watch TV all afternoon and then toss and turn all night.
I risked another glance her way. She was sitting in a booth next to a guy in a motorcycle jacket. Not matching jackets, I noticed with approval -- many "motorcycle couples" end up with everything matching, which makes them look like high schoolers on spring break. He saw me, and smiled. I was wearing the usual gear, and carrying my helmet. I'd already had a helmet stolen off my handlebars this trip. I debated about whether to speak with them -- this assumption that all motorcyclists have a lot in common kind of grates on me, and I've had a lot of unwanted company at restaurants. So I just smiled and waved back, and she motioned me over.
That did it. I walked to their booth. "Hi," I said.
'Hi. Sit down, if you've got time. I'm Stephen, and this -- is Jane."
"Not Plain Jane, though," I said. Wow, you've uncorked a dumb line already, and you're just sitting down, I thought.
"Thank you," she said, kind of giggling, and he laughed, which I guess made it okay. The bastard's probably enjoying this -- it must happen all the time, I thought. I shook hands with him, and her. I just managed to resist kissing her hand.
We talked about all the stuff travelers talk about, especially when they're on motorcycles -- weather, where we'd been, roads, traffic, how the machines were doing. He said they'd started out in Savannah, and that he had a couple of weeks before he had to get back to work. I didn't ask him where or what work was -- I hate those kinds of questions. They're nosy, and they tend to get me thinking about work, and home -- both things I've ridden hundreds of miles to get away from.
"Nice helmet," he said.
"Oh, that?" I said, sheepishly. "Thanks. I just got it yesterday in Pensacola. Somebody took mine at a gas station in Cantonment."
"That sucks," Jane said.
"Felt weird riding without one. I had just been in Alabama, where it's illegal, and I wouldn't ordinarily ride bareheaded, period. Felt strange to have the wind in my hair."
"But kinda nice in a way?" Stephen asked.
"Yes and no. Almost too much of a good thing, and then there's the constant worry. Which is kind of stupid when you think about it -- if you wreck, you're pretty messed up anyway. Which is why I ride so as not to wreck," I laughed. Jane laughed with me.
I was beginning to get comfortable with them. They seemed like two normal people on a motorbike, as opposed to some of the strange ones I've met at diners, gas stations, and truck stops along the way. And, of course, the yuppies. I wasn't going to ask what he or she did, but I could imagine him as an engineer or a high level maintenance guy at some factory. And I could imagine her in real estate or as a nurse. I could easily imagine her as a nurse.
We got to talking about where we were going next. Stephen said they were ultimately going to Orlando -- here he looked at Jane as if to ask if you want to, that is. They were apparently making it up as they went along, like me.
"Where are you going, Harry?" she asked. Here it came -- the "do you want to ride with us?" dance. I'd turned a lot of these down in the past week. There's not only concerns about who you're falling in with, there's the fact that all of you can't really want to go to the same place. It messes with the spontaneity. And there's this feeling that you're giving up and doing what someone else wants you to do.
But I was starting to get used to the sight of her by now. "Well, I'm kind of drifting south. Orlando's nice this time of year, if you guys don't mind me riding along."
Both of them said that would be fine. They paid up and we met in the parking lot. His bike was a late-model Triumph Bonneville, which of course prompted some of the usual kidding about German and British engineering. My bike was parked across the lot; he said he'd wait for me. As I started walking off, he had gotten on the bike and I looked back to see her settling on -- it's actually a little harder to get on when you're riding pillion on a bike, but her long legs made it look easy. Her leather pants made it hard to look away. She cuddled up to him and smiled at me -- she'd caught me looking.
We got on the road and I decided I was glad I had come along -- and that he had taken the lead. Stephen had fitted the Bonnie with a tank bag and soft saddle bags, and Jane was wearing a small backpack purse. They were traveling light, which for some reason I find kind of sexy in its own right. And of course that also left my view of her ass unobstructed.
Thank goodness for the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course. It teaches you to constantly scan for potential hazards, and warns of the dangers of fixating on anything up ahead. I had to make a constant effort to watch the lines on the road, scan intersections, watch for trucks -- to look at anything but the back of Jane -- her leather-sheathed buttocks, her narrow waist, her shoulders (broadened by the pads in her crash jacket), and her ponytail fluttering behind her helmet, which turned me on as much as anything else. At least once she turned around -- to see if I was still back there? To see if I was looking at her? I made it a point to move my eyes all over the road, and she winked at me.
Too much of a good thing -- when we got to a stop light, I took the opportunity to take the lead for a while. At least the boredom was gone, for now.
When we got into Gainesville, Stephen pulled into a Starbucks. It was about four in the afternoon. We ordered coffee. They sat together on a couch, and I sank into a cozy chair beside them. "I don't know about you two, but I think this is where I want to stop for the evening. Should be someplace we can stay around here and walk over for dinner and drinks," Stephen said.
"Sounds good to me," Jane said. "my butt's getting a little sore, and I'd like to go somewhere for dinner dressed like a girl for a change."
Neither of us could argue with that. Truth be told, my saddle was getting to me too. We asked the baristas, and they said there was a LaQuinta just around the corner. A local Italian restaurant was in a shopping center practically next door. A little bit corporate all the way around, but this was Gainesville, not Mayberry.
A few minutes later, we were checked in. It was the off season, and we were able to park our bikes right in front of side-by-side ground level rooms. I could hear the shower running as Stephen and I helped each other check oil, lube, and coolant levels and wipe some road grime off our bikes. Motorcycles aren't as maintenance-intensive as they used to be, but they can still leave you by the side of the road (or worse) if you don't take care of them, especially when you're putting hundreds of miles a day on them. By the time we did all that, it was a little after five.
I told Stephen to come get me when they were both ready. Something told me I would be ready before they were. I got my gear out of my saddlebags and got into my room. I stripped off and got into the shower. I thought about the way our doors adjoined and our room layouts and realized the bathrooms shared a wall. I could hear the water running before I started my shower, and thought I heard an occasional sigh, but maybe that was my imagination.
Then I heard a thud, followed by an unmistakably rhythmic sound -- feet? Asses? Hands on the wall? Whatever was making the sounds, it wasn't hard to imagine what they were up to, especially as the sighing turned into low moans, and then into higher-pitched little cat-like shrieks. So she was a bit of a screamer. I love women like that -- you always know how you're doing.
I went and got some hand lotion, leaving a wet trail on the floor between the shower and the sink. Soon I was blissfully stroking myself to the rhythm they had created, biting my lip to stay quiet, even though I knew they had to realize I was just a thin wall away from their wild, noisy humping, and probably didn't care. Regardless, I was rock hard before I even got started, and came in less than a minute. And came and came. It had been two or three days. Yes, there are plenty of chances to masturbate when you're alone in motel rooms night after night, but honestly I had gotten bored with doing that, too.
I made sure all the semen made it down the drain (one of my quirks -- I hate for motel maids to know I've been jacking off in their bathrooms) and started washing the grime off. They were reaching a rapid finale themselves, from the sound of things. By the time I was drying off, all I could hear was running water. I was getting semi-hard again, but decided any further relief could wait until after dinner, when I might hear another installment from the even thinner walls between our headboards.
I had been dressed for fifteen minutes and had been watching ESPN for ten minutes more when I heard a knock on my door. I answered it -- "Hello?!" Jane had knocked, not Stephen. He was right behind her, dressed in a somewhat cleaner version of what he'd been wearing on the road.
