There is something about riding a Harley that makes me real horny. I don't know if it's the vibration I feel between my legs, or just what. A real rush. Right, me. Captain of the cheerleaders. Now a biker chick. But I won't ride in a pack. I ride alone. Nobody can keep up with me.
I always had a nice bike. I started with a little pink tricycle with streamers on the handlebars and moved on to a red, white and blue two wheeler with training wheels. When I was twelve, my grandpa, much to the chagrin of my mom, started me on dirt bikes. Then was I was fourteen he let me ride the real stuff. His old Indian which still runs and his Harley. Since I was eighteen I have had my own Harley. Several of them.
For Christmas this year my grandpa gave me his old Harley. His eyes are very bad now and he hasn't ridden for years. Poppy just sits on the porch in his rocking chair, smoking hash in his corncob pipe and listening to Frank Sinatra. The old Harley he gave me was in need of much work, so I hauled it on my truck on over to Spike, the Mr. Fix-It Harley Man. "Spike," I said, "I'll be back in a couple months when the weather breaks. Get it ready, dude."
The first week in March there was one somewhat nice day. Cloudy but fairly warm, at least when the day began. I thought, what the fuck, should I play golf or go get the bike. The bike won. Spike has a used Harley shop on the outskirts of town. He is the master of rebuilding and reconditioning.
Spike is also older than dirt. Not as old as Poppy, but pretty damn close. Spike's wrinkled and tanned skin looks like well-used leather. Quite fitting for an ancient Harley dude. And his scraggly hair and beard, notwithstanding the constant sexual innuendoes, make me think of Spike as an old goat. If Spike ever touched me you know where I think he would just croak and he knows it. A man who knows his limitations and isn't that just a first. That's why Spike mostly just likes to watch. He likes to watch me play dress up and I put on a real good show for him. Why not? You should have seen what he had been doing to the Harley I was about to drive out of his garage.
Spike's latest Harley project of course was the 1951 Panhead which thanks to Poppy now belonged to me. Spike was dumb enough to ask if I could deal with the suicide clutch. I knew I was still his numero uno Harley Honey when he chuckled at my response, "If Peter Fonda did OK in 'Easy Rider' why not me? The names of your Harleys like Panheads, Fatboys and Knuckleheads are meant to correspond to the IQ of your typical biker dude. Panhead, the motor cover looks like an upside down pan. Duh!"
Actually, if Spike would have extended the forks a few more inches and did more chrome and some stars and stripes you got the 'Easy Rider' Fonda ride. I pointed out to Spike that the '51 Panheads were actually safer than the '52's, the first year for the foot shift and hand clutch. I started to explain the problems with the shifter rod and lever. When he said, "Oh, shut up you smart ass bitch!" I knew he was going to let me take the bike without paying him anything. He didn't want money. He wanted a show.
I had my Harley duds in the bag I brought with me. What Spike liked was not the taking it off part. It was the putting it on part. So I shucked off my 'regular' clothes real fast. I had my back to him. First I slipped the black leather thong over my feet and pulled it up slowly. It was very snug so I'm doing a little wiggling to get into the damn thing, 'er I mean thong. And Spike couldn't resist a jab, "Make that you are a smart FAT ass bitch. I guess you been hitting the milkshakes pretty hard since the last time I saw you."
I like to show to show a little leg when I'm cruising. Just adds to the fun. I also like to ride topless on occasion and I don't mean without a helmet. Not that I want to cause accidents or anything so I pick my spots. My favorite scene is pulling up to a gas station and pumping my gas topless. Then I walk up to the door, stare at the "No Shirt - No Shoes - No Service" sign, whip on my shirt and go in and pay.
