The year was 1974. Rhett Ballard, like an arrow against the wind, tilted his Harley chopper towards the approaching bend, watching more of the Sonora desert, wildly greened with cactus bushes, roughed up with rocks, come hurtling towards him. Air frantically combed his shoulder length black hair, beard, and glided smoothly across the chrome plating of his Harley chopper. The growl of his engine bit the streaming breeze, orchestrating a raw music of speed. Man and machine pummeled with reckless abandon across the tarmac plain. Savoring the feeling, the rush, from behind the shadow of the Ray-Bans, he saw ahead of him the silhouette of a hitchhiker on the other side of the road.
Well she ain't wearing much. Must be something crazy to stick her thumb out in that slutty get up,
Rhett mused, keeping a forward eye on the road and a glance on the side mirror.
The silhouette had rapidly developed into the more acute form of a young black woman with an afro that had an afro comb wedged into it. Rhett was smiled at her attire; she was clad in leopard-print hot pants, matching t-shirt and white go-go boots and her only real possession seemed to be a small suede satchel. The woman had her finger stuck out despairingly in an attempt to hitchhike in his dangerous and isolated neck of the woods; Rhett wondered if the lone lady hitchhiker had some hankering for hurt, particularly being a Negro in unfriendly parts. Rhett slowed down as he passed the chick who caught his eye just as he caught hers, thinking for a split second he could ask her what her deal was. However just as he was about to slow and flip lanes, an unmarked truck approached and stopped beside her.
Conscious that there was no other traffic on the road, he slowed to a crawl, and watched in the side mirrors as a rotund trucker in a dirty grey t-shirt got out of the truck, then leapt on top of the black chick, positively squashing her with his considerable heft, and causing a mushroom cloud of red dust to envelop them.
Rhett felt a glorious shot of adrenaline flare through his torso; figuring he could make the trucker squeal like a pig on a Sunday and make himself feel heroic to boot, he decided to get stuck in. Telling the story later would be just the thing to warm up a conversation after a few beers and reefers with his biker brethren. Rhett dipped his feet to the ground and spun the bike round before hurtling towards the assailant. Just as he closed in he saw the assailant scrabble up in pain and yelp.
Rhett stopped the bike and got up, breaking out in laughter when he saw what the black chick had done: she had stabbed the trucker in the upper thigh with her afro comb. The trucker howled in pain and staggered towards the chick, who was now running delicately in the opposite direction, restricted in speed by her impractically high go-go boots. Rhett ran towards the trucker, and then figuring the guy was all weight and no muscle, kicked the guy, who had not even noticed him, in the back of the legs roughly.
The trucker dude fell and Rhett snarled as the trucker began to scream, and kicked him a few times. "What the fuck man! Stop hitting me, dude, look at her, she's easy, she's just a nigger – arrrrrgh!" The black chick, turned round and hurried back to the commotion, looking at Rhett with wholehearted admiration as he repeatedly planted his steel-toed cowboy boots into the trucker's most sensitive parts.
She then loomed over the trucker, her afro comb still firmly implanted in his thigh and yelled angrily, "Fuck you, you rapist piece of shit. You're lucky I don't go stick my comb in your baby maker like you deserve you motherfucker."
"Bastard!" She kicked the trucker nuts with her go-go boots and screamed,
The trucker gurgled, "My brother-in-law is the county sheriff- if you kill me-"
Rhett hit the guy hard across the face with his fist and knocked him out cold.
Rhett chuckled jokingly, "Come now Pam Grier. Let's go and don't forget your comb."
The chick ran over delicately and pulled the comb from out of her assailant, who groaned in response. She said chirpily, "I wouldn't want to leave evidence. I hope we haven't killed him."
Rhett shrugged and mounted his motorbike. "His nose is twitching so I'm guessing he's alive, all that matters. Get on the back and hold on tight."
She said chirpily, "Okay."
Rhett revved up and nudged his Ray-Bans up his nose, feeling the girl tighten her grip around his waist. He liked this feeling. It reminded him of quick one night stands with girls he'd met when he was out at nights at the biker bar with his bros', playing it cool with the mammas who wanted in with any outlaw bikers and were easy for a quick fuck. He smiled to himself: sweet, orgasmic memories of sluts of yore flooding back.
He turned the bike round to head on back home. to his little shack in the woods, "Hang on tight now."
"Where are you taking me, hey, what are all these on your clothes? Tell me that is not a swastika painted on your jack-"
The bike spurted into action as she shrieked in horror at the insignias on his clothes, her shrieks intermingled with his raucous laughter. Soon she was shrieking in horror at his laughter and he was laughing at the horror of her shrieks. She had her arms wrapped tight around him, both out of fear of being flung onto the road, and fear of her eventual destination.
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"The swastikas aren't all that serious; they're just to show that we don't give a fuck what society thinks. Have a beer."
Theresa saw the biker glance at her wearily, crack open his fridge, minding the strange green splodge that had merged with the door handle, pick a bottle and toss it at her. She caught it like she was catching for her life, and doing a terrible job of it. Theresa had always been the last kid to be picked for school teams. Her skills had not blossomed with the years. The dude looked at her, his bright blue eyes twinkling, and grinned. Despite herself, she couldn't help admiring him, if only on a physical level. The biker was statuesque in his slightly flared denim trousers and cowboy boots, and under his black T-shirt which he wore under his leather jacket- she saw a toned chest. Despite the clipped beard and the shoulder-length hair, she could see that he was a handsome man. In fact, the beard added something to his presence.
Theresa allowed her gaze to appraise his home, which was coated in Confederate flags and miniatures of bikes. Then there was his knife and gun collection just above his television set. On his coffee table was a strew of bikers magazines, pornography, and three bongs. Then she set her eyes on the piece de resistance, a poster with lots of blackface caricatures embellished with the words, "All Coons Look Alike To Me!" Her eyes nearly watered. She suddenly felt like she was having lunch with a crocodile.
The biker must have seen her gaze at the poster, her eyes wide, her mouth hung open. "You keep staring with your eyes so white and yo' mouth so wide and you're gonna start looking like one of them," he grunted as he pointed to one of the caricatures and took a swig of beer.
As Theresa looked at him in shock, he assessed her, sublimely unrepentant for the cruelty of his words.
Her anger got the better of her and she got up and put her hands on her hips. "What the hell? Whatever I may be, you baby, are at least a dozen kinds of gross. I'd rather be squashed by a horny trucker than listen to this shit. Sayonara pal."
Theresa could only see red, and didn't see the biker get up and roughly pick her up, swinging her over his shoulder, and then back down on the sofa in what must have been a blur. She bounced on the sofa for a while, frozen in shock.
Theresa's hands gripped the edge of the sofa, and she swallowed. She looked at him wide-eyed and concerned.
His face was cold, sinister, and without expression as he said evenly, "You don't like what I say, or what I like, whatever. But if you think I'm gonna let you get your ass raped and killed hitchhiking, dressed like some floozy, then you've got another think coming. It's late and the closest interstate station is twenty miles from here, so I will gladly deposit you there tomorrow, but not tonight as I got some plans. Personally, I want to know what kind of girl is stupid enough to hitchhike dressed in go-go boots, so baby, enlighten me why don't you?"
Theresa raised an eyebrow before relaxing into the sofa, and reluctantly sipping the cool beer. She crossed her legs, "Enlighten you? That's a tall order, and if the Lord couldn't help Neanderthal Man, I sure as hell can't do the same for you."
Theresa saw the flash of anger, but then he chuckled and stretched his manly physique across his arm chair. "You are a bitch with some nerve. Look, just tell me what makes a negro chick dressed so...sparingly take to hitchhiking in the Arizona desert? I got to say, can't blame a guy for being curious and all."
Theresa pouted a little and then began her story, "Well..."
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Rhett never knew what was going on with his mind- the Vietnam war had sapped him a little of his capacity to control himself, but one thing he did know was that even when his mind was a mystery unto itself, his body could tell him stuff about himself that he didn't even know.
He didn't know he liked disco chicks, negro chicks, ditzy chicks who could defend themselves armed with nothing but a comb.
His eyes kept wandering down to her lips, the delicious swells of her perky titties, little waist and would finally settle on the very tops her exposed chocolate-brown thighs before some word she would say would catch his attention, so that he was forced to stare into her almond shaped, dark brown eyes. The way his eyes were going, he knew that he craved something of her, he didn't know how or why because black people did nothing for him, but still, his eyes drunk her in.
Then there was his cock, which seemed to have a hankering for the way her nipples were so clearly imprinted against her indecently tight T-shirt, and the way she spoke, her open expression, her gestures and her afro...for some reason, he really dug it. She had a sunny cuteness about her. He hadn't met sunny cuteness up his neck of the woods for quite some time...his cock had gently swelled just from watching her, yeah, despite himself, she was a little sexy.
"Hello Rhett...I'm telling you my story, but you're...staring."
Rhett watched her squeeze her thighs together as if that was meant to deter him from looking at her cocoa-brown pins, he grunted and slurped beer. "Naw I'm just thinking."
Theresa shook her head slowly, "I don't think so, you're not listening to me. I'm trying to tell you my story."
Rhett watched her shift uncomfortably, but then he noticed something, she was staring at him in exactly the same way, more subtly, but her eyes went from his lips, to his torso, to his crotch - they were really lingering at his crotch.
"Yeah so anyway, after I French kissed the lap dancer, my boyfriend said-"
Rhett suddenly became animated and snapped back to attention, "Wow wow wow....you French kissed a lap dancer, a lady? What did she look like?"
Theresa snapped her head back and laughed wickedly, "Sorry, just checking where your attention was at... there was no stripper..."
Rhett rested into place and smiled, resting his hands between his legs and leant forward, "Okay, well uh, play it back a bit, so what really happened?"
