Sure, maybe I had some screwed up priorities. My dad was more certain. I had just turned 21 and he had just kicked me out of his house. I had dropped out of college a couple of years before after three lackluster semesters on a football scholarship at State U. Toned up and buffed out after years of football playing, I'd quickly been hired as a bouncer at a local nightclub. I picked up work during the days doing construction work for a local contractor, the father of my best bud in high school.
I was living in the apartment above the garage at my dad's house and spent most of my free time on three things: fucking chicks from the club; working out in the garage; and tinkering with my bike - - an ancient Yamaha. I got kicked out of my apartment just as things were looking up: I had just experienced my first threesome, and I had just bought a brand new Suzuki Boulevard - - a 1500 cc, fuel injected, black and chrome beast of beauty. I loved that machine and loved the feel of it pulling me along the road like some mighty bronco.
I had joined a riding club - - mainly older guys who worked in factories and garages. We did a long ride on Saturdays, usually heading out to a nearby state park or, in the summers, a lake and just hanging around drinking beer, talking bikes, and getting goofy.
I had just pulled my bike into the garage one early Saturday night, exhausted after the long ride, when my dad gave me the bad news.
"You're a fuckup, Mike," he said sternly. "Your mom and I tried to give you the best we could. And you just go out and screw around."
I took off my leathers and my gloves.
"Yeah, right," I said in a bored tone. "Whatever. Can we have this discussion tomorrow or Monday or whenever."
My dad's face got red. "Listen here. I think the reason you're such a fuckup is that we've been too easy on you. Me and your mom. Those days are over."
He paused and I pulled a warm can of beer out of one of my saddlebags. I could see the old man almost trembling with anger.
"Put that beer down," he practically shouted. I popped the top of the beer, took a long swig, and slowly placed it on the workbench.
"You're out of here," my dad continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "Pack your shit up. I want you out of here by tomorrow morning. No if's, and's, or but's. If you're not gone, I'll move you out myself."
What? My jaw dropped. I started to stutter an answer, but he only turned and stalked back into the house. I threw my gloves against the wall. Yeah, I thought to myself, fuck you and fuck your white picket fence house and your fucking two car garage. I grabbed my gear and headed up to my apartment.
I packed my stuff angrily into a duffel back. As I packed, I was thinking about where I'd spend the night. The best option was my biker friend, Gunner, who lived in a mobile home on the outskirts of town. I called him up. We had a short conversation in which Gunner revealed that he and his old lady were fighting like cats and dogs.
"Yo, man," Gunner said in his stoner drawl. "I'd put you up bro, but the bitch would cut my balls off. Try calling Pancho."
Pancho was a hugely obese guy who rode a pimped out Harley and lived with his mother. No thanks, I thought to myself. Then an idea hit me. My grandmother. She lived on the other side of town in a little two bedroom bungalow. She'd always been sweet on me. And, ever since my dad divorced my mom, she'd had nothing but bad to say about him. Perfect.
I called granny up and explained things to her.
"Oh honey," she sighed. "Your dad always was an angry, rash man. He's never treated you right. You get yourself over here. Grandma will give you a place to sleep."
I thanked her, hung up, strapped my duffel to my bike, peed in the center of the garage, and fired up my motorcycle. With a screeching tailfish, I roared out of my dad's driveway and cruised on over to Grandma's.
I pulled up in front of Granny's house and parked my bike. Grandma opened the door and stood on the porch, waving to me. I took a good look at her. She was short and compactly built, with thick silver hair that draped down her back. I remembered her big, pretty green eyes and that wide, easy smile. As I approached the porch, I noted how she was in great shape for a lady in her late 50s. She was wearing jeans and a tight white blouse. Her tits were big and rode high up on her chest. Her waist was thin and her legs, while full, were shapely. Not quite the 20-something hard bodies I loved to pick up from the club, but not hard on the eyes either.
Grandma gave me a hug as I stepped onto the porch and I was enveloped in a cloud of sweet perfume. Her soft cheek brushed against mine.
"Hello baby," she whispered into my ear, rubbing my back with her hand. "It's so good to see you."
We went inside where grandma had laid out a feast on the dining room table. We ate and talked - - mostly about what a rotten guy my dad was.
"Mike," grandma said, as she whisked our empty plates off the table. "I was hoping you'd given up riding that motorcycle. Those are so dangerous."
I laughed. "No grandma. They're safe if you know what you're doing."
She clucked her disapproval and dropped the subject.
Over the next couple of weeks, I settled into grandma's house. I had to cool out on the girls - - but there was always so much drama involved with them, that I began to enjoy the break. I joined a gym and kept working out. And, I basically transformed grandma's garage into my motorcycle repair shop.
Most nights, I'd be working on my bike and grandma would come out with a cold bottle of beer for me. She'd sit on a stool while I worked on the bike and we chatted. It was great to have someone so nice and sweet to hang out with. And as time went by, grandma overcame her resistance to the bike and even started expressing some curiosity about it.
Finally, one warm summer night as I worked on the bike, grandma got up off the stool and came over to examine the motorcycle.
"Mike," she said, running her hand along the seat bench. "This does look kind of comfortable."
I laughed. "Grandma, there's nothing more relaxing than a nice ride on a bike on a warm summer night."
She smiled. "Really?"
