The Long Ride Home

It was 21:05 on Monday. The bike needed fuel but he loathed stopping. It had been a long 560 miles to get this far. Twelve hours in the saddle takes its toll and he still had over 400 to go. The neon sign was only partially working - enough that he could read the word "Vacancy." The Gulf sign across the street seemed to be working just fine. He decided he'd stop here for the night.

As was his habit, he got his bedding settled first. The manager of the motel was a heavy set woman more focused on Ed Sullivan than on the front desk. The smell of stale cigarette smoke lingered in the lobby. She sized him up, her eyes lingering on the tattoos that covered his arms and the seam where a scar cut through them on his right arm. She didn't say the words her eyes wanted to ask. An unintelligible grunt and she slid the key across the desk to him.

With a room rented, he walked to his bike. He wanted to be ready to move out early before the sun began to beat down again and that meant full tanks. His eyes scanned the horizon and roadway as he straddled the bike, his ears listening. He jumped hard on the starter and drove across the empty highway to the Gulf station on the other side.

Next door to the hotel, a roadhouse was in full swing. Music, laughter, and the sounds of relief. A group of soldiers with women draped on their arms burst into the parking lot through the screen door, breathing in the promises of the post-war America. The towns he rode through all pulsed with a mixture of relief and revelry he didn't share. He felt unseen and even unwelcome because he was a reminder of those uncertain and lean times. People wanted to forget the war and to forget those that reminded them of it.

He rolled his bike up to the pump, kicked the stand down, and unscrewed the left cap first. He stood and dismounted on the right. It was still too painful to lift his right leg. Then he stretched and breathed in the cool air and waited for the attendant. After a few minutes of waiting, he went ahead and filled both tanks. The pump's bell chimed into the night as he turned the pump on. With both tanks full, he checked to be sure no gas had spilled, then went into the gas station in search of the attendant.

As he pulled the door open, the bright lights made him wince. He smelled the dusty stench of old motor oil and rat poison. A sound in the back caused him to look up and watch as she shot a well-used grease rag off into a pail by the back door and grabbed another to wipe her hands as she walked toward him.

A shock of dirty blonde hair stuck to her forehead beneath a headscarf made of what looked like well-worn fatigues. He stood still and quiet as she walked up to him and asked what he wanted. He told her he'd pumped 2 and 6 tenths gallons of gas and asked what he owed her. She looked straight into his dusty and tired brown eyes. After what seemed like an eternity she asked if it was Europe or Pacific. He felt a slight tightness in his chest and replied "Europe." She said nothing and allowed her eyes to take in his grimy, road worn clothing, the tattoos and scar. It was then he noticed the top of a tattoo beneath her grease stained shirt. And only then did he remember that feeling.

The embroidered name above her left breast said "Terry" and as he read it he realized the fullness beneath the shirt. He read her name aloud and then asked again what he owed her. She smiled, commented on his reading ability and looked over his shoulder at the Indian Chief sitting at the pump. She said, "Nothing, if you'll take me for a ride." He looked back over his shoulder to confirm what she was looking at. It was late, the bed would feel great, but a woman pressed against his back while he rode in the cool night air would feel even better. He smiled and said "Sure." She wiped her hands clean and stuffed the rag in her hip pocket as they both walked out. It was a quiet night except for the noise at the road house. Stars and cool desert air. He straddled the big bike, pulled the kick start out and jumped. The v-twin came to life and as she swung a leg over the bags, they were off.

Feeling the warmth of her body behind him made him happy. It didn't matter where he was going. He felt her hands around his waist and enjoyed the tightness of her embrace. But then she suddenly relaxed her embrace and he felt a moment of disappointment. As he watched the road he realized he felt something deeper, long stifled, as her hands slid down from his hips to his legs. He realized his erection was growing and she was helping it along. Within a few minutes she had undone his pants and pulled his cock out, cool air felt colder over the precum. She took hold of his shaft and slowly stroked with one hand while pushing down on the opening of his pants with the other.

He could feel the sticky grease still on her hand as it both lubricated and resisted skin against skin. Her hand felt warm and slightly rough. Her pace was even and slow until his body began to tighten then she'd gently speed up until the torrential climax held waiting for years reached the edge, where she'd stop. After a moment's pause and she'd slowly begin to rub the head of his cock with her thumb and forefinger. Softly. Methodically. When his body eased, she'd allow her hand to fall around his cock and slowly begin again.

He lost track of time and miles, lost to the vibration of the bike and the stroke of her hand. At some point as headlights were passing, she let his tension rise till it burst over the edge in sweet release. Years of pent up desire spewed over his shirt, pants, and her hands. She slowed her pace but kept stroking. Finally, as she withdrew her hand, he slowed down. His breathing returning to normal as the bike rolled onto the side of the road and stopped.

He turned to her and she handed him the grease rag after she finished wiping her hands. "Welcome home." she said.