It was a weekday summer night at the Trane Station. For the evening, I had done nothing much more than keep the music going, talk with some customers, and nurse a single long ago warmed beer.
The night sky was full of stars with a moon somewhere between yellow and orange. It was beautiful outside and I found myself wanting to be out there, doing something, moving, experiencing it somehow.
I remember moving past a table and stopping to say hello when I heard someone at the door call my name. Trane, they called, there's someone outside asking for you. It seemed clear that whoever it was intended for me to come outside. Shit, I muttered, either somebody's locked their keys in their car again, or somebody's car has gotten scratched, or some fool thrown up in the sidewalk, it's gotta be one of those.
I walked out the door and saw none of that. I looked around for whoever it might be wanting me. I saw no one but a lone motorcyclist near the curb. It didn't take but a moment to realize the motorcyclist was a woman.
She sat astride a new Yamaha FJ1100. The bike rumbled impatiently between her legs as she looked at me from inside a black helmet with a dark grayed full face shield. Her long curly black hair hung from the back of the helmet. She wore a black leather riding jacket and black leather chaps over a hot pink bikini bottom. I didn't have time to wonder or see what was beneath the jacket before she waggled a finger at me telling me to come closer.
Long ago I determined that my momma didn't raise a complete fool, so accordingly I took the three steps across the sidewalk to her. She reached to the seat behind her, picked up a leather jacket and helmet, and tossed me both of them. The jacket fit perfectly, I noticed the XL when I put it on. How did she know, I wondered. I buckled the helmet and watched her pat the seat behind her. I had one leg over the bike and was settling onto the seat when the bike spoke and we were off moving east on Madison Avenue.
Cooper Avenue was only three city blocks east, but she'd already hit third gear before we got there. I had my hands on her sides, trying to be a gentleman rider, but still not wanting to fall off and bust my ass. She downshifted and slowed the bike, letting it lay into the curved as she turned.
At the next block we caught a red light. She braked and let the bike rumble as it waited for her instruction. As we waited and the light change became imminent, she reached back and took each of my hands. Her grip was firm but gentle. In a smooth motion she pulled my hands in front of her until I could grip my fingers in a wrestler's hold. I got the message: hold on or get fucked up.
The light changed and she leaned forward into a crouch as the bike responded. I leaned with her and we roared down Poplar Avenue, west this time toward the river.
As the bike gathered speed and the wind hammered up the legs of my khaki shorts I began to wonder who this woman was. Considering a few things, I thought I should be able to figure this out. Maybe five feet, four inches or so, I guessed, strong, broad shoulders and torso, great ass, presently pressing into my crotch, a hint of perfume, even in the wind, or was it her hair I smelled? Was the scent Poison?
When she passed between two cars driving beside each other I suddenly gave little specific thought to her identity anymore. The woman could handle a bike and my hard cock pressed against her ass certainly didn't seem to distract her.
Flying west to the river, I could smell the water, the smell of the Mississippi, coming to us in the air. My bike pilot was low over the gas tank, merging with the machine that screamed between her legs. Me, I got as close to her as I could. My chest was on her back without transferring my weight to her. My hands were beneath her belly coming into occasional contact with her bare skin. Goddamn, I told myself, this woman can ride.
We hit Riverside and screamed north alongside the river. The moonlight glistened across the water, giving dull light to the barge traffic that flew by us. Just north of the city we hit a long stretch of two lane road with nothing, absolutely nothing in front of us. The bike seemed to sense the circumstances for itself because we were suddenly transformed into a beam of black light. I peeked around the pilot's shoulder and saw the needle dance happily past one hundred miles an hour.
There is no other way to describe it than to say at that moment she and I and the bike became one. We traveled through the air as one hunk of roaring sound and pulse. Death was no issue, nor was life. It was Being then, merging with all that was around us, all that ever was or will be.
I thought those things, I actually did, but my philosophical reflection ended when her left hand took mine and eased it under the front edge of her jacket. After sending me there, she returned her hand to its proper place, mine was left to feel the hardened nipple, the full, aroused breast. Being a fair man at heart, I moved my right hand under her jacket to give her right breast equal time.
So, we rode there like that for eternity, or so it seemed, our bodies pressed into an almost perfect machine, her nipples pushing dents in my palms.
I wondered in that moment if we could live the rest of our lives like that, both of us straddling a screaming machine, her breasts doing wondering things to my hands, her ass taunting my cock, but it was my youth wondering all that, I know. When she began to slow the machine and make several turns taking us further north of the city, into rolling farm country, I sensed she had a grander plan.
I was right.
