The Sidecar Tales 03 - Anitra

Actually, I met several men during my travels, but only one stood out in my memory, for these tales.

The Guy ... and His Forgetful Wife

I met the Apache maritime lawyer, who was living in Las Cruces, New Mexico, who told me about his tall, Nordic-blonde wife, who couldn't remember anything beyond about 10 to 15 minutes.

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The naked guy, wearing only a dirt-bike helmet and boots, was beating on a log with a stick, and screaming, "I'm not (whack!) crazy (whack!), I'm having (whack!) a really (whack!) bad (whack!) day (whack!) and I'm (whack!) just (whack!) freaking (whack!) out (WHACK-snap!)." The stick broke and he collapsed in a sweaty, whacked out heap. I heard dry sobs.

I'd just come over the rise of the Organ Mountains, above Las Cruces, New Mexico, and was taking a short-cut, which had turned from indifferently paved road into hard-packed gravel. My motorbike was a Suzuki Burgman 650, with a side-car mounted to my right, and it was distinctly not a good machine for the dirt. I really didn't want to turn around and go back the way I'd come, but the road was looking kind of 'iffy.'

That's when I met the naked guy. He was probably mid-30's, like me, with thick dark hair, and kind of ugly, in a handsome way. I suppose if you took an Apache Indian and crossed him with an English Lord, you might get an idea. His transport, a Kawasaki KLR 650, was lying on its side, next to him. It was leaking oil and the gas cap was off. Along with the expected dirt and mud, it looked kind of beat up. There were pine twigs stuck all around it, and some jammed into the frame. It stunk of skunk.

I stopped my bike, turned off the engine and set the parking brake, then got up and walked over to a bare spot on the ground, next to the guy. Then I waited for his story. It wasn't long in coming. He'd had the male equivalent of a woman's 'bad-hair-day.'

Tennyson Red-Moon McCloud (that was what he said his name was, which he immediately shortened to 'Red') had planned a hard day's dirt biking, in the mountains. He was well equipped, with helmet and all the needed riding armor. He had extra fuel, water, first-aid, a cell-phone and GPS. He'd ridden these trails before, and knew them well, he thought, until he came across a new one, just marked.

So, toward the end of his day, he turned off, and started the new trail, which was a disaster. About a hundred yards of twists and turns, it ended. It ended very abruptly, at the edge of a steep canyon. Red went right off the end of trail and sailed into very clear air, and then down, onto a steep canyon slope. He said the next few minutes were very exciting, except that he didn't have a clear recollection of any specific thing except mind-numbing terror.

He ended up in a dry, sandy creek-bed at the bottom. The sun was just going down over the high rim of the canyon, and he only made it about half-way up the canyon, with many twists and turns until it was utterly black. No moon. So he tries to call out on his cell phone and finds zip transmission and reception.

Then Red said an unusual thing. He said, "There wasn't any point in trying to call my wife, because she wouldn't remember what I said or where I said I was." I let that slide.

So he passed an uncomfortable night, wrapped up in his emergency space blanket, with only a tiny fire that didn't last the night. Next day, he ate his last emergency snacks, and spent the rest of the day powering up and out of the canyon, going over boulders and having to back-track a lot. He ran out of gas and had to put in his emergency reserve. About mid-day, he got up over the rim, and then had to work his way around to the head of the canyon, and roughly over to about a mile from where we were.

The trip down the canyon had done for the power cord on his GPS—ripped off—and the GPS battery was long run down. The cell phone had found its way under the back tire, and was now a shredded piece of plastic and silicon, back at the canyon.

So Red found a trail, and proceeded down it, until he hooked his front wheel under a fallen log, and he and the bike went tail-over-teacup. Red was OK, due to the helmet and armor, but when he looked over at his bike, it was upside down. The gas-cap had come off, and the bike was just gurgling its last few big drops of fuel on the ground, not to mention the oil that was oozing out of the filler cap, also loosened.

So, now Red has to push his empty-tank bike down the trail toward the road, where we were. About fifty yards before our spot, there was a dip in the trail. The bike came loose from his tired grip, and rolled down the little incline. Red followed, screaming and cursing. Apparently, this really upset Madam Skunk and all her brood, who hosed Red down with vigor, before scampering off into the underbrush.

So, Red had to strip out of his riding armor. The skunk stink got on his jeans and shirt, too. These were laying in a pile on the ground over by the dead bike.

With nothing else better to do, and now naked as a jaybird, Red started to pound on the log with a stick that was handy.

I gave the poor guy a solid drink from my water supply (you remember what I think about taking water into the desert), and offered another from a pint bottle of Canadian Mist, from my emergency supplies. We both shared my last corned beef sandwich. Then I poured Red into one of my two spare sets of clothes (tight fit), pointing out that they were better than a breechclout. Using spare sticks, we pushed and prodded his clothes and riding armor into a spare heavy-duty plastic garbage bag I had, and then double-bagged the whole stinky mess (I carry several folded heavy-duty bags, along with lots of duct tape).

Getting his bike up, I shared out my emergency gas, and topped up his oil. After a little fiddling, and a quick repair of an insulated wire, we got it going, and, riding carefully, I followed him out of the wilderness area and into Organ, a small town northeast of the Las Cruces. We located a Laundromat, and I bought out a small-store's supply of baking soda and TSP. The TSP as the most powerful detergent we could get, and the baking soda to absorb odors. Red had to include my clothes in the mix, when the two bags opened by accident. We washed the things in hot water. Then washed again and again. And then a fourth time, with a final rinse using fabric softener.

Meantime, Red had to resort to that breechclout I mentioned. Now, folks, this is nothing special. It's only a strip of any cloth, about five to six feet long and 12 to 16 inches wide. You put a belt on loosely, and push up about a foot or so of the cloth under the belt in back, and let that dangle. Then you pull the bunched cloth up, under you and enclosing your 'package,' then up through the belt in front and let the front piece dangle. Pull the back 'panel' wide, and then pull the front 'panel' wide, and tighten the belt. The front flap covers the belt buckle. What could be simpler?

So, Red was wearing my breechclout and bedroom slippers, and he put his sheath-knife on the leather belt at his side so he wouldn't forget it. He went to the door, stretched, and I saw him standing in the sun outside the Laundromat. He didn't come back in for quite a while, so I did the washing, with the last using fabric softener and a good rinse, and pitched the whole bundle in the big dryer.

When things were dry, I was sorting out his de-odorized armor, when Red shuffled in, looking about half-irritated and half-embarrassed. The upshot of that was fascinating. He'd been standing in the sun, wearing not much, and along came a set of Japanese tourists, who wanted pictures of him, and then of him with them, as the Wild Red Indian of the Old West. They left a big tip. The Germans were next, and Red had to pose with his mouth open, pretending to scream a war cry. They left an even bigger tip. Then the New Yorkers wanted him to pose with his knife out, pretending to scalp a kid, and rape a Jewish wife. After a while, about the time I was finishing up, he was fending off a guy from the town council, who wanted him there every day in summer. A bit later, just before we rode away, we counted out $129.75 in camera-posing tips, for a hour's worth of inadvertent 'work.'

We stopped at a local restaurant for a late lunch, and the conversation turned to why I was in the mountains with a street bike and a side-car. That morphed over into my nomadic life, and that morphed itself onto my divorce. I wanted to keep it brief, but Red had a way of asking questions that prompted more and more detailed answers.

I told him about my divorce and the divorce-paper fraud:

"I saw that all the documents had the same date (in my handwriting) and bore an identical signature. Completely identical, down to each loop and squiggle of my sloppy signed legal name ... just as though it had been printed there by my right hand, exerting some force. But, each document was signed and 'witnessed' by my attorney and his legal secretary, acting as notary."

"How could this happen, you ask? Think of a signature and a date, made into a couple of rubber stamps. Very simple. Then take the rubber stamp, and carefully press it into wet alginate, like the stuff a dentist uses to make an impression of your teeth. Let the alginate cure for an hour or so. It retains the impression of the rubber stamp. Then pour thick, strong wet clay into the mold you've just created. When the clay is partly dry, but still flexible, form the clay master around a curved wood block, let it dry, and then gently bake. When you want a legal signature, just roll the clay-signature, backed by the wood block, across a pad of black pen ink, and then roll it carefully onto the document, pressing hard."

"OK! You've just signed a document you've never seen before, initialed parts of it and dated it by the same method. It's not even forged, as it is your signature—you just weren't present when it was done. If someone else gets it notarized, it'll hold up in court ... particularly if a lawyer, and his notary-secretary person swears under oath that you signed it in their presence, and the date was set several weeks or months before you left on a cross-country trip."

I also told him that I had an investigation done, and had turned my evidence—and that of about a dozen or so other folks who'd been 'had' by the same methods, by the same lawyer over to the authorities there.

I asked Red why he hadn't called his wife.

He got an odd look on his face; partly sadness and partly resignation, with a dash of humor.

"Look, Tom," he answered, "It isn't any sort of marriage troubles. She's not playing around behind my back, and I don't need to, 'cause she's a ... well, she's a tall, blonde, Swedish sexpot, named Anitra Ormsdottir McCloud. It's just that, well, uh ..."

He gathered himself and said, "She won't remember that I've gone on this trip. She won't remember that she was worried. If I called and told her what happened, she wouldn't remember it after a while. If she's upset and crying, she won't remember that, after a while, either."

"Huh," I said, intelligently.

"She's got a concussion-related amnesia, pretty rare. We were driving home from a party, and we were hit head-on by a drunk, coming the wrong way on the interstate. Both the airbags worked, but she was flung sideways, too. The paramedics came really fast, and they got me fixed up real well. I was out of the hospital in a couple of days, and was able to drop the cane after a week."

"But Anitra was in a coma for a month. Then, one afternoon, she just opened her eyes, yawned, stretched and then tried to make love to the resident doctor and his nurse. By the time I got there, she'd masturbated once to orgasm, tried to have sex with two doctors and a couple of nurses, and had forgotten each incident within about 10 minutes. After a longer stay in the hospital, it became awfully clear that she had little or no long-term memory, just short-term."

"So, she was sort-of 'stuck' with the last memories she had before the impact and coma. The trouble was, those memories involved a lot of sex."

"Uh, Red," I said, "Are you sure you want to tell me all this. After all, you don't know me from ... Well, from ... at all."

He looked up from the table, and he actually grinned. "Yeah, I think I really do want to tell you all about it."

Plunging back into his story, with renewed vigor, Red said, "The trouble was that we both had a really secure marriage. Despite the fact that she's a walking orgasm, I never worried about her running around. She felt the same about me. So, knowing that, we started experimenting with swinging. She loved it, particularly with several guys, all coming in their condoms, and then having me come last, riding her bareback in public, then strutting around with my cum oozing down her leg."

"We'd just left a swing party, where Anitra had—no lie—done a sex-goddess strip and then taken on nine guys, three times each. That's 27 one-at-a-time fucks, and she came, screaming, twisting and thrashing with all of them, in every position, sucking and fucking. She pulled a real train, and she loved all of it. She made it with a few girls, too. Then, with everybody watching, I took her twice more, and pumped a double cream-pie bareback into her, as she screamed and came some more. Everybody there saw it, and watched the jism ooze out of her."

"I watched her, as I was fucking a couple of the other girls, and I felt so proud. So we were driving home, with her in a sexual fug, and promising me the fuck of my life, to make a nice, round 30 fucks for the night, when I saw the flash of lights, felt the impact, and that was all."

"So, after medical release, I took Anitra home, and we made love on the living room floor, because it was too much trouble to get to the bed. When I got up, Anitra was still having orgasmic aftershocks, and I wandered into the kitchen to wash off my cock. When I got back to the living room, my Anitra was lying on the couch, with my jism still drooling out of her, and asking, "Hey, honey, I think I just got fucked. Did you see who it was?"

"Another fifteen minutes later, after I'd washed her off, and gotten her into a wrapper, she was posing for me on the couch, and trying to get me up, to make love. She didn't—no, she couldn't—remember that she'd just drained me, less than an hour before."

Red went on, a little ruefully, "So, right now, I do all the cooking and major cleaning. She can make a sandwich and get a glass of something to drink, but, if it goes beyond 10 to 15 minutes, she can glance away, look back and then walk away from bacon burning in the pan, or a sandwich un-fixed."

"I can take these day trips, because she doesn't remember that I've gone. If she gets upset, and cries, about 10 minutes later, she'll wonder what she was crying about. Another 10 minutes, and everything will be forgotten. I can't let her drive a car, because, while she can drive—she remembers how—but she gets so lost she could never get home without help."

"And, because she's so good looking, and is so permanently turned on all the time—remember, she's stuck in time at the point right after her maximum sexual stimulation—she'll joyfully, lovingly strip to her lovely skin, flash her tits, hold open her pussy lips, and then suck and fuck anything with two legs, a dick and balls, thinking that he's just part of the sex scene. She'll do girls, too. And toys, in public. She almost never wears panties or a bra. I thank my lucky stars, she was never into animals."

Red looked up from his narration, and asked, "Are you erect yet?"

"Holy shit, well, uh, let's see ... oh, shit, yes, I am, damnit. That's a hot story, and I couldn't help it." I stuttered out.

"Good," he said, pushing away his plate and grabbing the bill, "Let's both go home and you can meet my wife."

"Look, Red," I pleaded, "I'm a guy and I'm not made of stone. If she's what you say—and I believe you—I'm going to slip, and then I'll be out one new friend, at the very least."

He smiled, sort of oddly, and said, "No, I mean it. You're a nomad lately, and you could probably use some R&R in a real home, with a real kitchen and a real bed. I've got a lovely wife for you to meet. I'll be right there, so you don't have to worry about any slips. Just be gentle with her, when she meets you, because she won't know if you've ever met before. You can be real vague, and even lie a little, too, because, again, she won't remember from moment to moment. It'll be kind of disconcerting; kind of strange, too."

He added, looking sad, "I have to lie a lot to my lovely girl. When she asks who's with me, I have to say something like, 'oh, a guy we met,' because she'll feel reassured ... but, a quarter-hour later, any friend there is over will have to re-introduce him or herself, and that can get real 'old,' pretty fast."

"She's smart, and can hold up her end of any likely conversation, but can't keep up with long-duration talks, because she looses the 'thread' after a few minutes. We can't play cards, or go to the movies, or much of anything that requires remembering the plot. She can read the same few pages of a book, over and over, and get the same enjoyment as the first time she saw it."

"So," he concluded, "We don't have many friends, and I have damn few I can trust with her, and almost none I could share her with. But she's so sexy ..." He didn't finish.

"Oh, OK," I answered, thinking this was about as clear as mud.

"So, anyway, I've got to go out of town tomorrow, and stay at least a week. I'll probably be overseas, Singapore, I think. So, you, Thomas Cattus, are hereby elected to take care of Anitra McCloud, who you'll meet in a few minutes. End of conversation. I'll get the check."

About five minutes later, still sputtering to myself, I was following Red down the Interstate to the outlying suburbs that ring Las Cruces. After gassing up, in another 10 minutes, we were pulling up to a large, ranch-style suburban house, surrounded by a fairly high faux-adobe wall, and Red was opening the garage with his wireless remote.

We were met by the furies incarnate. Anitra Ormsdottir McCloud had been searching for her husband, and not finding him anywhere in the house or yard. She was 100% pissed, and let him know about it, it at least three languages. Apparently, Old Norse is a grand language for insult and cursing, and the flow of guttural consonants was awesome to behold. Red got several solid kicks, when he held her hands.

I was totally ignored.

Even though Red warned me, I suddenly noticed that the tall, lovely lady was now just hung over her husband, crying and sniffling, as she said, "I don't know why I'm crying, honey."

He said, holding her tightly, but looking at me, over her shoulder, "It's OK. You're a woman, so you can be upset and cry whenever you want. You don't need a reason."

He held her, and rubbed her back, and gently pushed the top of her short-shorts down a couple of inches, right to the 'fur line,' which caused her to giggle between sniffles. After another few minutes, I heard Anitra say, "If you're gonna keep pushing my shorts down like that, the least you can do is push the bottom of my top up a little, so the bottoms of my boobs show, huh?"

As Red was doing the required up-pushing, Anitra said, "Red, honey, who's your friend?" She added, "He's cute."

Finishing the top adjustment, so that her free-swinging boobs were showing their entire lower globes, with just the nipples covered, he said, "This is Thomas Cattus. I agree, he is cute. Why don't you go over and kiss him. Take your time."

Anitra swayed over to me, slowly and deliberately put her arms around and over my neck and back, and fastened her lips on mine, with a full-body, tippy-toes body press. I had to go on minimal oxygen strategy, as the tall babe expertly kissed and tongued me. I responded—I had to—kissing her as a woman kisses, which is to explore, and in the temporary belief that this was the only female person in the entire universe.