There is nothing that makes me feel more afraid and free, than being on a motorcycle. I like to wrap my hands around his waist and bury my head in his hair. I can always smell the fresh soap after his shower as the wind rushes past him and over me. I love the smell of him and the deafening sound of the bike. The machine radiates through my entire body and into my guts. This ride touches every sense at once. It has stolen my heart, this freedom. I never want to let go.
Sometimes I’m shocked at how quickly we take off from a stop. I think to myself, “oh my god!” “I almost flew off this bike! Doesn’t he care or even realize that I could die any second?” I guess that is what makes it so sexy. He knows EXACTLY that I might die at any moment. He enjoys how terrified I am. The terror translates into something I need to be protected from. It gives him power over me. I scream in horror and he laughs a gigantic belly full laugh. “Hold on GRRRL GEEZ!”
I like riding in big packs of motorcycles. It leads to a sense of camaraderie. The boys try and one-up each other with their horsemanship. Men with motorcycles can round up girls faster than cowboys and cattle. Even the fugliest of the fugly, get tons of pussy. You know that right? Fugly is a combination of fucked up and ugly. I like the fucked up ones, not the ugly ones.
Lately I have been with a man who looks like a stereotype of Satan. He has dark, dark skin, long black hair, and a black goatee. He looks nice in a red bandana. I like him the best in a black leather vest and black chaps over tight jeans. He wears big black boots with a buckle on the side. I’ve never been able to figure out how someone who looks so bad ass can have skin so soft. When you touch it, it feels like a child’s skin. It’s smooth and tan and not hairy at all like most guys. The first time I saw him with his shirt off I thought. My god it looks like he had his entire body waxed!
He has his ear pierced twice and wears a hoop. It kinda makes him look like a pirate. I love how he walks with his chest puffed out. He is all brutal and cocky. If you put him up against everybody I have ever known in my entire life, he seems surreal. The beauty of him is otherworldly.
I’m also surrounded by an equal amount of jocks, preppies and social climbers who are rude and look down on me. They don’t think I have any class or money. All I want to be is with the devil. Diablo loves me for who I am and where I come from.
I think about all those ugly bitches at my school with their perfectly manicured hands and short bob haircuts. Anyone can look good with all the money in the world. Money cannot buy you character. Those rich girls are going to have to purchase (should they ever want it, which I doubt) what I get for free every weekend. To be in the arms of a man wearing black leather chaps. Maybe during their midlife crisis they will seek him out. They will discover how it feels to ride through a big city in a pack of machines. Every care and worry, every bit of sadness, regret and hurt you ever had, fly out of your soul with the guttural roar of the bike.
I’m certain that they’re not having anything close to the kind of fun we’re having. They’re all together in the suburbs behind gigantic gates that say “KEEP OUT” “PRIVATE PROPERTY.” Their parents were just looking for the most expensive school they could find, so they send them twenty miles away. Why can’t they build private schools in the burbs to keep them out of my reality?
No I don’t think those stuck up bitches will ever know the thrill of a diablo man. I’m sure they’ll have some country club man in a sweater who plays tennis. A man that has no idea what drives women crazy in bed. A man who will never understand what makes a woman truly happy. I bet they wish in their hearts that they were free. They may feel contempt for me, but I feel nothing but sadness for them.