Motorcycle

Before I ever learned to ride a motorcyle there was this:

I climbed up behind him and there was the inevitable Freudian thing. My Father rode a motorcycle. He rides a motorcycle. He was significantly older than me and therefore, along with the vehicle, the obvious comparisons could be made. I hoisted my daddy-complex up behind him, a little scared, a little exhilarated. He rode fast and low around the corners and I was excited by the speed and the vibrations and then of course the Freudian thing.

He rode to my place and I clung to his body, freezing in the autumn grey. We were going to have sex. Him, me and Richard. He knew about Richard. There were rules set. He can't put his penis inside me. He can't kiss me unless I kiss him first. I won't touch his penis unless I want to. Yes. He can touch my penis. Yes. He can suck my penis. The usual story really. For me there were no rules, predictably.

He had a spare helmet on the back of the bike. He had a spare jacket. Perhaps he was expecting to ride me home, or maybe he did this all the time, picked up women in cafe's and lured them onto his motorcycle. "Come for a ride?" a pick up line with a built in laugh track.

The sex was fun, predictable, but fun. He seemed to grow harder when Richard touched him. He liked the oral sex from both of us, but he wanted Richard to suck him longer and even ejaculated into his mouth. We destroyed most of a packet of condoms experimenting with various positions and combinations. We ended with a cup of tea and a bit of a laugh, naked at the kitchen table.

I was thinking about his motorcycle. I was thinking about the lurch in your stomach around corners and the way your nose is pressed into the scent of leather as you hug yourself up close to the rider in front. I was wondering how hard it would be to get a motorcycle license, the cost of one, the problem of getting your shopping home in the rain. I was thinking about that time when I first left home and my father came and visited me on a motorcycle. I was thinking about how he took me out and bought me a denim jacket which I loved. I was wondering what had happened to that denim jacket which would have become unfashionable and probably a little too small for me in the intervening years.

Richard was reaching over and kneading his penis with his fingers. Richard was bowing into his lap. It seemed like we were about to launch into another round.

After that, perhaps, I would ask him to take me for another ride.