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BIKER MATES PART THIRTEEN
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BIKER MATES PART THIRTEEN - Tuesday night.
I listened to the disappearing growl of the van. I was left alone in the quiet, playing with myself. Eventually I got up, tidied the space, and then left. I didn't feel too bright as I was leaving on my bike, weaving through the night traffic. I hadn't expected to end up going home alone. Things hadn't turned out at all as I had expected.
I was kicking myself. I had actually arrived at a place in my life where I had actually had it all in the palm of my hand: A beautiful sub, a beautiful bike, a decent job, a decent life, a place to live and enough cash. But I'd let the most important part of that fuck off at the first opportunity.
What do you think? I'm writing this shit just to turn you on? This shit actually happened. I am that idiotic.
What do you think?
You must think I'm completely potty.
Why did he go?
I could look at Martin through my darkly dilated, irresistible and possessive eyes, my strong arms holding him down, my rigid Irish cock directed straight at his exposed anus, and my powerful back and buttocks poised to pound it right through him.
That's all he wanted, wasn't it? Why did he go? Picture my build. I'm a prize! I was God's Fuckn' Gift! Hey, I was fit and young and I could fuck anything that I took a fancy to. I could always get my rocks off. I had everything to live for. I was fuckn' gorgeous, man! But now Martin was having the time of his life. And me? I'd got nothing.
===
I accelerated into the Mancunian Way approach and then gave it even more into the slip. I was in no mood to play things safe. I saw a gap and went in. The cars had to give way. Fuck. Them. The voice in my head kept on and on: Why did I let Jez run off with him like that? Why did I do it? Round and round in my head. Oh Christ. There were red lights all around me.
I hated myself. I hadn't been concentrating. I wasn't in control. I had been looking at Martin. I had wanted him to protest, to show some sign that he'd rather be with me than strapped into the back of some van and prostituted to a random cross-section of stinking perverts. I gave him the choice. I was stupid, stupid, stupid. What was the idea? Jesus. What in fuck's name was I thinking?
Meanwhile, on Mancunian Way, I flipped past the traffic, dodging in and out. I was varying my speed but, basically, I just wanted to get home. I'd had enough.
"You stupid boy," I shouted into the moist helmet padding over my mouth. "You stupid, stupid, stupid boy." I thought if my cock; I was a joke.
Coming up to a junction I zipped past this black Merc convertible, took the exit and slid into a quiet side street. It was supposed to be a shortcut.
Then I was down and the bike flew off, I curled into a ball, shut my eyes, skidded across the road, vaguely aware of some vehicle stopping with a screech, and for a second or two nothing happened.
Now you smashed, you stupid, stupid idiot, I thought. Martin, the time of his life. Me? Nothing. Sick.
I felt sick.
I rolled onto my back. I hurt.
===
When I opened my eyes it was different. There was a bright light, someone's head, blocking it, unblocking it, blocking it again. He was talking too much. What was that?
Naturally I'm worried. What was broken? My neck? Could I move? Was I alright?
I groaned and tried to speak. He couldn't make me out. What was I saying? I should lay still. Did he need to call an ambulance?
I rolled around on my back.
Don't try to get up.
I tried to get up.
I was bruised.
Don't try to get up.
I rolled into my side and tried to sit.
He helped.
"You shouldn't move. There might be damage. You might be concussed. I'll call an ambulance." He had his phone in his hand.
I grabbed my helmet and started shouting, pulling it off, and the guy in the suit was holding me, trying to stop me moving.
"Get off!" I moaned.
"You ok?" - Young voice - "I'm calling 999."
"No! I'm I'm Fine. Thanks. Let... me..." I twisted the helmet. Finally it came off. I looked at the guy in the suit. He looked at me.
"You ok?" he said. Not that young.
I glanced about: There was my bike. Further up the street his black Merc convertible stood warm and ticking, interior illuminated, headlamps on, hazard lights flashing. Cool.
"Was I hit?" I asked.
The guy had a hand on my back, sort of patting it. I had my helmet in my hands, leaning on it for support, pressing it against my stomach. My legs, bent at the knees, looked fine. Everything felt fine. I patted my chest. I took a deep breath. Everything was fine. I had a pain on my left side. My left hip. My left shoulder hurt.
"Close shave," I said. "Lucky," said the guy in the suit.
"Could'a b'n worse," I grinned.
He grinned but continued watching me in a concerned manner, watching for signs of damage, I suppose. He could feel me shaking. He patted me like a pet, watching for signs, feeling me shake.
"Sure you're ok?"
No, I thought.
"Yeh," I said. My whole body ached, like a workout. Like I needed a workout. "What about my bike? And you? Did you go into me?" "Into you? No way, man! I was just follow...ing. I was behind. You just slid. You must'a hit something... A bump in the road."
By now he was kind of massaging my neck. Checking it for whiplash or something. He kept staring into my eyes, like he was searching for an item he'd dropped into a bottomless puddle of black liquid.
He had nice eyes. I could see the direction of his gaze: He was examining me. He put his palm on my cropped hair and gripped my scalp, seemingly measuring. His eyes drifted around. He was looking at my arms and my chest. He was looking at the zip puckered over my abdomen. He was looking at the gathered leather in my crotch and the folds and grazes of the leather on my legs. His hand massaged my head and then returned to my neck and squeezed into the tension reassuringly.
I rolled my head around. He was squatting beside me so that I could see between his legs. I glanced at it. Full. The dogtooth suiting of his trousers met in a vee along the seam which crossed tight over his packet like the seam that crosses a man's scrotum when it's tight. Suddenly I had this vertiginous feeling you get when you have climbed to the top of a steep hillside and you look over the edge and you see this deep ravine and below it the sea and beneath that the half made-out forms of massive subterranean shapes. And the foam. The wide sweep of the bay and the terrifying drop of the cliffs, and the foam. It was mad.
"You're not quite right, are you?" he said.
His soft eyes had big blondish eyelashes and large blondish eyebrows. I couldn't make out much in the half-light. A street lamp illuminated his lengthy 70s hair from behind his head. It was your classic halo effect. "I... I think I'll just stop here for a second," I muttered.
He had sensitive thin lips, narrow nose, a thinly grown, light-coloured pointed beard and matching moustache, like a Spanish captain, or... he looked like a dirty-blonde Sir Francis Drake, just a bit fuller in the face. "Thank you Jesus for making me gay," I thought. "Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus."
Another car drove up, headlights sweeping the scene, and a bloke asked if we needed any help. He drove off pretty neatly when he saw we were fine.
"Better get off the road," said the guy in the suit. "Don't want another accident."
I tried to stand, stumbled and fell on my hand. He grabbed me under the arms and pulled me up. He tried to put one of my arms over his head and onto his shoulders so that I could walk more easily. I helped him. His arm slipped easily around my waist and gripped me. I wasn't all that unsteady, but he didn't know, or perhaps he did. In any case, after all I'd been through, it was about time I got some of that TLC everyone's always going on about.
"Thank you Jesus for making me gay. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus."
With his support, I limped towards where my prone bike lay injured. I grabbed the handlebars and together we stood the bike. It was badly scraped. I shook it tentatively: Some of the cowling was loose. I looked at the man in the suit and made a face. He stepped back and put his hands in his trouser pockets, spreading his jacket wide to expose a proper waistcoat full of tummy, a bit of belt and his fly I'd swear he was pushing forward but trying to make it look like he wasn't thinking about. Like I'd be impressed.
His shirt had a wide collar and his tie, though loosened from his throat, sported a fat Victoria knot. His top button was open. His lapels were broad like in the 70s.
"It's fine," I said at last. "It's not alright," he said, "but it's ok."
I smiled.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Oh, just remembered a joke once. It goes: It's never too late to follow your dream, unless your dream is to meet Whitney Houston!"
"What's funny about that?"
"Well, she's dead, isn't she?"
"What's funny about that?"
"You don't understand?" I said, "You were quoting a Whitney Houston song... well, misquoting it."
He smiled but didn't say anything. Then he said, "Who's Whitney Houston?"
"You've never heard of Whitney Houston?"
He deadpanned, and then broke into a big smile. "Course I know who Whitney Houston is! I know Whitney Houston!"
He laughed, stepping forward so that he was an arm's reach away from me, like he was about to touch me. I was about to test the bike would start up. I turned the key, but before it could start I felt a sharp pain in my foot. I winced and halted. He stepped closer still and caught my arm as I faltered. "You're hurt," he said.
"Not really."
"You can't ride can you? What do you propose to do?"
"Propose to do? I propose to ride it home and, if that's not possible, I propose to walk it."
What was this guy?
"You'll be all night," he said. He was still supporting my arm. "On the other hand, I have a proposal. Would you be interested to hear my proposal?"
I sighed. "What is your proposal, my friend?"
I had a rough idea.
"My car is at your disposal. That is my proposal," he smiled. "Leave your bike here. I think it's safe. Pick it up tomorrow when you are feeling better."
He was terribly polite. He had nice hair. He had a nice car. He was tempting, but, he wasn't what I'd usually go for; I hadn't done many suits. Suits made me feel cheap, and, suits rarely disguise terrific bodies: Suits disguise lazy office bodies, flab, laboratories for heart-disease and diabetes.
"You don't know where I live," I said.
"I don't mean that. I tell you what," he shifted on his feet, "why don't I drive you to my place? It's central. You can relax and recover yourself."
He was so fucking obvious.
"Look, mate, I'm very tired, I'm pretty shaken, I really need just to get home and get some rest."
It wasn't like I urgently needed an orgasm.
"I hear you loud and clear," he said. "It's just that, well, I don't live far. That new place up Piccadilly. It's very comfortable. You'll feel better. After a rest."
I found it hard to think. I shook my head, but not in a way which said, No. Then I shook it in a way which said, Oh ok then.
"You shouldn't go home alone," he said, and with a grin added, "There's a swimming pool."
I laughed as if that would make any difference! "Swimming's for kids."
"Ok then. Something grown up."
I paused. Truth is, we both needed some of this something. I needed some of that TLC everyone's always going on about. He obviously needed a fuck up the arse.
"I hurt," I said, hobbling towards the car. Man, it looked really comfortable. He opened the door for me and I got in, chucked my helmet in the footwell and sank into the leather seat; it morphed round me, my clothes creaking and squeaking against it as I sank lower and lower and lower. He closed the door. It shut with a Germanic 'thunk'. A robotic lever immediately pushed my seatbelt towards me with a whirr and a beep from behind my right ear. I grabbed it and tried to put it into the hidden latch down by my left elbow. Where was that? I searched.
The car was an automatic; lights on the drive lever twinkled like a small town beside me in the dark. I found the seatbelt socket. The clasp locked with a c-lick.
I looked about me. In the dim interior light everything seemed strange. A graphic equaliser looped through its modes on the dashboard but no music came out. More lights offered Bluetooth options, fuel readouts, drive modes, temperature displays for the engine, for inside, for out. A word flashed persistently in the corner: "M-eN-u". On the steep-angled windscreen distorted shapes reflected wildly, like everything was big hair and somebody had run their fat fingers through it: There was I, mixed up like coffee froth, somewhere, muddled up with everything else, like my head. Delicious pain worked its way through my body, starting from my leg, the abrasions on my hip. I took a deep lungful of the new-car smell and coughed. It was lush. I wiggled my toes inside my boots. I reached up and flipped down the sun visor - just out of curiosity. There I was in the vanity mirror. I gurned an air kiss and looked myself over.
I looked great.
By now the man in the suit had run round and got in the driver's side. He was like a chauffeur. Thunk. He twisted awkwardly and extended one hand towards me, the other landed automatically on the drive lever. Another seatbelt robot assistant extended its paw helpfully by his head and beeped, so he withdrew his hand before I could engage with it, and, with his other hand, grabbed the belt. Then he restarted:
"Hi. My names Karol."
"Carol?"
"Karol. With a 'K'. It's Polish for Karl or Charles, like the prince. You see?" "Yeh, I get it," I said, "Karol, as in 'Oh Karol!'" I didn't sing. "You don't look Polish," I said.
"Yes I do," he replied.
He patted me on the thigh. Then when I didn't speak he said, "It's ok, I know your name."
I was shocked.
"It's Mr Houston, I presume."
We laughed.
He was funny, more or less.
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END OF PART THIRTEEN