Tuesday, July 30, 2013


Of course I was absolutely furious when she left me.  And then the sadness set in.   I was sad, really sad.  I also remember being remorseful and then angry … and then absolutely furious … again.

Just three weeks ago she left me.  Her eloping partner pushed some buttons and she left.  I didn’t blame him for wanting her.  She was the kind that anybody who saw her wanted her.  She certainly did not need him, him being a younger strapping version of myself, I suppose.

Whenever we rolled together in public I could see the looks on their faces, and I could hear their whispers.  Some even rudely hollered, Nice ride! My turn next!

She was the kind that even the police officer oohed and awed when he looked at her sweet picture.  She was the kind that the security guy, who opened up the gate at the compound, asked if he could ride her and while having his picture taken.  In past, I had let others ride her on occasion.  I could have pimped her -- but I didn’t.

Her arms were firm and long and widespread in a permanent gesture of welcome.  Her rack was scanty and her seat, a zaftig plumpness with a double spring.  To employ a cliché, she was definitely built for comfort, not for speed (if you know what I mean).

Before I met her she’d spent some time getting tuned and tanned on the coast in Southern California, and before that getting her body parts re-engineered from a country in the Far East.  Truly, she was exotic, filled with Asian wisdom, with a body hot enough to die for.  And she left all of that Asia and California to spend her days with me in dusty bowl Saskatchewan.

And then she left with him.  Of course he had to press the right buttons at the right time to convince her to go, and he so did, and so she went. A personal affront it was, as he looked his antecessor (me) right in the eye whilst I viewed the security video of him stealing her away in Annie Oakley fashion.  It seemed even, since she wheeled away so easily, there may have been some complicity on her behalf.

She was anthropomorphous, curvaceous like my favorite 50’s pin-up, Marilyn Monroe.  She was the anachronistic sexual replicate of Marilyn, having even the same drooling figure, a 36 spoken rack, a 36 spoken rump, and that so perfect yummy looking V, pointing to her tied tubes, just under her tummy, midway down her sunlit luscious bod.

By the time she moved in with me she was ever rubber-ready (needing just a little lubricant now and then, I having to squirt a weekly dram into her valve, oftentimes just before a full mount).  And my god, did I ever enjoy pumping her pedals, slowly at first, then faster, then faster, faster, faster, climaxing into an all-out sweaty crescendo at ride’s end.

Before she left me I jumped on her every day.  (Ambidextrous or ambisinistrous), daily did I grasp those long curvy arms with my left hand, and did lightly lift her rear with my right.  Every day with every pump she pleasured me, continuously through the summer months.
I so missed her wide front rack.  I so missed her head (badge).  I even missed her brakes. (Over time I’d determined that riding her was an exotic Yin and Yang experience.  Ride hard. Brake hard. Pump. Stop. Ride hard. Brake hard. Pump. Stop.)

I missed her ever erect nipples particularly noticeable at the ends of her spokes. I missed her curvy tubes. I missed that glistening green glow after I greased her central valve with some lubricant squirts.  

I remember the control and power that I had yanking her chain.  And, of course, I remember the forks.  Really, our relationship was entirely based upon the positional front and rear-end forks.   IT WAS ALL ABOUT THE FORKS.  OMG do I miss those forks!

In denial and desperation, I reported her missing.  The attending police officer told me that whomever she was with, knowing the kind of bad boy he was, he would most likely discard her for another, should a police cruiser appear to him in close proximity.  And that police officer was right, for she was later found lying in a ditch, asunder, broken, and dirtied.

When I applied to have her released, there she was hanging like a criminal in a cage, in a corner behind the wire.  I think she was crying -- I know I was.

Back at home, I carefully wiped off the recent filth, scrubbing her clean.  And then I couldn’t help myself.  In a sudden state of arousal, I couldn’t stop my left hand from squeezing gently on her rack, as my right hand raised her seat ever so slightly.  And then I gently mounted, and rode her for over an hour.

My California pleaser was still more than willing to go the distance for a quick roll on my demand.  I enjoyed this make-up ride so much that I’m seriously considering bringing her to all of my buskspots.  I know it’ll seem a bit kinky, my imagined ménage a trois with my lost-and-found love beneath me and my other true-love, my twelve string, slung across my back, but so what.  We would, I truly believe, look good together.

(Whoever said that dancing is the vertical expression of horizontal desire had never straddled the saddle of my green-eyed FATTI-O lady from California.)

Life was really a bitch without her … but the bike is back!

(My green ELECTRA RALLY SPORT is back.)

And so, dear readers, ends my first attempt at writing a soft and poignant love story. Telling such a tale stirs me wildly, so much that I long to wrap my legs around her body, have her seat against my inner thighs, and jump that California tease … right now!


Three people deservedly marched in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE:

  • First … the compound security guy who had my love chained and hanging upside down.  Even though he rode her and her picture taken in so doing, with the proper documentation he did release her, and give me the thumbs up.

  • Second … Mike, the manager of the brand new INDEPENDENT grocery on Broadway Avenue. Right after my love’s release, I rode over to seek his busking permission.

You are kidding!  He exclaimed after I asked permission to busk on his property right in front of the store.  We’re having the grand opening this Wednesday and I’d love you to be there BUSKING!

  • Third ... Mike, the manager of INDEPENDENT, is quite unlike Brent, the manager of the SAFEWAY ON 13TH Avenue in the Cathedral Area, who stated that I would be a SAFETY AND SECURITY RISK!

Fellow buskers:
The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost.
[G. K. Chesterton]

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