I don't where to start or how far to go. Hell, I don't know what you want to hear. I don't even know where I am from time to time, but fuck it. I'll tell you what I know and take it from there. I'm in Baltimore, one of the more beautiful ports around. We rolled up the Chesapeake Bay just like in that old war movie, "Run Silent Run Deep". It was creepy, as if we were steaming over a flat lake in a dense fog. But as we reached Baltimore, a horseshoe of harbor lights engulfed us until we pulled into the dreaded Lazaretto Warf, Berth A.

As the morning dew lifted to a strong smattering of clouds threatening rain, we made arrangements to escape the rust, not one minute too soon. The ship was immediately swarmed with Rickmier agents, attorneys and a knock-out blonde who sold brokered yachts. It seems that when Hold No. 1 caught fire in Japan, fragments caught and burnt the top deck and interior of a 50-foot yacht and small steamer. I could smell litigation as I called a cab from the ship to pick us up on the docks.

Unlike the Savannah cabby system, these operators didn't know where we were and could care less. Immediately they demanded a local number from me and I had to explain to every operator that I was on a ship and incapable of having a local number. Finally, I had to get my own info and map and try to explain to the operator once more where I needed to be picked up. When we finally hailed a cap, he had no idea where I was going and spoke little English. Finally in the afternoon I was forced to return to the ship.

I was somewhat relieved, yet my mission to find a whorehouse and get laid was dismally attended to.

I made it to dinner on the ship and picked at my meal like a disappointed teenager. I went to my room to write when the cell phone rang. Frank Kaisler, the editor of Hot Rod Bikes, grew up in Baltimore and I had given him a call for a connection. He told me to call Larry McCullough of Pro Paint in Baltimore and ask for his girlfriend, Debbie. She was once in the nightclub business on the back streets of the harbor city, less than an hour from Washington, D.C. The rescue call came at just the right moment as the Filipino members of the crew began welding something to the deck above the gang plank. Burning chunks of paint were blistering from overhead and falling on the deck below, creating a curtain of terror in the way of my escape. I ducked the burning shards as a crewmember sprayed my feet with what appeared to be a garden hose.

Larry came to my rescue and swept me away. His dually took us to his shop, Pro Paint, and I was blown right out of my seat.

I'd never met Larry before. His shop has been open for more than 8 years. He has a very well-organized, professional custom bike shop with a metal fabrication wing and separate facility for mixing, painting and buffing, all under the same roof. I thought I knew every world class builder in the country. Before I get to the girls, let's get to the news: Ah, but first I must tell you that one of Larry's creations recently won a Bikernet Bike Show and the owner's trophy was on the counter. The name of the bike was Dawn.

We had dinner with Rob, Debbie, Christine and Sholana, great people, in a joint called Mothers, with fuckin' wonderful apple pie with handmade ice cream. Better stop that, I'm beginning to sound like Rip's tales. I had been at sea for 15 days and what I needed the most was the touch of a woman. Larry and Rob, one of the seven shop guys, took me to a seedy little joint called Night Spot and a totally nude bar, and I mean nude. Oh fuck, these girls were sweet, tender and nimble, crawling along the large oval bar top bare naked and moving to your licking pleasure.

Sometimes I hesitate to talk about sex on the site, because of all the weird trappings construed with sexual discussions. I believe that sex is one of the grandest things on earth. Men need sexual stimulation, and it's not fair that we've got to buy diamond rings and make bullshit promises to relieve a natural tendency. It would be like telling a woman she can't have a period without getting a job. Goddamnit. It's fucking natural, and someday we should beat the prohibition on the oldest profession on the books so if we need tang, we can get it anytime, anywhere and go about our business without launching new children.

These girls were having as much fun as the guys and I was surprised to see three or four girls in the bar with guys enjoying the pussy-to-pussy closeness. It was a trip watching a naked stripper spread her legs in front of another woman and move her pussy confidently close to another girl's teased grin.

The guys I was with surprised me with a lap dance from a particularly cute brunette. She was perfectly built and cute as a button as she slipped onto my lap and ground her pussy against my crotch. I wasn't sure if this was pure torture or at least a mild touch of a woman without...

Just to show you how strange my life can be. I crawled into my bunk at 4:15, yet got my ass up at 7, worked out and had lunch with an 84-year-old retired admiral in a beautifully austere restaurant on the inner harbor. Like Savannah, this harbor is blossoming into a beautiful area of 1,700 brick row homes in some 200 ethnic neighborhoods. I only hope that San Pedro will wake up to the success some of these eastern ports enjoy. Admiral Rindskopf was the youngest skipper of a submarine during World War II, at 26. He was ultimately the captain of another sub, a destroyer and a sub tender before taking his knowledge and experience to Washington until he retired after 35 years. He mentioned that he was working with another officer, Admiral McCain, during the Vietnam War, while his son, Bob McCain, was a prisoner of war in Vietnam. At one point the Vietnamese sent the admiral a deal to release his son. The Vietnamese, much like the Taliban, were not men of their word and he was unable to implement his son's release.

Let's see what happens tonight. I'll still be trapped in the god- foresaken port for a couple of days before heading across the Atlantic, through the English Channel, on our way to Hamburg, Germany, to fill this bastard with cargo for the remaining trip around the world.

Meanwhile, I haven't been able to contact the Bikernet headquarters. The women have taken over, and although I have a signed contract from all three women in my life to be able to seek sexual release in various ports and hunt down motorcycle connections, there seems to be a mutiny afoot. Rumor has it that Coral and Sin Wu are trying their damndest to lure Layla into some sexual nirvana.

Reports are in that motorcycles have been moved in the headquarters and frilly curtains hung from the purely bachelorized windows.

I hope to have more information by News time next Thursday. Snake and Dr. Nuttboy have escaped the treachery to hide in the mountains until the dust settles.

Goddamnit, go for a ride, Bandit.

On to Part 3