I parked the all-black custom-built hardtail "80" kickstart Evo where it was visible from the window and headed into the bar. Swaggering slightly, I pulled my leathers out of the crack of my ass - trying not to be obvious.

I ordered a Coke. The bartender, a new guy, raised an eyebrow like it should have been a Jack or Jim Beam or something. I remembered a line from an old Bob Hope movie. I snarled a bit and real low, I said, "in a broken glass."

I watched the crowded bar alone for the next 30 minutes. She was a few minutes late but it gave me time to mull over the proposition. My fellow bikers were draped in women. Granted there was the occasional fugly buffarilla, but women none the less. She entered the bar and headed for the seat next to me.

She scanned the debauchery and, in an accusatory tone, said, "You bikers are all the same."

"I know what you mean," I said. "I remember years ago when I first joined the club. I would watch these old, fat bros hitting on these young girls. I knew they were married. Disgusting really. Right then I told myself -- I will never be fat."

She did not smile. A smile at this point, I am sure, would have been a violation of character. "You're after women just like the rest of them" she said matter-of-factly.

"Actually, I am not,” I said. There was no evidence that she believed me.

"Just as well," she said. "Why would any of them be interested?"

"I am hung like a horse," I replied. She stared at me for a long second, like she couldn’t believe I just said that to a total stranger, and then, slowly, a faint smile did appear briefly.

Finally, she responded. "Really? I have no gag reflex." She looked down at my wedding ring and continued, "I do believe you have all the characteristics of a dog -- except loyalty."

She was really very attractive, in a not immediately apparent sort of way. You could have overlooked her in a room full of fashion models, but it would have been a mistake. She had a round face and a short haircut, which did not suit her. She had a subtly stunning figure, not so chesty as to become a center of attention, but ample and firm. Her derriere was remarkable in that it was perfectly shaped but did not appear to be carved out of stone like the girls who spend too much time at the health club.

She was 5-foot-6, which at this point I was grateful for. If I was going to loose this witty repartee with this stranger, at least I could look down during the conversation, solace for the male ego.

Sensing she had parity, if not the upper hand, she was apparently ready to call a truce. "I am Joanne,” she stated, offering her hand.

"Oh," I said, "you look more like a Joni with an ‘i’." I shook her hard firmly.

"My name is Rouge," I said. "I am married." I’m not sure why I added that last part. I already knew she knew I was married. It came out like someone standing up at an AA meeting. “My name is Rouge and I am an alcoholic.” I thought about that briefly. Is there a relationship between alcoholism and marriage? Are most alcoholics married first?

I found out she was from Maine, which sent me back. My first experience, of sorts, was with a girl from Maine. I told her, "One of my first girlfriends was from Maine."

"The first girl you ever slept with," she said. It was a statement. I could feel my ears turning red. My ears turn red when I am embarrassed and I was hoping she would not notice. She did, and I saw her smile for a second time.

I wanted to lie and tell her that she was wrong, but I would have been really embarrassed when she told me I was lying. In retrospect, I’m glad I didn't. I never lied to her the entire evening, and she accused me of lying about every 10 minutes.

She was young to be so untrusting; 24, with apparently rich Parents. She’d recently graduated from Cambridge University, spoke three languages, drove a new car and had no credit card debt. No debt period. She should have looked out of place in this biker bar, but she didn't. This was a pre-arranged business deal between us. A deal I hoped I would not regret.

"So what were you thinking about before?" she asked.

"I have been having this dream. I am cooking dinner with this priest who has Touretts syndrome when there is a knock on the door. It is Norman Bates and I say ‘Great, you're just in time for dinner. The roast is almost done,’ at which point I hand him a large carving knife and say I am just going to take a quick shower. I have no idea what it means."

"That is really weird, I’ve been having the same dream," she said.

The Proposition

Hours passed before she brought up the business proposition that brought us here. "OK," she finally said, "Two hundred and fifty dollars, lose the wedding ring and we ride to my parents house for dinner next Friday night."

"Yeah, that is the deal I guess I agreed to." I smiled. "But I didn't know you were such a bitch when I said I would take the job." She knew I was kidding and did not respond.

"I could guess, but why are you doing this?" I asked.

"The obvious, an overly judgmental father. I blame him, in a way, for breaking off my engagement. Anyway, a night with someone as pleasant as yourself and he might have a little less to say about my next boyfriend. Would you mind not showering for three days before our date?"

"Actually, yes."

"Three-hundred dollars."

"No problem. Cleanliness is overrated. Meet you here at 7 p.m. Friday."

I strolled out of the bar and pulled out the foot pedal on the kickstarter. I normally use the electric starter button on the handlebars, but not tonight. I looked through the window to make sure she was watching as I dropped my weight on the beast.

The kickstarter jerked and came slashing back into my leg just below the knee. I almost went down. Pain was shooting through my leg as I quickly slipped my thumb over the electric starter button and the beast roared to life. I hoped she didn't realize what happened as I gave her a stoic bad ass nod and sped off into the night. I rode two blocks just to be safe before I pulled over to look at my leg.

Friday

Friday was here. I had gotten off work at 8 the night before and, with the wife and kids out of town, it seemed like a good time to do a few things on the bike I was building. It was a BSA 650 Thunderbolt in a hardtail frame; a good second bike for short trips or maybe for the wife to ride someday.

Daylight came as I was fitting the rear fender and it was 10 a.m. before I went to bed. I set the alarm for 6. No need to leave time for a shower and a change of cloths. Breakfast was coffee and breath mints. I headed for the bar.

She walked into the bar looking more expensive than a life insurance policy for a resident of Cabet Cove. Her tight black leather pants apparently had some effect on me. Perhaps the blood rushed from my extremities to other parts of my body, or maybe it was a brief loss of concentration, but my beer glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.

She did not look at me like I was a klutz, which is what I was expecting. She took it as the subliminal yet sincere compliment that it was. She seemed almost human as she quietly said, "Thank you."

The bartender awakened from a trance-like state and with his eyes still glued to her, he pulled me another draft. With a look to say he could not have said it better himself, he slid the beer to me. It occurred to me that she was going to ride off on the back of my bike in a matter of minutes just as she slid $300 in my jeans pocket. Good work if you can get it. Of course, I realized it was all made possible because she viewed me as scum, but it did not seem to matter.

We walked out to my bike. I had two jackets bungee corded to the ape hangers but the night was warm and we would not need them. I choose the kickstarter once again. She started smooth on the first kick and we climbed on to ride helmet free, the evening air blowing through our hair. I could feel her breast against my back and I kept telling myself this was just a job. It had been awhile since anyone really attractive besides my wife had been on the back. I had that dangerous feeling like I was 18 again.

We just cruised for 10 minutes and at the first stoplight, all she could say was that she couldn’t believe what she’d been missing. I definitely felt 18 again.

Dinner Out

Dinner went well enough, I suppose, although I had the distinct feeling I was letting Joanne down. I realized I was hired to be a bit of a cretin. I briefly toyed with the idea of trying to pass some intestinal gas during dinner, but it just was not me. I didn't really know these people yet. I did use my Buck knife instead of my steak knife, which I could tell Joanne enjoyed.

Dessert was a disaster. Conversation had been centered on Joanne and I had to agree with her father that gainful, full-time employment would be character building. I added that a six-month stint of common labor at a regular worker’s wage (say, waitressing) might teach her many things she missed at Cambridge. I added that, of course, none of this would really work unless the only money she had to live off of for the six months was what she made at her job. I knew a restaurant that needed help, and when I tuned to her to make my generous offer, I could tell she was fuming mad.

Feeling bad for her at this point, I tried to redeem myself. I was desperately looking for some crude gesture that might win back her favor. The opportunity presented itself as she stood up. I said "Lighten up, hon," as I gave her a stinging slap on her ass.

Her gratitude was less than I expected. She picked up a china plate and almost cracked it over my head. A trickle of blood was flowing from just above my hairline, right over my left eye, causing me to squint. I deduced that I may have miscalculated.

I retired to the study with her father, and as he threw me a roll of medical tape, he said, "You know, you're the first guy she has ever brought home that I can stand."

Truth Be Known

We didn't say much and as the hog fired to life, everything seemed OK again. Cut on my head and all, I had to admit I had a great time. Joanne didn't say anything as we rode but I could tell she loved it. I deliberately chose a long route back to the bar with great views off some twisting mountain roads. As we neared the bar, she asked if I would take her back to her apartment. I was enjoying the ride, sure.

We got to her place and she asked, "Have you ever cheated on your wife?" Maybe I was flattering myself, but I thought that what she really wanted to ask is if I would cheat on my wife.

This was one of those hypothetical questions that is easy to answer until you are in the situation. If I were twisting a wrench on my scoot and my buddy asked if I would sleep with a beautiful 24 year old, clad in black leather, no less, I would have to say yes. Hell, she was so attractive my wife could catch me and would have to understand. Sure Rouge, how could you turn that down? But here I am thinking about the bar I met my wife in instead and I said, "No."

"Are you really hung like a horse?"

"No."

"I would still probably gag," she said. "You really don't think I could make it for six months on waitress pay, do you?"

"You might, but it wouldn't be easy and yeah, I think you might benefit from the experience."

She walked up and put her hands flat on my chest. As she slid them behind my back, she kissed the side of my face. "Take care" was all she said as she turned and walked away.

The Saddest Words of Mice or Men...

I sat at the bar thinking that, sure, there would be moments I would regret turning down something that maybe I’d only convinced myself I had a shot at, but basically I felt like I did the right thing.

Pat, the owner and usual bartender, said, "Hey, you remember that girl you were in here with the other night?"

Like, how could I forget her? I just nodded.

"Well I don't know why someone that speaks three languages wants to work here but she starts next Tuesday. I hired her for the busy season. She should be here at least six months."