I had the blues not long ago, and I hauled them on my back to the bar. The Softail ran fine, but I was laid off six months ago, and immediately my abode relationship went to shit. She packed her upscale shit and departed because I wouldn’t sell my ride, although her two kids constantly had their hands out.
I downsized rapidly, sold the new car, bought an old pickup, unloaded the mortgage, and went in partners on a commercial building. Actually, for the first time in four years, I was beginning to feel like a biker again, and I was digging it, but I wasn’t getting laid. That gave me the blues. As much as I like to ride alone, cutting through long miles by myself, I want to know there’s a woman around the next corner.
It was a lousy Wednesday and billows of fog crawled over the Palos Verde Peninsula and rolled into San Pedro like a bad omen. To add insult to my injured heart, a stocky little-man syndrome motor cop pulled me over for my beanie helmet.
“Can’t ride through my town wearing one of those,” he said, and stuck his chest out. Then he bitched about my straight pipes and slapping fish-tips. He brought me down, but I escaped with a warning and rolled into the Bandit’s Cantina parking lot under the Vincent Thomas Bridge. The vast expansion bridge reached out to Terminal Island, the federal prison and an escape route to Long Beach.
I snapped off my helmet and tossed it in the weeds. I’m so sick of this bullshit.
“Fuckin’ misguided government picking on bikers,” I grumbled to myself, as I hauled open the large oak door and strolled deliberately to the bar. The damn place was just about empty, except for a couple of regulars and one bartender, this blonde.
“Gimme a gold Cadillac Margarita on the rocks, with a shot of Quervo Gold on the side.”
“Yes sir,” she said, and looked me square in the eyes with her soft blues. Then she smiled, as if I just bought her the winning lotto ticked. You would have thought that my Margarita order put her one chilled drink over her quota for the year, and she would be awarded a 5-star trip to Vegas for a week.
I didn’t get it, but I smiled in return, and that seemed to enhance her bubbling demeanor. She danced around behind the bar, snapping up the ingredients to concoct the Gold Cadillac, then sliced a lime, and delicately split it over the edge of the frosty glass, while I took in the remaining elements of her package. Not bad, except I wasn’t generally a blonde sorta guy.
That Margarita hit the spot, like a cold drink of water after a forced walk in the summer desert. It contained just the correct alcohol kick, and enough flavor to make it easy to drink. I slid through half of it, tossed in the shot, and finished it off. I listened to the Latin jazz from the Cantina Sound system and could see a ship pass through the main LA Harbor channel, through a wood framed Cantina window.
“How was that Margarita,” Dolly asked and reached around her back, shoving her perky tits in my direction. She unsnapped her cantina skirt, and let it drop to the floor. She was wearing a pair of denim short-shorts and her legs were spectacular, long, and just perfect.
I started to lick my lips and answer, but she beat me to the punch.
“Wanna fuck?”
I starred at her, and I could swear she licked her lips, as if I was a lobster bathed in butter. I was at a loss for even a meager reply, but I gazed at her neck as if I was a vampire.
Fuck yes, I wanted to fuck! I hadn’t been laid in a month and I was a grenade with the pin pulled.
” I don’t drink and ride, anymore,” I said, when actually I wanted to say, “I’ll tear your clothes off in the parking lot.”
“I only live a block from here,” Dolly said. “Bandit will lock up your bike, and I’ve got a fifth of Quervo at my flat.”
“Then how come we ain’t naked yet?” I wanted to reach over the bar and pull her into my arms right then and there. I could smell her. The chemistry was flying around the room, looking for a door to escape.
Just then, bubbly, bouncy Nyla strutted into the bar.
“It’s time to relieve the watch,” she said and strolled up to Dolly who turned to face her. “You won’t need this anymore,” and she yanked Dolly’s top off to reveal a skintight wife beater over braless tits.
Nyla slipped her arm around Dolly’s waist, pulled her so close her big jiggling tits crushed against Dolly’s taller form and she French kissed her deeply.
“Thanks for hanging around,” she said. Then she looked at me. “I see you’re headed for a interesting night.”
Nyla’s emerald eyes scanned my tall form, then slapped Dolly on the ass as she turned to walk around the bar. In a momentary flash, she was in my arms and we were headed for the door. Marco stepped up and retrieved my keys.
“I’ll be here in the morning for breakfast burritos,” he said. “Your bike will be secure for the night.”
In ten brisk minutes, we were at her humble door. On the way, I discovered a student who was hungry to learn and become a nurse. She wanted to intern with Doctors Without Borders, in Europe. She muttered something about posing with my Softail and taking a shower. In another ten minutes I was delivered another Margarita, she was in and out of the shower and naked before me in an untied robe. Whatta night.
We went at it like starving cats that discovered an open can of tuna. The next morning I kissed that tattoo again, and once more she responded.
“You like sex, don’t you?” Dolly said.
“It’s heaven on earth,” I muttered, “and you’re one helluva an angel.”
There are only a handful of women who contain this level of steamy sexual attitude, I thought as I climbed in her shower. They’re like an anti-social dichotomy from their uptight protective counterparts. Every man needs to find one of these to learn the difference. There is a glowing light at the end of that dark feminine tunnel, and in this case, the light was named Dolly.
–Renegade
