Caveboy Monday: Bikers and Wanna be Bikers

I saw a commercial the other day for a three wheeled motorcycle.  The commercial extolled the virtues of the open road and how you can take your drivers test today and be on the road tomorrow living the life.  Yes you can be a regular Marlin fuckin Brando right out of The Wild Ones.  Somehow I think that if Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper and Jack Nicholson had tooled around on a tricycle that Easy Rider would have lost some of its’ appeal.

Then to raise the dork level a couple of notches the puss cycle has two wheels in the front.  What models do the have?  The Vagina, it’s a great ride when you first buy it, then it only runs about once a month, and after a few more years it quits altogether and then you can’t give it away.  Then perhaps the Menstrual, it runs like hell for about a week out of each month, but then it refuses to start.

Then they are extremely safe, especially in a bar fight.  There’ll be no danger of getting kicked in the balls, because they’ll be in you wife’s purse.  So if you are ever riding one of these emasculated wimpcycles and somebody asks if you use tampons for an oil filter, don’t get mad you brought it on yourself.

When I was in college a friend and I were invited out for a night of partying.  This is a true story about real bikers.

We rolled into the parking lot of a little non-descript bar around 8:30.  From the outside it seemed like a quiet place and I thought “This place is kinda dead.”  As we entered the establishment it was in fact extremely dead.  There was a dude playing guitar at a table with what looked like his wife and kids.  An older couple sat swilling a few beers and eating a burger.  I approached a table and started to sit down when my friend said “No we’re going to the back.”

The U shaped bar divided the building approximately in half, but for all intents and purposes when we passed around the end of the bar we walked through a portal to a different dimension.

Nailed to the back wall was a denim jacket with the sleeves ripped off.  The identifying patches indicated that we had entered into the official or unofficial headquarters of the local branch of a relatively well known biker club.

At one of the several pool tables was a rather large woman bent over the table shooting pool.  Directly behind her was a smallish gentleman groping this gal rather enthusiastically.  She was oblivious to his mauling and continued to shoot as if a mosquito was buzzing around.

We were introduced to the president of this civic organization, who we’ll call Jerry, and the first words out of his mouth were “How come you ain’t drinkin? Hey (insert the bartenders name) give these guys a beer!”  When I turned around there were three pitchers on the bar, no glasses just three pitchers.  Then I noticed everyone was drinking from pitchers.  “Oh shit!” I thought, “This could be bad.”  I noticed that the guy that had invited us had a somewhat knowing look on his face.  I and the other invitee knew we had been had.

When we had finished our first beer (pitcher) Jerry inquired if I liked titties.  I answered in the affirmative.  Next question was “Do you like to suck titties?”  Again I answered a resounding “Yes!”  Then quicker than you could say saggy boobs he had grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and said “Suck on these.”

The next thing I knew he had thrust my face onto the left boob of the big gal that had been shooting pool.  What was a guy to do?  I sucked her boob.  They were large boobs, very large.  And as I was mouthing the very large boob I looked up and saw that my friend was firmly attached to the other large mammary.

When the breast sucking had ended Jerry said “Now you owe her a pitcher for the titty shot.  My first inclination was “Why should I pay for something I didn’t ask for”.  Besides had they aforementioned boob been full, firm, perky with nipples that stuck straight out instead of pointing at the floor, there would be no question a payment was in order, but being surrounded by a half a dozen men, most with felony convictions tends to sway one in going with the flow, so I bought her a pitcher.

As was my practice I had bathed prior to setting out for the evening, something the rest of the crowd had given up for Lent, three years prior.  As I was recovering from my encounter with the suitcase sized knocker I felt a tree trunk go around my neck.  No that is not a tree trunk it was an arm.  Lo and behold I was in a headlock of an individual that would have dwarfed a walk in freezer.  I was suspended off the floor to where just the tips of my toes were just barely touching and we were headed to the back door.

This was getting just a bit out of hand and there was nothing I could do about.  I could see it coming, I was about to get the ever lovin shit beat out of me for no other reason than this guy was bored.  Thinking it couldn’t get any worse I tried to formulate a plan of escape.  Then it got worse.  About the time we reached the back door my new found friend uttered the words I will never forget, “You smell like a French whore, I think I’ll take you out back and fuck you!”

Think boy, think, I had seen “Deliverance”.  Desperate times call for desperate measures so I said the first thing that came to mind, “You won’t like it, I just lay there, I don’t moan or anything!”  Suddenly my feet were again on solid ground and my almost molester slapped me on the back (I was pretty sure that he collapsed a lung, but I was just glad my bung hole had retained its’ original size) and said “God damn boy I like you, let me buy you a beer!”

I guess we had passed the test, because for the remaining time we spent there, there was no more talk of sodomy or ass whipping.

A week or so later the guy that had taken me on the evening of a life time came into my dorm room and handed me something.  Upon further examination I discovered that it was the band from a Stetson hat.  There appeared to be a reddish substance dried on it and by appearance the method that had been used to remove it from the rest of the hat involved a bladed instrument of some sort.  My friend said “Jerry wanted you to have that, and to tell you if you ever need anything, take that hat band back to that bar and tell’em Jerry sent you and they will do anything you ask.”

Those are bikers not wanna be’s.

remember nuthins free so send money

caveboy out