[WARNING - contains strong language and nuts]

It was like having perfect sex, the car and I were one. As I drove my every thought was transformed telepathically into a seamless action from me to the machine, from the machine to me. I was a man-machine. I was a modern day Satyr, half-man, half-Reliant Robin.

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The highway whispered, 'Ride me! Ride me!' It was wild and I was born to be it. Slowly, I slipped on my greased leathers; gauntlets, helmet, club colours. I mounted my bike and roared off into the night.

The wet, black road spread out like a tongue and blew words of love into my ears. It was like telephone sex. I was hung up. Just me, the night, the bike and one empty saddle. Half-rebel; half-tandem.

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The oil dripped warm and viscous from the broken bike chain. I wanted to finger and lick it, roll in it and fuck it.

You know that feeling?

The bike was throbbing but impotent; whilst I had a hard one that was ready to blow and flow, white lava on that oozing, moving black, slack slick. The bike hid its face in embarrassment at this display of sexual perversion. I kicked the fucker over in a sudden, mindless, frustrated rage. It lay there blind and ignorant as I came in violent bursts of holy jism.

It was over, leaving a spent dick, a busted moped and a broken man!

 

© Paul Blackburn & Nat Clare 2000