Date: Sun, 25 Apr 2004 02:42:17 +0200
From: Richard Girth <dick_girth@fastmail.fm>
Subject: A Biker's Story

For a short time, many years ago, I worked way over on the other side of
the city. By car the journey could easily take two hours or more; on my
motor cycle I usually managed it in under an hour, and every day I tried
hard to get down to my target of 45 minutes.

One cloudy morning I was moving fast to beat the clock and get to work
before it began to rain. Once across the river the road emptied out and
snaked across tracts of abandoned docks and industrial wasteland. I
opened up the Ducati and started to enjoy the ride while the roads were
still dry.

As I passed a junction I saw another bike preparing to join the road I
was on, and in my rear-view mirror I saw him accelerate towards me. Now,
call me a foolish show-off if you will, but anyone who's ever enjoyed
riding a bike knows how hard it is to resist a challenge: I eased off a
little to allow the other bike to draw closer then, once he was a hundred
yards or so behind me, accelerated again and started riding for real.
It's a great feeling when everything comes right, braking hard, getting
just the right line on the bends, throwing the bike over and powering
through - and the guy behind me was obviously enjoying himself too. And
then... he passed me. The fucker passed me! A nod and a wave and he was
out in front and riding like he was on a racetrack, knees scraping on the
curves, tyres at the limit, popping wheelies as he hit the straight. Man,
he could ride. I was riding at ten-tenths just to keep him in view. Then
we got to a red light. I drew level and we just had time for a quick
appraisal of each other's bikes and a nodded greeting before the lights
changed.

I got off the line first and held the lead, with my Ducati pulling like a
train as his smaller Suzuki whizzed through the gears. As we entered the
first bend I felt my back wheel go mushy. Fuck, a puncture. He went past
and disappeared around the next curve as I pulled over and stopped. Fuck.
Everything was suddenly very quiet. My back tyre had a huge rusty tack
stuck in it. I heard a bike approaching. It was the Suzuki, coming back
in the opposite direction.

The guy pulled over. "You OK?" "Puncture," I said. "Fuck," he said. He
got off his bike and lifted his visor. Apart from his black full-face
helmet he wasn't really dressed to ride a motor cycle at kamikaze speeds:
jeans, scuffed at the knees from those fast bends, sneakers, and a black
nylon bomber jacket.

"I reckon we can plug that," he said, looking at the tyre. "I can't," I
said. "I haven't got a repair kit." "I've got one, at home," he said. He
spoke with a soft but marked Northern accent. "Where's home, then?" I
asked. "Manchester, usually. But for now, it's just up the road. You may
as well come with me." He got back on his bike and gestured to me to get
on the seat behind him.

I kept my eyes closed for most of that short ride. He went as fast with a
passenger in light rain (yes, it had finally started to rain) as I would
solo on a dry road. We pulled up at a line of shops on a suburban street.
He parked the bike and led me up to a flat over one of the shops.

When we got to the top of the stairs he turned towards me and I saw him
for the first time without his helmet on. Now, I'd had my moments of
adolescent sexual exploration with other boys but I'd come through that
an average uncomplicated twenty-something heterosexual guy. No way was I
gay - but I knew beauty when I saw it, and this guy was stunning. He had
one of those perfectly-sculpted faces with piercing blue eyes and a mane
of dark blond hair. I wouldn't see his like again until years later when
Calvin Klein ran those ads for Obsession - you know the ones I mean? I
must have done some kind of double-take, because he made a gesture - a
sort of combination of shy smile, nod and shrug - as if to say "Yeah, I
know I'm a fucking demigod. It's not my fault. Nothing to do with me."

He rooted around in a cupboard and came out with a do-it-yourself tyre
vulcanizing kit and an aerosol inflator. For a second I thought "What the
fuck is he going to do with that?", then remembered why we were there.

"May as well wait till the rain stops," he said. "Do you want a beer?" It
wasn't yet ten o'clock in the morning but it seemed like a good idea. He
went into the kitchen and I followed. It was a nice flat, spacious and
well furnished. On the walls there were posters of - huh? - James Dean,
and Marlon Brando in The Wild One, and that bare-torso guy from the
Depression holding a baby. Just a minute: does this guy, this guy who
rides like a fucking maniac, this mad-bastard Adonis with a Suzuki
Bandit, this guy who looks the way Brad Pitt might wish to look in his
dreams... does this guy like guys?

In the kitchen he was hunkered down, rooting around in the bottom of the
fridge. He'd taken off his nylon jacket and in the gap between his
T-shirt and the waistband of his jeans I saw several inches of golden
flesh and the beginning of the crack between his buttocks. I had a sudden
urge to explore that flesh, to run my fingers down that crack, to explore
what lay beneath his jeans - and you know what? Reader, I did. I didn't
even think about it, I just reached out and slid my hand in there. He
jolted like he'd touched a live wire. He turned around to face me,
looking like he might be angry if he weren't so startled and puzzled;
then his face softened and he did that sort of smile-shrug again. He
turned back to the fridge and brought out two cans of beer, holding one
out to me. I took it and we stood face to face, opening our cans and
looking at each other. I felt as horny as hell. I looked down at his
crotch, with the creases in his jeans vectoring in on the bulge as if to
say "Here it is. Grab it." Well, it was that kind of morning: I went for
it.

I reached out and cupped my hand around the bulge in his jeans. It felt
big, hot and alive - I could feel his pulse through the denim. By now my
own cock felt like a caged animal, straining to reach erection against
the constraints of my underpants and jeans. Then I did something that I
had never done before, and never thought I'd do: I kissed him. It was
weird to kiss someone with stubble but it felt good. We kissed hard and
deep, with me still holding his crotch with one hand and a beer can with
the other. We drew apart and put down our beers.
I reached down and unbuttoned his jeans at the waist. He pulled his
T-shirt over his head, exposing a lean, finely-muscled body. His
underarms had a thick growth of dark hair, but his torso was smooth as
far down as his navel, where a little track of silky pubic hair pointed
the way down towards his groin. I unbuttoned his fly and eased down his
jeans and underpants. A handsome penis sprang out, vibrant and erect,
with the foreskin retracted to expose a large glans, the rim as sharply
defined as if it were made of cut glass. I can still feel and taste it
now as I remember how I went down on that beautiful cock.

That was something I had done once before, in the context of those
adolescent explorations when it was done out of a mix of curiosity,
horniness... and perhaps a touch of distaste. This time it was very
different. There it was, in front of me, and all I wanted to do was to
take it inside me, to consume it, to gorge myself on it. This gorgeous
guy's gorgeous cock had become the focus of my entire being. Suddenly it
was all I wanted, all I had ever wanted. He kicked off his sneakers and
stepped out of his jeans and all the while I was sucking him, taking him
as deep into my mouth as I could. My own cock was still trapped inside my
jeans and desperate to get out. I could feel the pre-cum oozing out of
it. I stood up and pulled off my shirt.

He undid my fly and took out my cock. It was as hard as I'd ever seen it,
and the glans was shiny with pre-cum. Now it was his turn to take me into
his mouth, gently working it with his teeth. I've had more expert
blowjobs but I've never had one performed with more enthusiasm - and I've
never wanted one more than I did then. I was ready to come but wanted to
make it last, so I eased his head away. I kicked off my pants and we
stood facing each other, naked except for our socks.

He took my cock in one hand and his in the other and held them side by
side. His had a bigger head but mine had the edge on thickness: they were
pretty much the same length.

"So it's true, they are all the same size", he said.

"Well, these two are the same size," I said. "But I don't think we're a
very representative sample. What do you mean, 'it's true'?"

"Oh, that's what my girlfriend says. Or actually it's what my
girlfriend's mum says."

He had a girlfriend? And he shows his penis to her mother? Fucking hell,
this guy's life is complicated.

"Well, it's what my girlfriend says her mum says." Life became slightly
less complicated. But only slightly.

"I think her mum might be wrong. How many cocks have you seen?" I asked.

"Well, only mine, with a hard-on, and now yours. And some in videos."

"Well I've seen a couple more than that, but I can tell you they say mine
is big. In fact 'Hung like a fucking horse' is what they usually say.
I've only ever seen one bigger than mine, and that's when I was
thirteen."

"Well," he said, "Aren't we a pair of lucky lads?"

Still holding my dick, he led me into the bedroom. We fell on the bed in
a yin and yang configuration, sucking each other's cock. I wanted every
inch of this guy. Before we came I moved on top of him, rubbing my dick
under his scrotum and between his hard, smooth buttocks, burying my face
in his armpit and taking deep breaths of the smell of his sweat, feeling
his cock sandwiched between our bellies, skin on skin, counting the
seconds until I couldn't hold it any longer.

I don't think I've ever shot such a load in my life. We came at the same
time, pulsing long spurts of hot spunk between our bodies. Fuck, that
stuff was everywhere.

We rolled over and laughed. This felt so good.

"You know, " I said after a few minutes, looking around at the
furnishings and the artwork on the walls, "Somehow, I wouldn't have
expected a guy like you to have a place like this. It's a nice flat, but
it's... it's so..."

"So... what?"

"Well, it's so... you know, so stereotypical."

"So stereotypical what?"

"Well, you know, so stereotypically gay."

 He laughed so much I thought he was going to piss himself.

"This isn't my place. It belongs to my sister. She came down here three
years ago. She's a radiologist up at the hospital. I'm just down from
university for the vacation."

Confused, all I said was "Oh. what are you doing at university?"

"Drumming. And mechanical engineering. With a special interest in
hydraulics," he added, playing with my cock. "And I'm not gay. Mind you,
they told me it was full of shirtlifters down South. I was wondering how
long it would take me to meet one."

Before I could come up with a reply that struck the right balance between
denial and political correctness, he moved up the bed, straddled my
shoulders with his thighs and stuck his cock in my mouth. I took it in
hungrily.

"Weren't you on your way somewhere?" he asked. "What about your bike?"

I'd forgotten about all that. Reluctantly taking his cock out of my
mouth, I said "Fuck the bike. Fuck work. Fuck the world." And then, after
a short pause: "Fuck me.' And believe me, there was nothing I wented more
at that morment, even though even as I said the words I wondered how
that dick was going to get through my tiny little virgin hole.

He got up, went to the window and drew closed the curtains. And, with the
rain hammering against the glass, we settled in for the day.