She likes motorcycles. Thinks they’re sexy. Thinks it’s sexy for a guy to be on a motorcycle. It’s a cock with wheels to her. I understand she isn’t alone.
I’ve ridden a motorcycle before. I didn’t crash. My brother crashed that bike. It might have been the same day. It was my cousin’s bike. I’ve never owned a bicycle but I didn’t crash the motorcycle. I guess that’s good luck.
She wants me to ride a Harley. I’m not sure I can stomach it, though. No matter how much sex it brings. I barely keep upright on four wheels and I drift when I drive.
Sometimes we drive out to the water. I like the ocean but I think she’s waiting for the inevitable rally. There’s always a rally at the ocean. Afterwards, when she shows me affection, I always ignore everything and assume her affection is genuinely stored up for me. I guess I doubt it now, though.
When we shoot guns I’d like to believe that she is aiming at the stuffed animals and paper targets without thinking of me. It bothers me to think of her shooting at me. I’ve seen her shoot. I’m pretty sure if it were me, and not the imaginary me personified by the stuffed animals, that she would hit me in the head. And that would make my brain explode. I would not like that very much. To have my brain explode. It would hurt. I’m sure of it.
When she talks about motorcycles I’m pretty sure that she hates me. I am not a cock with wheels. I am not; I’m sure, associated with cock in her mind. I don’t think she’s even fucking anyone else. It’s just that I am in a separate brain region from cocks and fucking even while she fucks me.
It could be that I am not her ideal. Some tattooed redneck or some cholo on a classic Indian is who she wishes she could be with every night. I have never even attempted rape. So I more or less am a castrati to her.
When she wakes up I am fine. Mornings, at least when you are awake and out of bed, are more safe. No one wants to be lonely making breakfast. It’s nighttime, the mating hours that are a problem. We end up in the same positions, saying the same things, doing the same cleanups, and making the same apologies. If she doesn’t wish I rode a bike she wishes I was a bike. She rides me that way. It’s not a question. It’s not a problem. It just is.
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