once the checkbook said we had $2,102.00. I went shopping. They denied my card after the second pair of jeans. Ends up we had a $122.00. It’s kind of a pain in the ass sometimes.”
“Oh, yeah. I meant the herpes, that sucks,” he whispered.
I shrugged, “Not so much. Hell now that I’ve got ‘em too, at least I don’t have to worry about catching it anymore. But the itching is a motherfucker.”
I bent down slightly and started rubbing my inner thigh with my left hand as I waited for him to respond.
He looked like he was going to barf. As he pushed himself away from the bar, I smiled and pulled my hand from between my thighs.
“I was joking. She doesn’t have herpes,” I smiled.
“She don’t?” he said as he leaned toward the bar.
“Nope,” I responded as I shook my head lightly.
“Dyslexic vegan?” he asked.
I shook my head, “Nope. Actually she’s a stripper. She dances at Jezebel’s on Sunday nights. You should go see her tomorrow. Her stage name is The Portuguese Princess.”
“She’s Portuguese?” he asked.
“Yeah, half,” I nodded.
As much as I tried to hold it together, I began to laugh. He sat and stared at me as if my head was on fire. Giggling at the thought of Sloan stripping, and the guys tossing dollar bills at her, I attempted to stop and apologize for bullshitting him. At least he was a pretty good sport about listening to it all. As I started to tell him I was joking about everything , I hear d a thunderous roar from the parking lot, and it seemed as if the walls were vibrating. At the same time as everyone else in the bar, I turned to face the door.
Immediately after the noise and vibration stopped, I turned toward Heineken bottle and blinked my eyes, “What the fuck was that, a tornado?”
He raised his eyebrows slightly, “Sounded like a bunch of bikes; a whole hell of a lot of ‘em.”
As I noticed the front door open out of my peripheral vision, I turned toward the end of the bar. A guy who appeared to be no less than seven feet tall stood in the opening. Tanned from what I suspected was a lifetime of riding, he stood in the opening and quickly scanned the bar. As he turned and looked over his shoulder, I swallowed heavily at the sight of what appeared to be the three dozen bikes in the parking lot. Something about seeing that many bikes and bikers together was oddly exciting.
The panty scorching kind of exciting.
Bikers are fucking hot.
“There ain’t anywhere to sit, but there’s plenty of places to stand,” he shouted into the parking lot.
“I’ll take my check,” Heineken bottle sighed.
“Ditto,” the guy beside him said.
“Yeah, time to get,” Budweiser bottle whispered as he tossed a bill onto the bar.
My eyes widened as the men started walking into the bar. They kept coming, and kept coming, and kept coming. All of them were wearing biker vests with patches all over them. Some had patches on the front the others didn’t. The backs of the vests all had the same logo; Selected Sinners on the top, Kansas on the bottom , with a skull and two crossed guns in the middle. The bar was beginning to look like a scene from a movie. One where the bikers walk in and everyone else stands up and leaves.
As the huge biker stood beside the door with his arms crossed, another man walked in and stepped beside him. He was tall, but not as tall as the giant. There was a certain presence about him as he stood and talked, as if he was the one everyone should be paying attention to. He had a few days growth of beard, and short wavy hair with slight specks of grey. Under his vest was a black sleeveless tee shirt with some writing on the front of it which was mostly obstructed by his vest. As he turned and quietly talked to the taller man, I squinted and walked to the end of the bar closest to them. Although a steady stream of bikers continued to stroll into the bar, I couldn’t shift my focus from the shorter man who was doing the talking. Now standing
“Oh, yeah. I meant the herpes, that sucks,” he whispered.
I shrugged, “Not so much. Hell now that I’ve got ‘em too, at least I don’t have to worry about catching it anymore. But the itching is a motherfucker.”
I bent down slightly and started rubbing my inner thigh with my left hand as I waited for him to respond.
He looked like he was going to barf. As he pushed himself away from the bar, I smiled and pulled my hand from between my thighs.
“I was joking. She doesn’t have herpes,” I smiled.
“She don’t?” he said as he leaned toward the bar.
“Nope,” I responded as I shook my head lightly.
“Dyslexic vegan?” he asked.
I shook my head, “Nope. Actually she’s a stripper. She dances at Jezebel’s on Sunday nights. You should go see her tomorrow. Her stage name is The Portuguese Princess.”
“She’s Portuguese?” he asked.
“Yeah, half,” I nodded.
As much as I tried to hold it together, I began to laugh. He sat and stared at me as if my head was on fire. Giggling at the thought of Sloan stripping, and the guys tossing dollar bills at her, I attempted to stop and apologize for bullshitting him. At least he was a pretty good sport about listening to it all. As I started to tell him I was joking about everything , I hear d a thunderous roar from the parking lot, and it seemed as if the walls were vibrating. At the same time as everyone else in the bar, I turned to face the door.
Immediately after the noise and vibration stopped, I turned toward Heineken bottle and blinked my eyes, “What the fuck was that, a tornado?”
He raised his eyebrows slightly, “Sounded like a bunch of bikes; a whole hell of a lot of ‘em.”
As I noticed the front door open out of my peripheral vision, I turned toward the end of the bar. A guy who appeared to be no less than seven feet tall stood in the opening. Tanned from what I suspected was a lifetime of riding, he stood in the opening and quickly scanned the bar. As he turned and looked over his shoulder, I swallowed heavily at the sight of what appeared to be the three dozen bikes in the parking lot. Something about seeing that many bikes and bikers together was oddly exciting.
The panty scorching kind of exciting.
Bikers are fucking hot.
“There ain’t anywhere to sit, but there’s plenty of places to stand,” he shouted into the parking lot.
“I’ll take my check,” Heineken bottle sighed.
“Ditto,” the guy beside him said.
“Yeah, time to get,” Budweiser bottle whispered as he tossed a bill onto the bar.
My eyes widened as the men started walking into the bar. They kept coming, and kept coming, and kept coming. All of them were wearing biker vests with patches all over them. Some had patches on the front the others didn’t. The backs of the vests all had the same logo; Selected Sinners on the top, Kansas on the bottom , with a skull and two crossed guns in the middle. The bar was beginning to look like a scene from a movie. One where the bikers walk in and everyone else stands up and leaves.
As the huge biker stood beside the door with his arms crossed, another man walked in and stepped beside him. He was tall, but not as tall as the giant. There was a certain presence about him as he stood and talked, as if he was the one everyone should be paying attention to. He had a few days growth of beard, and short wavy hair with slight specks of grey. Under his vest was a black sleeveless tee shirt with some writing on the front of it which was mostly obstructed by his vest. As he turned and quietly talked to the taller man, I squinted and walked to the end of the bar closest to them. Although a steady stream of bikers continued to stroll into the bar, I couldn’t shift my focus from the shorter man who was doing the talking. Now standing
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