Few things make me as happy as does getting a new bike. Most of my energy for writing posts has been diverted into my inner-riding-monologue, while working an entire series of petty grumblings out of my system. I must have thought of at least four good post-worthy sentences yesterday, now all gone.
I had forgotten how great mountain bike tires are. They're more work on the road - getting up hills, and much slower gliding back down them. But fuck... they feel so much better. A bike should grip whatever exists below it, like leather gloves do throats. I am taking sharp turns again and going off road more frequently. I thought that it would take some getting used to, adjusting to 29" tires, but nope. One day of riding, maybe two, and they are the new normal. Now, the problem will be ever getting back on my old bike. Somebody's going to have to ride it to the landfill.
I have stripped the old bike of all of its dignity and rewards. The water bottle cage and seat bag have been transferred to the new bike, even though their color patterns conflict terribly with the blue and gold, my high school colors. Or rather, the colors of the high school that I dropped out of when I turned sweet sixteen.
I started wearing a bike helmet, not sure if I've already mentioned that. I rode for 40+ years without one, and then the boy asked me why I wasn't wearing one. He has to wear one, etc.
So, now I am finally an adult. I wear the helmet everywhere. I went to a titty bar and kept it on the entire time, because you just never know when you're going to want to feel safe. I also had my lycra shirt and skin tight black padded riding spanx on. I don't use shoe clips, so they lucked out that I didn't click and clack all the way to one of the easily moved cocktail tables that circled the stage.
Have you ever seen what some women will do for a dollar? It all seems so glamorous and tantalizing until you realize that this is how some young female hobos live.
Now, there would be some that might assume that the above statement would mean that I am against it. But no, I just think that it should be less regulated. I think that they should be allowed to also panhandle on the street like everybody else, so that we can better empathize with their plight. Can you imagine young nubile bummesses showing some random pedestrian a stray pussy lip, or the circle of their tender pink butt-hole, for a dollar.
I can imagine this.
A block party dj every now and then coming over the mic encouraging you, Don't forget to tip the ladies! Watered down drinks, $20 each, all of it. I mean, what genius decided all those years ago to round up all of the would-be prostitutes and created a business model in which we could get all of these hot beggars off the street?
No, I kid. I think it's all very wonderful, how women continue to liberate themselves. The republicans are sorting all of this stuff out, because it is a genuine crisis. Nothing quite says rectitude as do politicians.
Where was I? I became sidetracked with thoughts of perfectly licit street pussy. Fuck, I would demand that spotlights were installed in every alley, a disco ball at every intersection!
So Yes, Yes, yes... I was thinking of the new mountain bike tires. I had replaced the trail tires on my Marin for road tires sometime back, to make riding the bike as I do to be a more comfortable and less strenuous experience. The result was that it robbed me of riding confidence. I started taking turns more widely, rarely ever leaving the road, even sometimes when it made sense to do so. I was using my brakes rather than using my bike as it was meant to be used.
After a couple years of riding those sissy city tires I even started to ride sitting down, like a girl. I was often afraid that my friends would see me. I began masturbating with mostly one finger, and another arranged on top of it as a supporting finger, for strength. It's almost like masturbating with chopsticks. That tender spot is both elusive and cunning. One has to mash around that entire area to get started, then move in on the slippery spot. Sometimes I feel as if a magic bean stalk has grown out of my clitoris.
Well, if I had a clitoris. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in being a feminist that I forget.
Speaking of sissies... One time, years ago, I was happening down the avenue in the quiet, quaint city that sits just outside the bigger and less quaint city that I grew up near, and CS was rollerblading down the avenue... in front of everybody, loosely following some chick that was much better at it than he. I called out his name. His wobbly response was immediate: You tell anybody and I'll kill you!
His secret is safe with me, of course. I used to rollerblade with a girlfriend, also. It's like bukaki. It's only gay if the girl somehow disappears. Then, you're left rolling down the avenue in the fiercist shoes ever made, surrounded by a bunch of dudes jerking off towards each other.
My computer wants me to correct the term bukaki. It is underlined in red, as if I am not familiar enough with its delicacies to know if I've spelled it correctly or not. I do not wish to search for it on a work computer, for reasons that HR might best understand.
But wait, wait! I genuinely thought that it was a type of technology, not a deviant sexual practice for the many disaffected lovers of heavy metal.
Bukaki is the heavy metal of porn. Take that one girl's smiling face-target away and suddenly it becomes the gayest, sado-leather-fest you've ever seen. Metal is comprised of "musicians" who didn't quite make it all the way to Broadway, so they turned to the dark side of drama. How did heavy metal ever get the nearly free pass that it did in the 80s? It's a way of saying that both women and punk rock are too scary, but I just can't stop believing in the devil.
Well, I had meant to meditate a bit on the joys of biking, but instead I have discovered the mysterious maletoris and have again affirmed that bukaki is the straight man's way of being gay for five minutes, or an afternoon.
I'm going to start telling people that I am a Taurus, with a Clit rising.
Somebody out there must have edited some porn to remove the woman, or womans, from the various bukaki scenes. It must be hilarious, just dudes descending on a central spot, all agreeing in pleased mumbles what the slut that has magically appeared before them really deserves. Physical and sexual dominance being expressed through the receptiveness of the invisible lucky lady that just happens to be uniting all of the major plot points.
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