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Posted to r.m.h on Fri Mar 12, 1999 Well, now, I see a discussion regarding chrome helmuts taking place elsewhere in the bar tonight. Kinda reminds me of a tale.. It's a long tale with a happy (and sticky) ending and, by gawd, I'm so fukin' happy to be reminded of it that I do believe I shall buy a round for the house! Barkeep! Set 'em up! Now the tale took place a number of years ago although I really don't recall exactly when. I do know that I was still single and still living in Montana and still ridin' my old '49 panhead. Mighta been in the early part of my Rum Phase.. Anyhow, me and my ridin' buds and various hangers-on used to hang out at a place called The Monks Cave back in them days. (Oh, also in the Top Hat Lounge. Some purty good memories of mammaries associated with *that* place.) Now the Monks Cave was a kinda subterranean bar -- it was literally underground. It was dark and kinda clammy and had all them black light things all over the place. The bouncer liked us and would let us park the scoots on the sidewalk at the head of the stairs that decended to the bar and would also keep an eye on the scoots for us. I think he was gettin' some mileage with the chicks by being buddies with the bad-assed biker trash that frequented the place. Hell, we didn't care. Ya gotta get what ya can outta this life.. Anyway, one dark and steamy night down in the Monks Cave we were heavily involved in consumption of various sinful beverages and flirtin' with them college girls and tryin' to show a little class. It was a Friday night and we were all worked up into the kinda frenzy that only youth, alcohol, testoserone and harleys can conjure up. A wild-assed witches brew if ever there was one. Heh, heh.. Well, anyway, that's when I had one of them vision things... She musta stood near six foot tall. Slender and blonde and un-fukin-believably gorgeous. She was wearing one of them white tube tops and a short short white skirt and legs that went all the way to the ground. Oh, man.. Everything about this woman just dripped of sex. Just lookin' at her made yer mind *erupt* with the possibilities. She walked right up to me and I immediately flopped down on the ground and commenced to flailin' around like I was havin' some kinda fukin' seizure. Everybody was laughin' their asses off and I gotta admit, it was a hell of an ice-breaker. Well, one thing led to another and later that night she and I ended up over at her friends house where she was staying and where-in we proceded to participate in various athletic events that invariably involved considerable moanin' and groanin' and stuff. Oh, baby, what a night. <<Side Note>> There was a time, back when I was lucid, when I thought to myself that I oughta write up a list of all the women I'd been fortunate enough to have become 'one' with before I forgot their names. But, I didn't and now I can't remember 'em all and that kinda bums me out. I bring this up in the hope that later generations of copulators will learn from my mistake and keep better records. Hey, man, it's fukin' history (heh, heh).. So, it turned out that this woman, whose name escapes me at the moment, lived in Spokane, a city in the state of Washington and about 200 miles away. It also turns out that she hadda go home that very day but she did invite me over to visit and said there was going to be some kinda party the next Saturday night and that she would be inclined to instruct me in more of them athletic events if I happened to show up. She left me her phone number and disappeared. <<Fast forward exactly one week>> So, there I was, I'd ridden the hundred miles or so to the Montana / Idaho border, I had successfully negotiated the entire width of the panhandle of the state of Idaho, and I was standing near the border of the state of Washington. I was mebbe 20 miles from my objective and my brain was awash in a sea of testoerone. Oh, gawd, I was so close to some kinda illicit nirvana that I could damn near taste it. Hell, I still had the scent on my fingers.. And I was reading the sign at the border that said, and I quote, "MOTORCYCLISTS MUST WEAR HELMETS". Hell, man, I didn't even *own* a helmut much less have one with me! I was damn near outta my fukin' mind at the possibility that I wasn't gonna make it -- literally or figuratively. (BTW, there were excellent reasons for not wanting to get pulled over that I will not go into at this time.) Well, hell, I hadda ponder the situation so I took the first exit and doubled back into Idaho and pulled off at a roadside fruit stand to consider my options. I walked over to the proprietor and proceded to tell my tale of woe whilst cutting up an orange to eat. The proptietor was a pretty cool old farmer who seemed genuinely interested in my plight. We talked for a while and just as the old boy was suggesting that it might be worth investing in a helmut -- strictly for the sake of gettin' some -- that I noticed he had some real nice watermelons there. Now, a good watermelon can be hard to find and everybody has their secret and highly scientific method of thumpin' on them things to see when they're ripe. About then, I noticed that some of them watermelons were slightly larger than the head of yer typical human being. In fact, I noticed a few of 'em that looked like they might, if suitably carved up, actually FIT! So I explain my theory to the farmer. He sits there in the shade with a smile slowly spreading across his face and he sez, "By gawd, I believe you're right!" So we pick out a good one which I purchase and duly start to carve up. By now, we're both laughin' our asses off as we gorge ourselves with watermelon and I proceede to carve up a purty good likeness of a helmut outta that fukin' gourd. Heh, heh.. It was funny as hell doing the test fittings. It was all juicy and I had this long-assed hair and it was a helluva mess. But, fukin'A, we got that thing to fit purty good and I roared off into the Great State of Washington for my appointment with Blonde Bliss! Well, Sir, I never did get pulled over. And, the fukin' watermelon helmut was not nearly as fun to wear on the second day as I made my way outta that fascist state. And I still don't remember her name. Or the farmer's..
Well, my friends, that's my tale and I'm sticking to it.. By gawd, the
night is still young, lemme buy ya another round! |