Moto-Sex

At these speeds the wind noise is white. All sound blends into a
dull roar that deafens into a silent wail. The road is below, its
vibrations reverb in the spine. Clenched teeth. Set stone jaw.

Eighty is just a memory now, a hundred and five is home. The cars fly by, the painted stripe an eerie solid.

Funny, the silence of the speed is almost dizzying. Thoughts turn
inward and the duties of the bike become automatic.

What did she mean? Did she leave? The bike leans gently into a turn.

One-o-five is maintained though now the driver is oblivious.

He remembers her; naked on the couch, lying on her stomach,
intently reading the paper. He remembers her lines.

She could have said what was on her mind. There was never any room here for subterfuge. There was never any need to hide truth.

The din of the silence has changed now. A dull ring announces the absence of speed. The bike has dropped below ninety as these thoughts propagate and consume.

The need is for more. Always more. More speed, More force, More sex, More sound. Pure sound. No sound.

The exit looks right. The bike is poised.

The lean puts knee to the ground. Force, lean, speed. The throttle cracks, the bike jumps, the turn completes. Three figures return. The ring is fulfilled as the roar of the silence is replaced.

She is under him now. She felt good. She tasted good. She was lust, she was dirty, she was raw.

Everyone has a need for raw pleasure. Not many find it. Its absence rings in their heads. They chase shadows. Never fullfilled. Never a clue. She filled his ring. Did he hers? Perhaps her ringing was louder. It needed more. More he could not provide.

Maybe, Maybe not.

The road presents long and straight. The setting sun beats long shadows of mountain across the unwavering path. A visit to 140 and the silence screams. Thoughts boom loud over the rush of pavement: they sing; they scream. Others can surely hear.

He didn't want to keep her. He didn't want to change her.
He wanted her to share with him this brief instant of existence.
He wanted to share the power, grasp the force and devour the speed.

The sex of life.

They could have intercourse with the wind and the sky. Eyes gazed upon the world with self serving and purely hedonistic
intent. Did she forget? Did she ever know. Once she seemed to understand.

Few truly knew. Her loss a lament. Her memory cherished.

140 is a hungry beast. Its difficult to keep it fed. Miss a beat and
it starves. The pleasure shares this trait and can be harder to handle.

140 divides and divides again. 35 sits up and shakes off the silence. The ringing excites happy memories of the speed.

Of the pleasure of the speed.

Of the sex of the speed.

The bike remains ready. The driver too. 140 beckons them. Always calling. They will answer the call.

Over and Over.

In time.