Bike Trip

I could see her ire was up but not up enough so I pushed a little harder. "Sort of like an arranged marriage."

"An arranged, loveless marriage."

I objected. "Not all arranged marriage are loveless."

"No they aren't," she agreed. And then things started to unravel. "And your arranged marriage would never be loveless, would it?" She didn't wait for my answer. "It wouldn't be loveless because the moment you crawled into that tent you would be doing everything in your power to make that arranged marriage work, or so says Lisbeth and so says Janet, and that's what I'm thinking, too." She looked at me hard; she didn't look annoyed any more. "I'm just telling you that when I crawl into that tent with you I'll want to make it work too, just as much as you will, but I won't be as emotionally sophisticated as you are or as emotionally equipped to pull it off, not at first. Am I clear?" Again, she didn't wait for my answer, "Oh, and one more thing. Sorry, but I don't have any choice in this. It's the way I'm made. I have to treat this, not as a reciprocating transaction or even as an arranged marriage but as a romance. That's just the way I am. OK? And finally? This will be the last I have to say on this subject, but in matters of physically loving I will have to be taught. The only other shot I've had at it I was a complete and miserable failure."

I was pissed of course. She'd beaten me at my own game; beaten me up with my own words. But I stayed calm. After she finished the only thing I could think to do was refill the wine glasses. I thought of telling her to take off her clothes or get into the bedroom, I even thought of pulling out my hard prick to scare her with it but she had me pegged about right, I am a romantic. If I ever got into that fucking tent I would, like her, try to turn it into a romance, I had no doubt about that, it's my nature, my fucking wussie nature. So scrap Plan A and start Plan B: there was no fucking way I was going to touch her. Not after that. Not a chance. Lay my arm on her shoulder or my lips on her cheek and I might as well start peddling now.

We never got to the stir fry or a third glass of wine. To change the subject, out came the clipboard and we methodically compared notes, while we made a final list of all the things we needed to do and buy.

When she left it was really hard not to think that this team of two had a new leader. I was in full-mode panic.

It was her idea. We'd go for a bike ride then head back to my place to have one of the meals she had come up with for The Trip. But it was my idea to put up the tent in my spare bedroom.

I'd thought it through, every which-way, and concluded that fucking seemed to be the only way out of this for me. Apparently, she had problems in bed. What they were I had no idea, but fucking was the only thing I could think of to exploit my way out of a bike tour I increasingly didn't want to take. As far as I could see every other option had been tightly closed off.

My plan then was to get her into the tent; introduce her to what I thought was her greatest vulnerably, then hope like hell things fell apart quickly. What might her problem be? I could only guess: a rigid frigidity? psycho-sexual traumatic flash-backs? debilitating sexual deviances? Whatever. All I needed was just a little something to scare her off, or give me an excuse to cancel.

The bike trip part turned out surprisingly well. It was fun. We cycled for a couple of hours, the first part on passive bike trails, then I got her out onto roads. She was impressive; she held her own even though she was on a rickety old piece of junk she had borrowed for the day.

The food part was OK, too. I drank beer as I watched her use one pot to make a pasta of about five ingredients. Pretty impressive and impressively tasty. In fact the whole damn outing was impressive. She was apparently competent at everything she does (well, everything but THAT) and the sour, self-effacing disposition I had first encountered had been softened by a seemly effortless pleasantness that caught me way off guard.

As did the body. Shucked of the bag-lady togs, and adorned in tight cycling clothes the woman may not know how to use it but there was no doubt she had a great body. It almost made me forget my plan: I could easily see us piling into the tent and franticly rutting for hours. But that would mean two years of peddling in the rain. Not going to happen. No way. I would find her fatal flaw, exploit it, then watch her flee. It was the only way out.

I cleaned up while she sipped wine and when I was done I deliberately walked into the living room, passed by her and entered the bedroom stripping off my clothes as I went. I climbed into the tent entirely nude. I had thought through my plan this far (it helped that I was a bit pissed) but I had no way to predict what she would do once I got into the tent. I hoped that at the first sight of my naked ass she would have freaked and run from the place screaming. But it didn't sound like this was happening; for the first few minutes it didn't sound like she was doing anything. I just lay in there, alone, and naked, feeling increasingly stupid.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, her head poked through the flaps, then she crawled in fully clothed. It was dark enough so I couldn't read her face but her body language was pretty clear: she was tense; totally unsure of herself. When she was in on all fours, fully in, she hesitated a moment before sitting down next to me bent over with her legs crossed. Then nothing.

"Hey," I said after a long wait, "it was your idea to simulate a day on the road, not mine."

"I know." Her voice sounded delightfully glum. "I didn't think it through this far."

I shut up, allowing her ample uninterrupted peace so her freakish, sex-averse idiosyncrasies could grab hold of her. I had a song running through my head: 'Bad boy, bad boy, what're you going to do, what're you going to do when they run from you?'

But she didn't move a muscle, not for more than a minute, then she slowly, almost sacrificially, criss-crossed her arms and brought her hands down to slowly pull her cycling shirt over her head. It was anything but sexy; she didn't even seem willing; the action looked like it took all her courage because the moment she threw the shirt to the side she seemed to slump: dejected, defeated. I watched her carefully, waiting. She sat like that for maybe a full minute before she said, "I couldn't wait to get into this tent with you. Couldn't wait. Now look at me. I knew this was going to happen."

I waited for more but it didn't come. "Knew what was going to happen?"

"Never mind," she muttered.

"What do you mean 'never mind.'" I could feel myself getting angry, as if she was keeping a secret from me, an intimate secret. "How could I not mind?" I had entirely forgotten my plan to coerce her into flight; instinctively, I was doing what I've always fucking well done: I was getting concerned; starting to care; reaching out; wanting to help. I have always been an absolute fucking jam tart.

"I've had it for years," she said, cryptically.

I bit. "Had what?" It could be any one of the gynaecological screw-ups women are always getting.

"I can't get by this paralyzing fear."

Huh? "Fear? Fear of what?"

She waited, summoning the courage to spit it out. And then it came: a single word. "Rejection."

It sucked the breath right out of me: the sheer stupidity of it. There isn't a man alive who doesn't have a fear of rejection. It's part of the fucking game. "Rejection? Rejected by who?" I just wasn't getting any of this. It seemed ludicrous.

She was back mumbling again. "Who do you think?"

It took awhile but the moment it hit me I lost it. I started laughing uncontrollably; I couldn't help myself: the absurdity of it all sunk in and I just couldn't contain myself. And I can laugh, loud and long, and more often than not, alone — I have a very well-honed sense of the ridiculous. "That's you problem?" I was almost shouting. "That's what all this is about? Rejection? Are you kidding me? You haven't even got me yet so how can you get rejected?"

"I know." She seemed to understand my outburst, and her irrational childishness. "I haven't gone on a date since my husband left: I couldn't handle rejection again."

I let the implications of that sink in and suddenly this wasn't so funny anymore. I could feel her despair, her anguish — I've always been a caring guy. Lamentably. I pulled at her arm. She resisted, but just instinctively, then she came with my tug and lay down beside me, her right hip on top of mine, her head on my shoulder.

It felt good. I felt good. For some reason I like to comfort woman, and being the wuss I am I've had a lot of experience at it ... from about the age of five when I started softening the blows that were raining down on my two aggressive, outspoken, go-for-broke older sisters. And over the past two years I've spend endless hours transforming a broken Becky into an assured Lisbeth, and nursing a bitter, man-hating Janet into a slightly less bitter, slightly less man-hating Janet who now actually had a quasi-boyfriend.

Harriet knew this. She said as much to me a few days ago. That was one of the reasons she wanted to go on this trip, for my "legendary healing powers," as Lisbeth phrased it.

I held her patiently for a long time. Even though my arm had gone to sleep I let her take her time. All of us are damaged in one way or another. All of us need a little nurturing from time to time. Some require more than others. Some of us are like Harriet with a deep and identifiable problem and no useful mechanisms to attack it. I know better than to psycho-analyze someone else's deep seeded angst. My approach has always been to comfort, to be there to listen and to help in any way requested. I think of myself as a pillow to a troubled head.

The blood started flowing through my arm again when she rose up and looked down at me. She has a sweet face that can glower with melancholy and glow with happiness. I wanted badly to cheer her up. "I'm not going to reject you, Harriet. How can I? We have a two-year, non-negotiable, possibly renewable contract. I couldn't reject you even if I wanted to. You're safe, Harriet. You aren't going to get rejected."

She bent down and kissed me lightly. "I know," her lips mumbled on mine. "It's all happened so fast. I just can't believe it yet."

I knew. I knew I had blown it. It just crept up on me; I talked her out of the one trump card I had and talked myself into doing something I really, really didn't want to do. With her lips on mine one of the two things I could think of was how can I salvage this? I knew I wouldn't be able to if we did the other thing that was on my mind.

I pulled her down, as much to buy time as anything. She broke free and looked at me, her sad eyes beginning to glow. "You're a good guy, Jim. Everyone says that. And now I'm saying it. Thanks."

When I squeezed her arm reassuringly she went back on my lips. I didn't kiss her back. I was trying hard not to lose it: two years on a fucking bike were at stake here; two long years through God knows where. Still, she had an amazing body and she seemed willing enough. I slid my hand along her naked back then over her sports bra, all the time trying to read her. She remained composed, quietly nibbling at my lips. She pushed her hips into me when I slipped a finger under her bra. It wasn't the response I needed. I pushed back, feeling my stiff prick stab into her inner thigh. Dumb. There was only going to be one outcome of this: a fucking bike trip. No way.

I pushed her away but the fear that flashed cross her face brought me back to her reality: she would take any form of dissent as rejection. What could I do? I could go on the offence. I decided to push her hard and hope she flinched. I twisted her onto her back and brought my hand up under her tight elastic bra. That didn't work. The moment my hand squeezed her breast she was on my mouth, sucking on my tongue. I tried more aggression. I pushed at her bra, pushed it hard until her mountainous breasts sprang free. But this was no deterrent, she kissed harder, her pussy now pressing fiercely against my thigh. She was losing it, but worse, I was losing it, too. I had to up the ante. I quickly turned her on her side and shoved my flattened fingers down under her tight bike pants, into her hairy, wet pussy. She shrieked ... but not the good shriek I was waiting for, the shriek that would start her running. No it was the bad shriek, the one that made her suck harder on my mouth, the one that presaged the orgasm I could feel building deep within her as she squirmed hot against my fingers. Then I felt a chance. She was pushing at my hand ... I hoped to repulse me. I immediately reacted: I quickly pulled my hand from her pants hoping she would get up, grab her clothes and bolt. But no. She was pushing at her pants, struggled out of them and in a few seconds brought my fingers to her to consummate our partnership. And she couldn't have been happier.

But for the black bra around her neck, she was as naked now as I was. So even in the dim light there was no hiding it. I had no idea what she was going to do. Ignore it?

I didn't have to wait long to find out. She took me gently in her fingers; arranged herself along side me so she could watch her handiwork, then she slowly, exquisitely coaxed a very willing orgasm from deep, deep inside of me. Then she scooped up the mess with her fingers, which she wiped on her discarded shirt, before using it to scrub my belly. As I've said, the woman seems absolutely competent in everything she does.

I think I nodded off for few moment. She didn't, she was staring wide-eyed at the top of the tent when I looked over at her. "How are you?" I asked, with quiet sincerity.

She turned and looked at me in a now familiar way. "Embarrassed."

"Why?"

"You know very well why. I'm a 28 year old, fully capable nurse. I have no business freaking out about being dumped. Women have fought like hell for years to give girls like me an even-footing and all I can do in thanks is to wimp-out. It sickens me but there doesn't seem much I can do to fight it."

"Ya, OK, fine. Beat yourself up about it."

She bent down and kissed me. "Nope, I'm not going to. I'm going to be better, a lot better. I'll have my moments, I know that but you're going to be the tonic I need. After two years with you I'll be marriage material." She realized what she said and hastened to add, "If I can find a poor sucker out there somewhere."

I was totally screwed. It was an unbelievable turn off. I really, really didn't want to go on a bike trip. I crawled out of the tent and picked up my clothes.

Ya, I was fucked, truly and totally fucked. I couldn't conceive of a single possible way out; I was hoisting myself on a petard of my very own, and very unwitting, construction. In just a matter of days I'd be peddling my ass out of town. I couldn't see any way around it.

Then it occurred to me. Hang on: while I couldn't figure a way out of this mess, it didn't mean that someone else couldn't. And I had just the person in mind: the very one who got me into this fuck-up in the first place. Lisbeth, aka Becky Mitander.

I met her on Friday night at the pub; her, Janet, a gaggle of lesbians, a small throng of once-battered wives and a coterie of other misandrists whose aversions to men were less easy to figure out. I'd been weirdly fitting in with this crowd for going on two years, after I accidentally hooked-up with Lisbeth who was looking to try a guy on for size. I met her at this very pub; three days later she knocked on my door and stayed for three months.

She was Becky then. That was before she read the Stieg Larsson novels about Lisbeth Salander, the brilliant, ball-busting crime fighter who swung both ways, each with lethal aggression. The Larsson novels completely changed Becky's worldview. Becks had no idea that you were allowed to be mysterious, secretive, conniving, dangerous and misanthropic. Lisbeth showed her the way and in thanks, Becks stole her name and as much of her personna as she could manage. Just before she left me she even got a dragon tattooed on her shoulder. She left me for any number of reasons but the biggest was that The Lisbeth would never grow close to anyone, so how could Becks?

But we remained friends and, in the Salander way, occasional lovers and to add to her mystery she occasionally took me back to the house to allow me to spectate on how the other side lives.

And that's were we were tonight when, with a bottle in one hand and a reefer in the other, I brought it up.

Part of Beck's passion to identify with Lisbeth Salander is the similarity in their appearance. Both are microscopically petit with noticeably small breasts (before Salander bought bigger ones) and an equally notable cold stare. I got that when I asked for her help.

"Come on, Beck, jeez ..."

"Lisbeth," she insisted, annoyed.

"You've got to help me."

I could see her eyes narrow into cunning slits, always a good sign because, like Salander, it meant Becks was sizing up her advantages. To Becks, it is never about loyalty or generosity or, God forbid, friendship. It's always only about advantage. This is why I thought I had a leg up on Harriet: Becks knew she could get something from me, God knows what, but I wasn't sure Harriet had anything to offer Becks.

"I like her, I like her a lot." An obvious opening negotiation.

"I do too," I insisted, "it's just that I don't like the idea of the bike trip any more. That's the problem."

"She's fragile right now." More negotiation.

I wanted to ask her how she knew that but two of the women started making-out across the room, a common practice in this female free-for all, and I momentarily lost my train of thought.

And anyway, Becks wasn't budging. "If she wants to go and you said OK what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Tell her I'm an untrustworthy prick, a sexual predator, a deviant — whatever she needs to hear to scare her off."

She scoffed at this but I could see she was thinking hard, her eyes were squinting nearly shut in concentration. "I need a place ...," I was about to agree when she held up her hand, "not for me, for her." She pointed to a lonely, large girl who was sitting statue-like in the corner watching us. "For a year. No rent. Food provided." She got up from the chair beside me. "Think about it." She turned and walked over and sat, doll like, on the big girl's lap.

The evening deteriorated quickly from there. I awoke on the floor with a blanket over me. The sun was strobe-ing into my eyes but I could still see a little activity. Lisbeth was in the kitchen, a pair of bright yellow panties covering her unbelievable ass. Janet was there, too, in sensible whites and Nancy, Janet's sometime partner and owner of the house, was completely nude, a matutinal habit.

This was always the highlight of my time at 36 Hawkins Street: the morning after; waking up to naked and near-naked women beginning their day. There was something far more erotic about this then whatever went on the night before when I was always too pissed and stoned to really care.

Even so, I always woke up here with a hard-on and, hung-over and horny, and that always grew as I watched these fabulously different bodies move to the rhythms of the day.

But this morning it wasn't the images that got me going. It was a conversation. I had met Janet the same time I had first met Becks. She wasn't nearly as appealing. Ya she is better looking and a whole lot smarter, but she was and is all attitude. She is an advocate, a lawyer defending the rights of migrant workers who, she claimed, were being routinely exploited as chattel as they were worked to exhaustion before being shipped home. She's a serious woman who, I've always thought, has spent way too much time thinking about others and never enough time thinking about herself. She has issues. A lot of them, starting with a highly confused sexual identity and sequencing out from there, in multiple directions.