Every time I look down at my calf (no, I don’t own a baby cow… I’m referring to my leg), I see the scars: two huge round/oval-like scars from a night when I decided to do something unlike me; or, was it actually totally me? IDK
Point is, I decided to ride on a motorcycle with a stranger boy man I didn’t know. Skipped right past riding in cars with boys – collected $100 – and moved on to motorcycles.
I can imagine you all sipping vino thinking how irresponsible I am but I promise it was worth the life experience – let me tell you why.
It was a long night at the (amazing) Mean Fiddler in midtown, and I spotted a gent from across the room. I spent most of the evening making eyes with him and wondering:
1. why he was alone
2. maybe he’s a bouncer?
3. but he’s not wearing a security shirt?
4. so why is alone if he doesn’t work here?
After finally touching base towards the end of the night, the communication, while limited, was kind of hot, or should I say – he was kind of hot, but I should have known better: dudes that have nothing to talk about are awful communicators – obviously. After lots of convincing, I decided to jump on the back of his motorcycle to get a ride uptown closer to home.
Could he have told me “WATCH OUT FOR THAT HOT PIPE IT WILL BURN YOU”? Nope.
Could he have told me when I was getting off, “HEY, WATCH OUT… THAT PIPE IS STILL PRETTY HOT!” Nope.
The motorcycle was having mechanical issues (of course) and we had to leave it parked in Harlem at which point we hung out walking around for a little while. We exchanged numbers, parted ways, and (of course) I barely heard from him in the following weeks.
There I was, standing on the uptown 1 train platform in a whirlwind of emotions and windswept hair from my first cruiser motorcycle ride up the West Side Highway – leg clearly in shock from the two second-degree, probably almost third-degree, burns.
Nothing else exciting to note. Just scars to remind me of my wild night living on the edge, riding on motorcycles with boys. I didn’t ever think I’d get on a motorcycle – probably because I don’t know anyone that owns one. Maybe this all happened, and I met this Cool Rider, just so I could have this experience?
Regardless, no hard regrets… although my scars aren’t fading so… I’ll live with the memory/experience forever. Worth it? Ehhhh, still up in the air about it.
Boys are danger.
Slippers & Vino 