Next thing I know the breeze is blowing through my long blue hair, carrying the scent of colognes, street-fair food and mint lube. The thick gray fog was disappearing like a hunk of burning love. She shook her Billy Idol spiked bleached 'do, let out a war cry that was rejoined by the 30 to 40 phat bikes thundering betwixt muscular female legs.
The Harley roared to life between my thighs. Bruce Springsteen played in my head, even though I can't stand him. As she jumped up and down to kickstart, I began to be aware of the charge in the air and the cheers of anticipation.
