Look who became a Harley girl yesterday!
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No, of course it's not mine; it's Steve's. He took me on my very first Harley ride yesterday. This is the second time in my life that I've been on a motorcycle, and the first time was just a little putt-putt with a narrow seat and no back rest, with me clinging to my friend for dear life. I was amazed at how comfortable this ride was, how steady and stable and safe I felt. And of course, it didn't hurt that Steve is an experienced rider who knew I'd be nervous and did everything possible to put me at ease. (And don't worry; I wore a helmet!)
So off we went up Topanga Canyon and stopped at a look-out point high up in the hills. It was a gorgeous day; not super hot as it's been, with blue skies and streaks of clouds. Unfortunately, other people kept coming and going, so we couldn't sneak in any outdoor play. But we did duck behind a clump of bushes and take this:
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The ride was so exhilarating, I couldn't wait to get back home to play. According to Steve, there is a name for women who accompany Harley bikers...
"Riding bitch."
"I am not a riding bitch!" I snapped. "I don't like that term."
"You don't have to," he smiled. "I like it. I'm the top."
"How about if I make you my riding bitch?" I grumbled. Apparently he didn't care for the idea, since he smacked my thigh. Meanie.
On top of all the rest of the spanking, I had an extra 30 coming as a bonus for smartassery. Not that big a deal, until he added that I had to count them down... from 10,000. WTF? Yes, just to make it complicated, I had to count down out loud from 10,000 to 9,970. It was harder than it sounds, as you'll see in this video snippet.
That's a brand-new riding crop, BTW. Stings like crazy, but I like it. It has a bite to it, a lot of snap, but perfect for someone like me who loves smack over thud.
But of course, when I was well worn out and ready for it to be over, he just had to pick up that @#$%ing Licking Stick to finish me off. Boooooooo!
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Afterward, he massaged my bottom and legs with lotion, which was so soothing, I nearly fell asleep. What a perfect day. :-)
Of course, John gave me a ration of noise about it later. You see, he loves to tease me about how he's going to get a Ducati. My standard answer is over my dead body, because I don't want to have to deal with his dead body. That man is not getting a motorcycle, period. I have been through eight -- count them, eight -- different cycling accidents with him, and if he can't keep from getting maimed on a bicycle (granted, he was using it to commute to work and was on the road a lot, but still), I don't want to think about what he could do to himself on a motorcycle. So when he heard that I'd ridden on Steve's Harley, he made a big fuss.
"What?? You get to ride and I don't?"
"You can ride one. You don't get to buy one."
"How come Steve gets to have a bike and I don't?" Oh dear, we're in grade school again, are we? :-) "Because Steve is Steve and you are you. And you've reached your accident quota with me."
"I'm very disappointed," he grumbled. "Tell Steve how disappointed I am, and how it's all your fault."
Uh huh.
Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, no. When we were idling at stoplights and I felt the cycle engine vibrating between my legs, I did not get aroused. Another myth dispelled. Oh well...
No, of course it's not mine; it's Steve's. He took me on my very first Harley ride yesterday. This is the second time in my life that I've been on a motorcycle, and the first time was just a little putt-putt with a narrow seat and no back rest, with me clinging to my friend for dear life. I was amazed at how comfortable this ride was, how steady and stable and safe I felt. And of course, it didn't hurt that Steve is an experienced rider who knew I'd be nervous and did everything possible to put me at ease. (And don't worry; I wore a helmet!)
So off we went up Topanga Canyon and stopped at a look-out point high up in the hills. It was a gorgeous day; not super hot as it's been, with blue skies and streaks of clouds. Unfortunately, other people kept coming and going, so we couldn't sneak in any outdoor play. But we did duck behind a clump of bushes and take this:
The ride was so exhilarating, I couldn't wait to get back home to play. According to Steve, there is a name for women who accompany Harley bikers...
"Riding bitch."
"I am not a riding bitch!" I snapped. "I don't like that term."
"You don't have to," he smiled. "I like it. I'm the top."
"How about if I make you my riding bitch?" I grumbled. Apparently he didn't care for the idea, since he smacked my thigh. Meanie.
On top of all the rest of the spanking, I had an extra 30 coming as a bonus for smartassery. Not that big a deal, until he added that I had to count them down... from 10,000. WTF? Yes, just to make it complicated, I had to count down out loud from 10,000 to 9,970. It was harder than it sounds, as you'll see in this video snippet.
That's a brand-new riding crop, BTW. Stings like crazy, but I like it. It has a bite to it, a lot of snap, but perfect for someone like me who loves smack over thud.
But of course, when I was well worn out and ready for it to be over, he just had to pick up that @#$%ing Licking Stick to finish me off. Boooooooo!
Afterward, he massaged my bottom and legs with lotion, which was so soothing, I nearly fell asleep. What a perfect day. :-)
Of course, John gave me a ration of noise about it later. You see, he loves to tease me about how he's going to get a Ducati. My standard answer is over my dead body, because I don't want to have to deal with his dead body. That man is not getting a motorcycle, period. I have been through eight -- count them, eight -- different cycling accidents with him, and if he can't keep from getting maimed on a bicycle (granted, he was using it to commute to work and was on the road a lot, but still), I don't want to think about what he could do to himself on a motorcycle. So when he heard that I'd ridden on Steve's Harley, he made a big fuss.
"What?? You get to ride and I don't?"
"You can ride one. You don't get to buy one."
"How come Steve gets to have a bike and I don't?" Oh dear, we're in grade school again, are we? :-) "Because Steve is Steve and you are you. And you've reached your accident quota with me."
"I'm very disappointed," he grumbled. "Tell Steve how disappointed I am, and how it's all your fault."
Uh huh.
Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, no. When we were idling at stoplights and I felt the cycle engine vibrating between my legs, I did not get aroused. Another myth dispelled. Oh well...