by Hellena Handbasket
C.UN.T., Volume 5, Spring 1997
So there I am, unlocking my bike from a handy downtown bike post. I'mfumbling with my quick-release wheel, which, incidentally, always slowsme down. My hands occupied with the bike frame, I clamp my knees aroundthe front wheel to steady it. I'm suddenly made aware of a gross guy, sittingin his parked car a few feet away.
Hey", he says, and then again louder. "Hey!"
I look up.
"I wish I could be where that wheel was", he leers.
Oh. So the bastard wants to get between my legs. And he's eloquent aboutit, too. A fucking poet.
"What did you say? Though I already heard him. He becomes coy."Oh, nothing, nothing...
"Yes, you did say something. Something very stupid".
After such a stunning intro, there's no telling where our conversationwill go. As it is, we're cut short by his girlfriend/wife/whatever, whosteps out of the bank, walks to the car, and gets clumsily into the passengerseat. She glances at me, then at her gross boyfriend/husband/whatever.Gross guy puts his hands on the steering wheel and looks straight, ahead.
I get my bike together, mount it, and hop down the curb onto Bloor Street.Gross guy and his lady friend pull into traffic too, only to be stoppedten metres later, in the inevitable rush-hour crawl. I pedal past themwith glee.
Many blocks later, having lithely biked through a sea of troubles, Istart to feel sorry for Gross Guy. Stranded in a stinky car in a stinkytraffic jam, has already lardy ass getting lardier and lardier. And asfor his inane treatment, well, can I really blame a guy for wanting toget between my legs? It is pretty excellent down there. But it’s a pleasureI only share with sexy cyclists, and with my sexy bicycle.
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