So, I’m working in this chopper shop run by George the Greek, who ultimately owned Bellflower Harley-Davidson. It was grubby and dark, with a long wooden bench bolted to one wall. My boss, Bob something, was a custom fabricator, and a good one. He built some wild bikes over the years. He asked me to braze a sissybar and repair it. He offered me a stand-up drill press, since he just bought a new bench mounted job. I took him up on the offer and still have the drill press today.
So, I’m working in the back, minding my own business and in bounces this chick. She’s dark, sorta Mexican looking, but I found out she was partially Indian. She strolled into the shop wearing tight Levis, a black T that enhanced the magnificent curves of her big plump boobs, and a dark satin vest, with some sort of pattern mixed with the sheen of black satin. But her big dark eyes and those succulent lips caught my attention, and then she said it.
“What are you doing stranger?
“Just workin’ ma’am,” I said.
“I always try any new tools in the shop and you’re the new tool,” she said and jumped up and sat her plump ass on the old wooden bench.
I got up from the squeaky work stool where I was wrenching on an old Panhead.
“You’re a tall one,” she said as I approached, and smiled. Her smile was a lit torch against a frozen heart. Those lips, the curve of her cute mouth and those eyes could rock any 20-something world, and then she spread her legs and I slipped between them.
She kissed me like she wanted to devour my soul. As soon as she had me firing on more cylinders that I knew I had, she peeled out, but a dark night meeting was planned. She lived in Montebello, not more than 15 miles away and she gave me precise directions.
I didn’t know this chick from Adam, her past, or even her current affiliations, but I had her taste on my young lips, and I wasn’t letting go. I had a mission.
My Shovel was a rat with lots of handmade welded components. The stroker motor was stuffed into a ’55 Pan wishbone frame, with 1/2–inch rake and an 8-over glide front end.
The time was set for 10:00 and I peeled out a dark Long Beach freeway after smoking a joint of Hawaiian bud. The summer night air felt good on my face as I peeled onto the 710 and goosed the quick throttle. The freeway roamed away from the coast and into the industrial side of the city. Traveled mostly by trucks, I peeled past one industrial complex after another.
It was dark, foreboding, packed with concrete, and rumbling truckers, and I was stoned and flying to see a new girl. What could be better? I slid off the freeway in Montebello and pulled to an intersection. Everywhere I looked the signs were written in Spanish. I asked a guy on the corner for directions and he didn’t speak English. This was 1970 and I felt as if I stepped into the Twilight Zone.
I shot down an alley behind a main street and red lights flashed. I was immediately pulled over and the first question was. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“What the fuck is it to you,” I muttered under my breath.
“This isn’t the place for a white boy,” One officer said, but they cut me loose.
I found my way across town, to a little duplex with a yard full of scooters and rough looking characters, mostly Mexican sitting around drinking. I rolled onto the front yard like I owned the place, kicked out my kickstand and strolled up to her apartment door.
I’ll never forget listening to Al Green’s latest hit luring me inside. She smiled just as before and kissed me deeply and washed away any trepidation. When I felt those big boobs as soft as heaven against my chest, nothing could be wrong and no one could fuck with me. I was in heaven.
We smoked another joint, listened to Al’s first album and were swept away. She loved to fuck and so did I. I consumed every inch of her and about three in the morning I rode out of Montebello and headed home.
There’s nothing better in the world than to find a willing girl who loves to please and be pleasured. And there’s no high in the world like the ride home from her pad after a night of lovemaking. I think my carb could have fallen off and oblivious to the missing component; I would have still motored back to north Long Beach.
Want to read the rest of this Story? Check it out in Bandit’s latest Life and Times story from 1971. Check it out.–Richard Kranzler
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