There’s Never A Dull Moment In The Cantina

A blustery storm blew in along the coast of California like the black sheep of waves. Three riders pulled up to the Cantina and dismounted as the wind shifted gears and blew their gloves off their seats. They had ridden to Los Angeles to escape the northern winter cold and the constant drizzling wet shit and snow. As the threat of rain neared one of the riders said, “At least we don’t have to shovel rain.”

“We’re at war and now this shit,” Dismal Dan muttered and tried to light a Marlboro. “I don’t know if I can make it. I gotta call my ol’ lady.” He was 6 foot of dank depression. His hair was long, scraggly and shit brown, like the deep circles around his drug soaked eyes. If he wasn’t addicted to some broad, he was to alcohol and drugs. Meth had rotted his stinkin’ teeth.

Ron leaned down to the pavement and retrieved his tan leather work gloves he used for riding. “Let’s get a drink while were stuck here. This’ll blow over. You know, it never rains in California.” He stood just over 5 foot 6 inches of blistering blond shortness. He had the demeanor of a bad ass and the baby face of a teenager at 29.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sharky said and threw his helmet in the bushes. “I hate those fuckin’ things.” He was skinny and tall as a beanpole, wiry as fly-casting rod and a born-again drifter.

“It’ll get soaked, ya dumb sonuvabitch,” Rotten Ron said strapping his helmet and gloves to his bedroll and hauling the whole package toward the big oak Cantina doors. As he reached the wrought-iron handle he felt the first spray of wind swept sideways rain. Dan threw his half smoked cig in the weeds and stumbled after Ron.

Disgruntled Sharky plucked his wet beanie helmet from the shrubs and followed. The Cantina held the air of a bad day gone sour. Mandy and Nyla hardly looked at their new customers. Usually they were bubbly and welcoming but not this day. There was something in the air besides the gray clouds sealing off the windows from the sunlight. Eight members from a southern bike club had stormed the cantina from employee entrance and sealed off all the exits except the front door. A big fat blubbering Mexican pressed the blued barrel of a .357 revolver against Marko’s temple, “Sit down, boy.”

Marko did as he was told and observed every movement. The three loners strolled in the front doors as a short stocky member jogged toward the entrance. He jumped to the side and allowed them in through the big oak doors. Unaware, the three brothers sat a table in the center of the room. “I thought this was a hot biker hang-out,” Ron said, “It’s fuckin’ dead.” Then he noticed an outlaw in the corner of the room with his boots resting on the checkerboard tablecloth, leaning back in the rustic wooden chair with a sawed-off shotgun across his chest. He glared at the loners through narrow sunglasses.

Suddenly Ron was distinctly aware of his potentially violent surroundings. There were a number of outlaws spread out around the bar, all armed. Ron’s knees began to quiver. He looked at his brothers wide-eyed. “You see…,” he said unable to enunciate his words his mouth was so dry.

Dan looked at Ron quizzically and lit another cigarette, “You’ve always been the badass. What gives?”

The little outlaw that fucked-up the front door security looked toward the corner booth where four outlaws sat smoking. They took a fifth of Quervo Gold from Nyla and several shot glasses. They were the officers. One a grizzly bear of a man with a 6-inch scar on his left cheek and a full black beard looked at the short outlaw and smiled, “Maybe one of them knows the bastard we’re looking for?”

The little outlaw approached their table as the sun drifted over the ridge to the east and the Cantina became suddenly dimly lit as if by fate. Three feet from the loners’ table the stout little man with a shaved head and long Fu Manchu mustache reached across his tight muscular belly and yanked a long bowie knife out of a fringed, black leather sheath. The blade glistened in the dim lighting as he positioned himself for an attack. The short bastard was fireplug stout with thick Popeye forearms and no neck. His eyes were bright as hot metal pokers and narrow. “Where’s Indian John?” He mutter so angrily he seemed to be spitting, “I want to cut that snitch motherfucker from ear to ear.”

Ron pushed himself back in his chair terrified. Dismal Dan lit another cigarette and looked at Sharky. “Can’t we get a drink? Fuck, it rains and now no drinks.” Sharky never pretended to be tough. He was just a biker who loved the open road. If relationships, work, politics or people challenged him, he rode on.

“Shut the fuck up,” the outlaw spat circling the table toward Dan. “I like to cut. You wanta be the first?” He seemed to be salivating as if a hungry lion peering at his next prey.

“Look asshole,” Dan said, “we’re not from around here. We came in to check out Bandit’s Cantina and get a drink. That’s it.”

The outlaw’s forehead turned crimson, veins pulsed against his thin skin, beads of sweat slithered across his brow. He had to move on this loner or lose respect in his brothers’ eyes. He lunged forward, his massive arm cocking back to swing the Damascus steel blade…

Don’t miss the next episode.

Barbi in the Cantina.

The reflected light of the high noon sun filtered through the glass block wall of the Cantina, giving a soothing atmosphere for the afternoon lunch crowd from the harbor. Mandy busied herself polishing and hanging the oversized margarita glasses in the racks above the bar to stifle her nervous energy.

“I’ll be out back checking stock” Bandit barked as he passed the bar. His boots assaulted the plank floor on the way to the galley.

Nyla just finished filling an order as she looked up to see Clay come through the front doors. He was wearing a smile wider then the rear tire on a Jesse James Chopper and walking straight for her. He appeared floating toward her.

“What’s up with you Clay?” she asked while thinking about him being in total despair for the last several months.

“She’s taking me back,” Clay reported. “We are renewing our vows this Saturday to make it official. We want you all to be there and I was hoping that Bandit would walk her down the aisle.”

Bandit and the Chinaman were having a heated discussion over menu inventory. The Chinaman wheeled his shinning stainless butcher knife home to the massive cutting block table “I lun kitchen…. that our agleement……. now get out here…. chop chop.”

“If you want to run it, then do it goddamit and that means keeping inventory within budget” Bandit snarled as he spun and headed out. He rounded the bar at top speed on his way upstairs for a tall Jack or his 357 he wasn’t sure which.

“Hey, Clay is renewing his vows and wants ……..”

“I’m not wearing a tux ever again” Bandit snapped. He was half way up the steps to his loft when Nyla tried again “but he wants you too……”

“I’m not wearing a goddam monkey suit” he shouted as he looked over his left shoulder to see a pair of blazing green eyes staring at him from the darkened shadows of the corner booth. Suddenly caught in their trance he started slowly back down the creaking steps. His fixed gaze set the course toward the looming target.

Grabbing his arm as he piloted by, Nyla turned him to face her , “Are you listening to me?” He could see her lips moving but, no words registered, his mind was elsewhere as he pulled away. He looked again to the cloaked booth…. it was empty… how could she have gone so quickly? He stepped outside but there was nothing, no cars leaving, not a sound.

Clay clutched Nyla’s hand “I wanted a biker wedding but she wouldn’t hear of it. She agreed to let us all ride to the church. That was as close as I could get.” Nyla leaned back against the booze rack and pondered the situation, “I’ve got it! If your wife will let me pick the tux style I can get him to do it.”

“Actually, she told me I could pick what ever style I wanted as long as the groom’s men wore black and the ushers were in white” said Clay. Nyla stretched, then an evil grin crossed her ruby lips, “I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s great Nyla, thanks a million!” Clay said and headed toward the doors.

In the meantime Bandit asked Marko to check the grounds, sensing something was up. Finding nothing on his patrol Marko took post at the front door.

“Hey Marko, what’s up” Clay announced as he exited the Cantina.

“Oh nothing, I just needed a little fresh air”

“My wife and I are renewing our wedding vows on Saturday,” Clay exclaimed again, “Would you please help me out? I need one more usher.”

“I don’t know,” Marko stammered riddled with wedding day fear. “I’ve never done that before. What do I have to do?”

“It’s very simple. Just seat the guests and roll out the white carpet before the bride walks up the aisle.”

“I suppose I could handle that” Marko replied.

“The ushers are also there to look over things and keep order in the proceedings.”

“Security is what I do best,” Marko said his eyes brightened. “That’s what I live for. I’m in!”

“Man, you’re a life saver,” Clay mutter joyously. He was like a kid going to Disneyland for the first time. “Thanks Marko!”

Bandit found his solitude in his quiet, secluded, upstairs apartment. After enjoying a couple of Jacks in peace, his face was now buried in the latest biker rag to find it’s way to his mail box.

“Bandit” Nyla purred as she slithered from the bed room.

“No!”

Nyla just grinned a knowing ivory-white smile and waited for the aroma from the exotic oils she doused herself with to do their magic. As the seductive sent of jasmine filled his senses The Horse Magazine ever so slowly lowered until his eyes peered over the edge of the page to sneak a peek. In full glory showing through the sheer black teddy were Nyla’s swelling nipples perched upon their soft curving globes. The magazine lowered a bit more as Bandit’s eyes tracked down to the transparent black panties trimmed with lace, burying his conscious mind and pulling him into the vortex of her smooth shaven honey pot.

The solemn frown that hung between his eyes all day smoothed away. His eyebrows raised in suspicious approval as the magazine slipped from the grips of his fingers tips and longed to touch her silken flesh. It was impossible for him to conceal the simper growing across his face.

Nyla stealthily moved toward him, placing crossing over each step and gracefully alternating the profile views of her voluptuous body. Adding a precisely calculated force in her gait to produce a seductive amount of jiggle.

Bandit snatched her silky arm and pulled her down into his lap and started to slip his hand up her leg.

“Hold on their big boy. If you want some of this you have to give me two minutes of your attention first.”

The frown started to return….. but he knew he was screwed…. or at least he would be in two minutes. He said not a word, simply crossed his arms and waited. After all, he could easily block out the sounds of a few words for what he was about to receive.

“If you would please open those ears, I just heard slam shut, you might really like what I’m about to say. We are going to use long, black western-cut jackets. The cramped patent leather shoes will be replaced by boots. The goofy cummerbund is history, a handsome vest in its place, and finished with a very comfortable 1870’s style plantation tie. A look that Wyatt Earp or Doc Holliday would have been very pleased to wear.

Bandit rolled his eyes. His furrowed face was intrigued by the image of walking the streets of Tombstone with Doc Holliday. Nothing more was said, the expression on his face didn’t answer any question specifically, but she knew when to shut up a move onto more pressing business.

The next morning Nyla stopped to special order 19th century suits on the way to the Gary’s Tux Shop. Two days later Bandit picked up the outfits. Surprisingly, he couldn’t wait to get it home and see how it looked with his antique colt strapped on and a black Stiletto hat.

Leaving the tuxedo shop he glanced through a sun glared car window and spied those fiery green eyes again. He quickly strolled through the heavy traffic on Bellflower Boulevard and nearly grasped the door handle when the light changed and she pulled away. He knew the only woman to possess those illuminated emerald eyes are true redheads. Redheads have always been his Achilles heel, the blaring car horns awoke him in the middle of the street, while he day-dreamed.

Snapping back to reality he jumped to the curb and looked around, as if the car-people should have known his thoughts. He spotted Marko in the tux shop window pointing and laughing his ass off.

“Here is your suit sir” the perky girl at the counter squeaked in Marko’s direction. “Would you like insurance on that sir?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I need to inform you these custom tuxedos are worth over $2500 and you will be responsible without insurance.”

“Nothing is going to happen to the damn tux” Marko snapped. Still snickering from the site of his boss playing in traffic. He snatched the tux off the counter and left.

All the way back Bandit’s mind whirled with images of gorgeous redheads with piercing eyes. What the hell is she up to? Why is she stalking me? He had to find out… and soon!

The next morning Nyla was busy restocking the bar as Marko came in wearing an irritated expression. Nyla new something was wrong as Marko rarely showed any emotion in his face. Part of his special forces training, she thought.

“What’s the problem Marko?” she asked. “You ordered the wrong tux for me, that’s what. When I picked it up they had it covered in black plastic and I didn’t look at it until I got back. The damn thing is white!” Marko snorted.

“That is right, the ushers have to be in white” Nyla answered.

“WHITE!….. How the fuck am I gonna ride my sled to the church wearing a white tux?”

“Relax Marko, it’s just up the street at the Seaman’s Church on Pico. You can make it that far can’t you? Just make sure your bike is spotless the night before and cover that greasy leather saddle with this,” she calmly said while tossing him a roll of shrink wrap.

Marko spends all day Friday meticulously cleaning every inch of his bike. All the while remembering the words of the counter girl at Gary’s Tux Shop. 25 hundred bucks… there was no way he could afford a bill like that. He grabbed the aquarium filter brush, he uses to scrub the bugs and road grime from between the jug fins, and continued to dig out every possible speck of dirt he could find. Marko always kept his sled in top condition, but he never cleaned his bike with this level of detail before.

Saturday arrived and Bandit sauntered down the Cantina steps all puffed up in his Wyatt Earp duds. He enjoy the gun fighter image he portrayed. The code of the west filled his thoughts as kicked his bobber to life and lead the pack over to the church.

Soon the music started and bride turned to touch Bandit’s arm. They walk down the aisle to the awaiting groom. His gun fighter image faded as he stepped somberly onto the alter of the church. Thoughts of traveling this path five times before forced a struggle of willpower to keep him from running out of the building. They turned together to face Clay and Bandit scanned the church full of guests. He suddenly stopped his pan of the room. Jerking his head back to the right, he spotted the glow of green eyes cutting through him, like a razor sharp blade to his heart.

Even though dimly lit, he saw the long flowing red hair. ‘I knew it’ he thought. His body instinctively began to move from the alter, but his responsibility to Clay over shadowed his urge to run. The preacher’s words echoed so slowly that several seasons surely must have passed. Bandit placed the brides hand on the arm of her beloved and made his exit quickly. He knew what he’d find at the back of the church–nothing. He quietly escaped to have a look outside. He patrolled of the asphalt parking lot but found no one. Slowly climbing the granite steps he was startled as Marko popped the doors open and kicked the stops into position, preparation for the end of the ceremony.

Bandit knew she was near. He could feel her watching. There was someone just out of sight, patiently waiting to reap revenge.

Tune in next time to see what happens with the ongoing adventures of Cantina Crew.

FTW,
–Stroker

Barbi in the Cantina.

The reflected light of the high noon sun filtered through the glass block wall of the Cantina, giving a soothing atmosphere for the afternoon lunch crowd from the harbor. Mandy busied herself polishing and hanging the oversized margarita glasses in the racks above the bar to stifle her nervous energy.

“I’ll be out back checking stock” Bandit barked as he passed the bar. His boots assaulted the plank floor on the way to the galley.

Nyla just finished filling an order as she looked up to see Clay come through the front doors. He was wearing a smile wider then the rear tire on a Jesse James Chopper and walking straight for her. He appeared floating toward her.

“What’s up with you Clay?” she asked while thinking about him being in total despair for the last several months.

“She’s taking me back,” Clay reported. “We are renewing our vows this Saturday to make it official. We want you all to be there and I was hoping that Bandit would walk her down the aisle.”

Bandit and the Chinaman were having a heated discussion over menu inventory. The Chinaman wheeled his shinning stainless butcher knife home to the massive cutting block table “I lun kitchen…. that our agleement……. now get out here…. chop chop.”

“If you want to run it, then do it goddamit and that means keeping inventory within budget” Bandit snarled as he spun and headed out. He rounded the bar at top speed on his way upstairs for a tall Jack or his 357 he wasn’t sure which.

“Hey, Clay is renewing his vows and wants ……..”

“I’m not wearing a tux ever again” Bandit snapped. He was half way up the steps to his loft when Nyla tried again “but he wants you too……”

“I’m not wearing a goddam monkey suit” he shouted as he looked over his left shoulder to see a pair of blazing green eyes staring at him from the darkened shadows of the corner booth. Suddenly caught in their trance he started slowly back down the creaking steps. His fixed gaze set the course toward the looming target.

Grabbing his arm as he piloted by, Nyla turned him to face her , “Are you listening to me?” He could see her lips moving but, no words registered, his mind was elsewhere as he pulled away. He looked again to the cloaked booth…. it was empty… how could she have gone so quickly? He stepped outside but there was nothing, no cars leaving, not a sound.

Clay clutched Nyla’s hand “I wanted a biker wedding but she wouldn’t hear of it. She agreed to let us all ride to the church. That was as close as I could get.” Nyla leaned back against the booze rack and pondered the situation, “I’ve got it! If your wife will let me pick the tux style I can get him to do it.”

“Actually, she told me I could pick what ever style I wanted as long as the groom’s men wore black and the ushers were in white” said Clay. Nyla stretched, then an evil grin crossed her ruby lips, “I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s great Nyla, thanks a million!” Clay said and headed toward the doors.

In the meantime Bandit asked Marko to check the grounds, sensing something was up. Finding nothing on his patrol Marko took post at the front door.

“Hey Marko, what’s up” Clay announced as he exited the Cantina.

“Oh nothing, I just needed a little fresh air”

“My wife and I are renewing our wedding vows on Saturday,” Clay exclaimed again, “Would you please help me out? I need one more usher.”

“I don’t know,” Marko stammered riddled with wedding day fear. “I’ve never done that before. What do I have to do?”

“It’s very simple. Just seat the guests and roll out the white carpet before the bride walks up the aisle.”

“I suppose I could handle that” Marko replied.

“The ushers are also there to look over things and keep order in the proceedings.”

“Security is what I do best,” Marko said his eyes brightened. “That’s what I live for. I’m in!”

“Man, you’re a life saver,” Clay mutter joyously. He was like a kid going to Disneyland for the first time. “Thanks Marko!”

Bandit found his solitude in his quiet, secluded, upstairs apartment. After enjoying a couple of Jacks in peace, his face was now buried in the latest biker rag to find it’s way to his mail box.

“Bandit” Nyla purred as she slithered from the bed room.

“No!”

Nyla just grinned a knowing ivory-white smile and waited for the aroma from the exotic oils she doused herself with to do their magic. As the seductive sent of jasmine filled his senses The Horse Magazine ever so slowly lowered until his eyes peered over the edge of the page to sneak a peek. In full glory showing through the sheer black teddy were Nyla’s swelling nipples perched upon their soft curving globes. The magazine lowered a bit more as Bandit’s eyes tracked down to the transparent black panties trimmed with lace, burying his conscious mind and pulling him into the vortex of her smooth shaven honey pot.

The solemn frown that hung between his eyes all day smoothed away. His eyebrows raised in suspicious approval as the magazine slipped from the grips of his fingers tips and longed to touch her silken flesh. It was impossible for him to conceal the simper growing across his face.

Nyla stealthily moved toward him, placing crossing over each step and gracefully alternating the profile views of her voluptuous body. Adding a precisely calculated force in her gait to produce a seductive amount of jiggle.

Bandit snatched her silky arm and pulled her down into his lap and started to slip his hand up her leg.

“Hold on their big boy. If you want some of this you have to give me two minutes of your attention first.”

The frown started to return….. but he knew he was screwed…. or at least he would be in two minutes. He said not a word, simply crossed his arms and waited. After all, he could easily block out the sounds of a few words for what he was about to receive.

“If you would please open those ears, I just heard slam shut, you might really like what I’m about to say. We are going to use long, black western-cut jackets. The cramped patent leather shoes will be replaced by boots. The goofy cummerbund is history, a handsome vest in its place, and finished with a very comfortable 1870’s style plantation tie. A look that Wyatt Earp or Doc Holliday would have been very pleased to wear.

Bandit rolled his eyes. His furrowed face was intrigued by the image of walking the streets of Tombstone with Doc Holliday. Nothing more was said, the expression on his face didn’t answer any question specifically, but she knew when to shut up a move onto more pressing business.

The next morning Nyla stopped to special order 19th century suits on the way to the Gary’s Tux Shop. Two days later Bandit picked up the outfits. Surprisingly, he couldn’t wait to get it home and see how it looked with his antique colt strapped on and a black Stiletto hat.

Leaving the tuxedo shop he glanced through a sun glared car window and spied those fiery green eyes again. He quickly strolled through the heavy traffic on Bellflower Boulevard and nearly grasped the door handle when the light changed and she pulled away. He knew the only woman to possess those illuminated emerald eyes are true redheads. Redheads have always been his Achilles heel, the blaring car horns awoke him in the middle of the street, while he day-dreamed.

Snapping back to reality he jumped to the curb and looked around, as if the car-people should have known his thoughts. He spotted Marko in the tux shop window pointing and laughing his ass off.

“Here is your suit sir” the perky girl at the counter squeaked in Marko’s direction. “Would you like insurance on that sir?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I need to inform you these custom tuxedos are worth over $2500 and you will be responsible without insurance.”

“Nothing is going to happen to the damn tux” Marko snapped. Still snickering from the site of his boss playing in traffic. He snatched the tux off the counter and left.

All the way back Bandit’s mind whirled with images of gorgeous redheads with piercing eyes. What the hell is she up to? Why is she stalking me? He had to find out… and soon!

The next morning Nyla was busy restocking the bar as Marko came in wearing an irritated expression. Nyla new something was wrong as Marko rarely showed any emotion in his face. Part of his special forces training, she thought.

“What’s the problem Marko?” she asked. “You ordered the wrong tux for me, that’s what. When I picked it up they had it covered in black plastic and I didn’t look at it until I got back. The damn thing is white!” Marko snorted.

“That is right, the ushers have to be in white” Nyla answered.

“WHITE!….. How the fuck am I gonna ride my sled to the church wearing a white tux?”

“Relax Marko, it’s just up the street at the Seaman’s Church on Pico. You can make it that far can’t you? Just make sure your bike is spotless the night before and cover that greasy leather saddle with this,” she calmly said while tossing him a roll of shrink wrap.

Marko spends all day Friday meticulously cleaning every inch of his bike. All the while remembering the words of the counter girl at Gary’s Tux Shop. 25 hundred bucks… there was no way he could afford a bill like that. He grabbed the aquarium filter brush, he uses to scrub the bugs and road grime from between the jug fins, and continued to dig out every possible speck of dirt he could find. Marko always kept his sled in top condition, but he never cleaned his bike with this level of detail before.

Saturday arrived and Bandit sauntered down the Cantina steps all puffed up in his Wyatt Earp duds. He enjoy the gun fighter image he portrayed. The code of the west filled his thoughts as kicked his bobber to life and lead the pack over to the church.

Soon the music started and bride turned to touch Bandit’s arm. They walk down the aisle to the awaiting groom. His gun fighter image faded as he stepped somberly onto the alter of the church. Thoughts of traveling this path five times before forced a struggle of willpower to keep him from running out of the building. They turned together to face Clay and Bandit scanned the church full of guests. He suddenly stopped his pan of the room. Jerking his head back to the right, he spotted the glow of green eyes cutting through him, like a razor sharp blade to his heart.

Even though dimly lit, he saw the long flowing red hair. ‘I knew it’ he thought. His body instinctively began to move from the alter, but his responsibility to Clay over shadowed his urge to run. The preacher’s words echoed so slowly that several seasons surely must have passed. Bandit placed the brides hand on the arm of her beloved and made his exit quickly. He knew what he’d find at the back of the church–nothing. He quietly escaped to have a look outside. He patrolled of the asphalt parking lot but found no one. Slowly climbing the granite steps he was startled as Marko popped the doors open and kicked the stops into position, preparation for the end of the ceremony.

Bandit knew she was near. He could feel her watching. There was someone just out of sight, patiently waiting to reap revenge.

Tune in next time to see what happens with the ongoing adventures of Cantina Crew.

FTW,
–Stroker

Sweat ran down Marko’s forehead in rivulets that collected in his eyebrows before falling into his eyes, making them sting and burn as he worked on his bike in the Cantina Garage. It was mid January, yet a Santa Ana breeze blew hot winds to the coast from the desert. His wrench slipped off the rounded axle nut, knuckles smashing painfully against the frame and rear shock. His temper flared, and he picked up the fallen wrench, slammed it against the offending nut, then threw it against the garage wall, where it hit with a satisfying clatter.

“What’s? a matter, Darlin?” Marge whispered.

Marko looked up as she strolled into the garage, warming the day even more. A smile playing with her narrow lips, and an errant strand of honey colored hair hanging in her eyes. As she moved closer, her eyes fell to the blood on Marko’s knuckles now clutched protectively in his left hand. “Oooh, we’d better get you fixed up,” She muttered, taking both his hands and meeting his eyes with hers. Her longing gaze was not that of a Red Cross volunteer’s, but one of pure sexual wantonness. Her sand colored pupils said, “Put a bandaid on it, let’s fuck.”

“I’m all right,” Marko said wiping his bloody knuckles on the leg of his Levis.

Not taking his word for it, she reached down and pulled his battered hand up for inspection.

“Still needs to be fixed,” she announce with hurried finality. She suddenly guided his bruised palm inside her partially unbuttoned blouse, and pressed it against her hardening nipple.

“You know how to fix things!” Marko mutter and spread his fingers to encompass her massive bolt-on boob.

He unsnap her blouse further open, freeing her incredible breasts from their confinement, and suddenly the pain was gone and his lips found the other sweet nub, sucking it hungrily, then teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

Marko drop to his knees and unbutton her skin-tight jeans, working them down over her hips with tantalizing slowness. He notice that she wasn’t wearing anything under them. She wanted to be naked, and fucked immediately. Her hips were already gyrating. He began to kiss the soft flesh of her stomach. She stepped back abruptly and yanked her pants off, then came close again, spreading her legs for easy access. He no longer lingered at her navel but slipped down to the soft, warm folds of her pussy.

Even before Marko’s darting tongue reached the wetness seeping from the depths, the enticing smell of her femininity had him aroused. His throbbing cock strained at the denim of his jeans as she climaxed for the first time as his tongue glanced across the hood of her clit. He continued to run the flat of his hungry tongue up the length of her pussy, catching as much of her sweet nectar as he could before making gentle circles around her clit with the tip.

Without looking up, Marko sensed quivering between her legs. Marge’s eyes were half closed as he continue to feast on her hot cunt. She climaxed again and he had to maintain her balance with his hands securely around her ass.

Rising from the hard concrete floor, Marko led the quaking woman over to his old Harley. She straddled it with long shapely legs. Facing the rear, she settled onto the seat and leaned back against the tanks, her long thin hair falling down to caress the shiny black paint. Her tongue flicked out to moisten those luscious lips as Marko pulled her down, her hips rising with the contour of the seat until they’re resting over the back fender. He placed her feet on the rear pegs and opened her completely.

Marko reached down and pick up his big screwdriver and wiped the greasy handle on his shirt. He aimed handle toward her pussy until it lightly touched her throbbing clit. She shivered. Slowly, he slipped the big square handle inside her, and she began to moan with pleasure, her hips moving with the thrusts of the screwdriver. Marge’s wetness formed a puddle on the seat beneath her as she climaxed once more. I continue to impale her on the hard plastic handle for several minutes as she cried for Marko not to stop.

Marko guided her to stand although her legs were weak. The crack of her beautiful ass smeared with the wetness on the seat. She once again straddled the big bike and leaned forward, her hands crossed beneath her face, as she bent to kiss the icy chrome of the speedometer, as Marko free himself from his jeans and slid his cock inside her. Marko began slowly, then increased his speed until she came again and again, pleading for him not to stop. He milked his member in her warm succulent depths as he thrust like a madman, feeling his own release coming fast. As he began to cum, he reached out and touch the start button, the big V-Twin engine roaring to life. The throbbing vibration and rumbling sound of freedom pushed him over the edge. He filled her with great sticky spurts, as she continue to thrash and moan beneath him.

He shut off the engine, and she move slowly to free herself, but turned and sat on the seat, her pussy dripping. She took his throbbing shrinking member in her mouth and sucked him dry, then licked her lips, and a nasty grin glowed. “I’ll help you clean this up,” She said her smile expanding as if she had score a great victory.

Marko looked at the woman in wonderment. “Us grease monkeys are used to cleaning up spills,” he said, but wondered what this sexual goddess had tingling in her brain cells besides sex. He knew, he sensed, that ultimately he would find out. —

Sweat ran down Marko’s forehead in rivulets that collected in his eyebrows before falling into his eyes, making them sting and burn as he worked on his bike in the Cantina Garage. It was mid January, yet a Santa Ana breeze blew hot winds to the coast from the desert. His wrench slipped off the rounded axle nut, knuckles smashing painfully against the frame and rear shock. His temper flared, and he picked up the fallen wrench, slammed it against the offending nut, then threw it against the garage wall, where it hit with a satisfying clatter.

“What’s? a matter, Darlin?” Marge whispered.

Marko looked up as she strolled into the garage, warming the day even more. A smile playing with her narrow lips, and an errant strand of honey colored hair hanging in her eyes. As she moved closer, her eyes fell to the blood on Marko’s knuckles now clutched protectively in his left hand. “Oooh, we’d better get you fixed up,” She muttered, taking both his hands and meeting his eyes with hers. Her longing gaze was not that of a Red Cross volunteer’s, but one of pure sexual wantonness. Her sand colored pupils said, “Put a bandaid on it, let’s fuck.”

“I’m all right,” Marko said wiping his bloody knuckles on the leg of his Levis.

Not taking his word for it, she reached down and pulled his battered hand up for inspection.

“Still needs to be fixed,” she announce with hurried finality. She suddenly guided his bruised palm inside her partially unbuttoned blouse, and pressed it against her hardening nipple.

“You know how to fix things!” Marko mutter and spread his fingers to encompass her massive bolt-on boob.

He unsnap her blouse further open, freeing her incredible breasts from their confinement, and suddenly the pain was gone and his lips found the other sweet nub, sucking it hungrily, then teasing it with the tip of his tongue.

Marko drop to his knees and unbutton her skin-tight jeans, working them down over her hips with tantalizing slowness. He notice that she wasn’t wearing anything under them. She wanted to be naked, and fucked immediately. Her hips were already gyrating. He began to kiss the soft flesh of her stomach. She stepped back abruptly and yanked her pants off, then came close again, spreading her legs for easy access. He no longer lingered at her navel but slipped down to the soft, warm folds of her pussy.

Even before Marko’s darting tongue reached the wetness seeping from the depths, the enticing smell of her femininity had him aroused. His throbbing cock strained at the denim of his jeans as she climaxed for the first time as his tongue glanced across the hood of her clit. He continued to run the flat of his hungry tongue up the length of her pussy, catching as much of her sweet nectar as he could before making gentle circles around her clit with the tip.

Without looking up, Marko sensed quivering between her legs. Marge’s eyes were half closed as he continue to feast on her hot cunt. She climaxed again and he had to maintain her balance with his hands securely around her ass.

Rising from the hard concrete floor, Marko led the quaking woman over to his old Harley. She straddled it with long shapely legs. Facing the rear, she settled onto the seat and leaned back against the tanks, her long thin hair falling down to caress the shiny black paint. Her tongue flicked out to moisten those luscious lips as Marko pulled her down, her hips rising with the contour of the seat until they’re resting over the back fender. He placed her feet on the rear pegs and opened her completely.

Marko reached down and pick up his big screwdriver and wiped the greasy handle on his shirt. He aimed handle toward her pussy until it lightly touched her throbbing clit. She shivered. Slowly, he slipped the big square handle inside her, and she began to moan with pleasure, her hips moving with the thrusts of the screwdriver. Marge’s wetness formed a puddle on the seat beneath her as she climaxed once more. I continue to impale her on the hard plastic handle for several minutes as she cried for Marko not to stop.

Marko guided her to stand although her legs were weak. The crack of her beautiful ass smeared with the wetness on the seat. She once again straddled the big bike and leaned forward, her hands crossed beneath her face, as she bent to kiss the icy chrome of the speedometer, as Marko free himself from his jeans and slid his cock inside her. Marko began slowly, then increased his speed until she came again and again, pleading for him not to stop. He milked his member in her warm succulent depths as he thrust like a madman, feeling his own release coming fast. As he began to cum, he reached out and touch the start button, the big V-Twin engine roaring to life. The throbbing vibration and rumbling sound of freedom pushed him over the edge. He filled her with great sticky spurts, as she continue to thrash and moan beneath him.

He shut off the engine, and she move slowly to free herself, but turned and sat on the seat, her pussy dripping. She took his throbbing shrinking member in her mouth and sucked him dry, then licked her lips, and a nasty grin glowed. “I’ll help you clean this up,” She said her smile expanding as if she had score a great victory.

Marko looked at the woman in wonderment. “Us grease monkeys are used to cleaning up spills,” he said, but wondered what this sexual goddess had tingling in her brain cells besides sex. He knew, he sensed, that ultimately he would find out. —

His boots echoed on the new boardwalk as the entrance grew near. It was an unusually warm New Years eve and the pungent scent of the harbor hung in the quiet fog. The heavy doors of the Cantina were opened wide leaving only the western style swinging gates to fill the space as he slammed through them and bellowed “Where’s that godamned Bandit.” The night was young and his thunderous voice filled the air. Marko spun from his security office chair and was half way down the bar before anyone else even had time to look up. Mandy rolled her fingers like a gun fighter hovering above a holster, trying to decide whether to toss Marko the tonfa as he passed by. Marko instinctively new on site the strangers posture was not of aggression and waved off the doorman collecting tickets for the New Year Soiree.

“You must be James”, Marko recalled Bandit’s story of meeting a tall man in the desert and inviting him to the party.

“That’s right” extending his hand to Marko “James Strike but, everyone calls me Striker.”

“Bandit is not here yet, but help yourself to the buffet and a drink.” The band was setting up the stage as Striker settled onto a stool near the stout oak column of the bar and caught his first glimpse of Mandy’s tight curves.

“What’s your poison Striker” Nyla’s voice was full of excitment, she had been waiting for this party and was in high spirits.

Bandit stepped out into the warm air, took a deep breath, and a contented smirk filled his face as he straddled the ’66 bobber. Standing with arms waist level on the high bars he laid his number 12 on the kicker and brought the 100-inch beast to life. The trouble in Sostetomar faded behind him and as he passed Molholland and rolled on the throttle. The ocean breeze felt cool on his face as he continued south on the PCH toward home. He knew it was going to be one of those golden nights.

“A shot of Jack and a cold draft please Ma’am,” Striker said.

Nyla caught Strikers gaze following the road of Mandy’s ample breasts as she pulled the tall tap. Sliding the shot across the shinning bar top and setting the beer on a Cantina napkin she whispered “she loves girls” and quickly spun to fill another order.

I love Harleys, that doesn’t stop me from riding something else now and then, Striker thought continuing to admire Mandy’s short but voluptuous body.

Striker felt like an overfilled water balloon about to burst. He couldn’t decide what to have from the unbelievable feast Bandit supplied at the buffet, so he had filled the jumbo stoneware platter with some of everything. As he finished the last morsel he spotted the moment he was waiting for. Mandy had just glimpse over her shoulder to see Nyla bouncing toward her from the galley. Nyla turned a instant later as slipped behind bar, leaving Mandy in waiting. Striker quickly moved in to gently lay his hand on Mandy’s back. Mandy purred and eased her perfectly round ass back to him and slowly stood up. Striker slightly tightened his grip on the small of her back, making her immediately aware the island sized paw was definite not Nyla. She spun placing their bodies tightly together, vision eclipsed as her 5′ 2″ frame aligned with his broad chest. Anger started to well up until her emerald eyes met his and the emotion melted to a warm glow as she was lost in his gentle deep blue gaze.

Outside Tina had just arrived and was forced to park behind the garage as the crowd was growing. Stepping from her car she was suddenly snatched from her feet and swept off into the darkness. Slamming down on the rear quarter panel of a black corvette.

“You think you can just take my job and toss me aside like yesterdays news?” She knew it was Slick.

“Let go of me you piece of shit!” She was instantly filled with adrenalin strength that the wiry man could not begin to handle. She landed a open hand to his cheek with a loud crack.

Using the full weight of his body to push her against the dirty black vette, his arm wound wide to his side and began its journey to her creamy soft face only to make an abrupt halt. Pain shot up Slick Steve’s arm like a hot wire. It felt as though his bony elbow collided with a steel anvil, as a lightning quick hand blocked his swing. By the time the pain seceded Slick’s arm was already behind him. His head snapped back by an clinched hand full of his oily hair.

“I played you straight. I saved your ass, payed your wages, and gave you a free ride to safety, you stupid muthafucker.” Just then a black van came to a screeching stop in the alley. The side door slid open and Slick Steve was shoved in. It sped away as a San Pedro towing truck backed into the Cantina parking lot. The driver slipped out of the cab quietly and without a word began to hook up to the Corvette.

Mandy was only beginning to escape the trance induced by Striker as Bandit pushed through the swinging gates. Many didn’t know the mysterious Bandit, but suspected from the employee reaction that it was the owner. Nyla quickly found his arms just as his voice thundered, “Happy New Year everyone, lets party!”

His boots echoed on the new boardwalk as the entrance grew near. It was an unusually warm New Years eve and the pungent scent of the harbor hung in the quiet fog. The heavy doors of the Cantina were opened wide leaving only the western style swinging gates to fill the space as he slammed through them and bellowed “Where’s that godamned Bandit.” The night was young and his thunderous voice filled the air. Marko spun from his security office chair and was half way down the bar before anyone else even had time to look up. Mandy rolled her fingers like a gun fighter hovering above a holster, trying to decide whether to toss Marko the tonfa as he passed by. Marko instinctively new on site the strangers posture was not of aggression and waved off the doorman collecting tickets for the New Year Soiree.

“You must be James”, Marko recalled Bandit’s story of meeting a tall man in the desert and inviting him to the party.

“That’s right” extending his hand to Marko “James Strike but, everyone calls me Striker.”

“Bandit is not here yet, but help yourself to the buffet and a drink.” The band was setting up the stage as Striker settled onto a stool near the stout oak column of the bar and caught his first glimpse of Mandy’s tight curves.

“What’s your poison Striker” Nyla’s voice was full of excitment, she had been waiting for this party and was in high spirits.

Bandit stepped out into the warm air, took a deep breath, and a contented smirk filled his face as he straddled the ’66 bobber. Standing with arms waist level on the high bars he laid his number 12 on the kicker and brought the 100-inch beast to life. The trouble in Sostetomar faded behind him and as he passed Molholland and rolled on the throttle. The ocean breeze felt cool on his face as he continued south on the PCH toward home. He knew it was going to be one of those golden nights.

“A shot of Jack and a cold draft please Ma’am,” Striker said.

Nyla caught Strikers gaze following the road of Mandy’s ample breasts as she pulled the tall tap. Sliding the shot across the shinning bar top and setting the beer on a Cantina napkin she whispered “she loves girls” and quickly spun to fill another order.

I love Harleys, that doesn’t stop me from riding something else now and then, Striker thought continuing to admire Mandy’s short but voluptuous body.

Striker felt like an overfilled water balloon about to burst. He couldn’t decide what to have from the unbelievable feast Bandit supplied at the buffet, so he had filled the jumbo stoneware platter with some of everything. As he finished the last morsel he spotted the moment he was waiting for. Mandy had just glimpse over her shoulder to see Nyla bouncing toward her from the galley. Nyla turned a instant later as slipped behind bar, leaving Mandy in waiting. Striker quickly moved in to gently lay his hand on Mandy’s back. Mandy purred and eased her perfectly round ass back to him and slowly stood up. Striker slightly tightened his grip on the small of her back, making her immediately aware the island sized paw was definite not Nyla. She spun placing their bodies tightly together, vision eclipsed as her 5′ 2″ frame aligned with his broad chest. Anger started to well up until her emerald eyes met his and the emotion melted to a warm glow as she was lost in his gentle deep blue gaze.

Outside Tina had just arrived and was forced to park behind the garage as the crowd was growing. Stepping from her car she was suddenly snatched from her feet and swept off into the darkness. Slamming down on the rear quarter panel of a black corvette.

“You think you can just take my job and toss me aside like yesterdays news?” She knew it was Slick.

“Let go of me you piece of shit!” She was instantly filled with adrenalin strength that the wiry man could not begin to handle. She landed a open hand to his cheek with a loud crack.

Using the full weight of his body to push her against the dirty black vette, his arm wound wide to his side and began its journey to her creamy soft face only to make an abrupt halt. Pain shot up Slick Steve’s arm like a hot wire. It felt as though his bony elbow collided with a steel anvil, as a lightning quick hand blocked his swing. By the time the pain seceded Slick’s arm was already behind him. His head snapped back by an clinched hand full of his oily hair.

“I played you straight. I saved your ass, payed your wages, and gave you a free ride to safety, you stupid muthafucker.” Just then a black van came to a screeching stop in the alley. The side door slid open and Slick Steve was shoved in. It sped away as a San Pedro towing truck backed into the Cantina parking lot. The driver slipped out of the cab quietly and without a word began to hook up to the Corvette.

Mandy was only beginning to escape the trance induced by Striker as Bandit pushed through the swinging gates. Many didn’t know the mysterious Bandit, but suspected from the employee reaction that it was the owner. Nyla quickly found his arms just as his voice thundered, “Happy New Year everyone, lets party!”

Episode 30 ? Misery Loves Company— The holiday season loomed around the Cantina like a priest standing outside a bar hinting at the evil doings inside. Riders and dock workers were consumed by holiday efforts, family, gift giving and nagging wives. Bandit didn’t mind. He enjoyed the break from the hectic crowds to clean and detail the Cantina, but a few single and depressed customers always kept the lights on.

Clay returned on his late ’80s customized Softail on a regular basis. The bike was his modified and fading home. His open belt drive was frayed, the black wrinkle chipped and the polished aluminum gray and nicked. His divorce had hit home like bomb down the stack of a destroyer. He didn’t see it coming. He had fooled around on his wife on a regular basis for the last 10 years, complaining that she wasn’t for him. When she pulled the plug, he quickly discovered how dependent he was on her and the guilt stormed to the surface. The depression poured over him like a heavy blanket of chain-mail over a midget. He could hardly get out of bed in the morning. He was consumed with anxiety. He had never experienced a mental melt-down. He didn’t know whether to stay drunk all the time, run, do drugs or shoot himself. Nothing made sense and he had no control over what he felt. After last week’s conversation with Mandy, the Cantina was becoming a regular sanctuary from the pain. She gave the impression of a vast male understanding.

He rolled up in front and parked in the bike-only zone then roamed inside through the massive rustic oak doors. Mandy was still behind the bar, but about to close out.

“You’re late,” Mandy said in her giggly voice. She sensed his pain. Watching a biker snivel was against the code of the west, but she was a softy and sorta attracted to his rough handsome exterior. “Are you feeling better?”

“I will after a couple of doubles,” Clay said unable to even look around at the only other patron in the bar. He needed a drink like a heroin addict needs a fix after a week on the run. He felt as though his joints would shear off and he’d crumble to the floor. He almost shook as he pulled the bar stool out and sat, but that didn’t appease the pain. He was too nervous to sit.

“Gold Cadillac?” Mandy asked, her flaming auburn hair warming the room with it’s rich hues. She wanted to hold him and take the pain away.

“Just a straight double shot of Gold,” Clay said standing again.

“Relax,” Mandy said her bright eyes flickering and reflecting the Cantina Christmas tree lights.

“I can’t,” Clay said and his expression was one of a doomed man on death row with less that 24 hours to live. Mandy could have been his fix, if he could see the way she looked at him.

Bandit put up a massive tree each year and patrons brought ornaments, mostly motorcycle oriented. Each year it was covered with more glistening shit. It had no theme, just a myriad of colored ornaments, lights and tinsel. He did it for the brothers and rare sisters who needed the Christmas spirit in their lonely lives. Riders and dock worker brought presents which he gave to local charities.

Clay’s facial features were drawn and pale. He rode in the rain to the Cantina just to get out of a house packed full of sorrowful memories and raging guilt. Mandy pushed the thick beveled shot glass at Clay and disappeared to the other side of the bar to finish cleaning up before she left. Clay downed the double in direct unexpected fashion. He needed something to squash his jangled nerves and he couldn’t wait while sipping at the dense golden liquid. “Mandy,” Clay said wiping his bearded mouth with the back of his wet sleeve. “Give me another one, quick.”

She heard him but didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t want to leave Nyla with a slobbering basket case. She wiped down the bar and gradually moved back in Clay’s direction.

The Cantina was warm but the windows reflected thick gray storm clouds that hung outside like warnings of the future preventing folks from leaving their comfortable homes to come to the Cantina. The battleship gray ominous surroundings added something strange to the usual sunlit California coastline. Most of the time the coast didn’t contain the chilly winter wonderland atmospheres that haunts much of the rest of the country. The Cantina was dark for a late afternoon and sparkled with Christmas decorations, flickering red candles on the tables and glitter. It had all the trappings of a big farm family living room in Mexico.

Clay was less than observant of the radiant nature of the holidays. He was consumed with dread until the Tequila warmed his quaking guts. He finally calmed enough to sit down. Mandy poured him another double. “Have you seen anyone?” she said as she pushed the glass tentatively toward the shrunken man awash in his own emotions. She retrieved the empty as if he might throw it at someone.

Clay’s blue eyes stared at the glass blindly until he realized that she was talking to him. “What do you mean?” Clay said lifting his gaze slowly as if it was tied to the bar top.

“Are to talking to anyone, another girl, a doctor?” she said, leaning close to the bar, but he didn’t notice the warm curve of her breasts.

“No,” Clays said and downed the double in one gulp.

“You need to,” Mandy said.

“Why,” Clay snapped spraying Tequila across the bar, “It’s all my fuckin’ fault.” His fist pounded the thick bar as if he wished he was hitting himself.

“I’ll listen, when you need to talk,” Mandy said moving away.

Clay ground his teeth. Both hands clutched the glass as if he was holding onto a life-saving railing.

“Look,” Mandy said to Clay as Nyla bounced in the Cantina door swaying in her usual upbeat sexy manner. “I’ve got to go, but remember, millions are suffering the blues like you. You’re not alone. Talk to people.”

Clay looked up slightly then withdrew to the empty glass. The Tequila was taking its toll. The nervousness was abating, but his thoughts were only filled with relationship doom. He looked down at his fingernails which he started biting again and the cigarette stains on his index right index finger. He quit smoking just before he got married 15 years ago and was already back to a pack a day and climbing. He wrenched the pack out of his flannel shirt. He popped a smoke free and tugged it out of the pack with his dry cracked lips. He dug the stainless Zippo out of his Levis and unable to hold it in his quivering grasp dropped it onto the concrete deck. He slipped off the stool and crouched near the painted pavement to retrieve the lighter. Every movement was an effort he almost hoped would be his last.

At one time over a decade ago, he could snap open and light a Zippo with the best of them. Not now. His eyes felt dry and unfocused as he puffed lifelessly on the butt.

Nyla bounced around the bar as if she was a kid with her first ticket to Disneyland. She was unbelievably exuberant until she met Mandy at the back corner of the bar. Mandy pointed out Clay and reminded her of the locker room banter they had after Clay first came into the bar. Nyla had no compassion for cheating bastards. She had been the brunt of unfaithful men and nearly shifted whole heartedly to doing women, except for Bandit. As she gazed at Mandy’s jiggling cleavage she was reminded why. She was tall and slender as she stared longingly at Mandy’s opulent cleavage. As she listened to his nasty exploits her light-hearted step became brass mallets against the bar runners. Mandy recognized her demeanor shift.

“Go easy on him,” Mandy pleaded.

Nyla looked at Mandy’s youthful features, at her milky skin, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. But the kiss didn’t end there. She slid her hand onto Mandy’s waist and the other cupped the curve of her back just above her ass. Nyla pulled herself close to Mandy’s curvy side and her hot breath reached Mandy’s soft ear. “The bastard must pay,” she whispered and blew into Mandy’s ear canal.

Mandy quivered. There was only one other patron in the bar during this dead time. She could feel Nyla’s hand creep up her taught stomach to the curve of her breast. No one ever tantalized her like Nyla could. As her small delicate feet touched down on the bar mat Nyla slipped away and disappeared into the galley and deeper into locker room where she stashed her purse and jacket. She uncovered her dark brunette hair and brushed it out, then tied it into a ponytail. She pulled on her frilly Mexican style blouse and looked down are her own taught nipples at the point of large slopping breasts, sans a bra. Mandy did that to her. She wished she could shut the Cantina down for just an hour.

She strode out into the saloon section of the Cantina and looked at the festive holiday ambiance. It felt good, warm and holiday comforting, but she was on a mission. Mandy was fearful in a lighthearted way of Nyla’s strong personality matched against the frailty of Clay’s frazzled nerves. Nyla was the female leader of the crew. She had an abject bubbly personality full of wild spontaneity, but behind it was concrete intelligence and emotional strength. She was more goal oriented and responsible than the other girls and her abilities gave the other girls confidence.

Nyla approached the corner of the bar and Mandy’s ass that stuck out at her enticingly. Mandy had cleaned all the glasses and hung them above. The booze island in the center of the 360-degree oblong bar was stocked and neat. She looked past Mandy’s mane of auburn hair to the customer bent over the bar. A biker with long thick sandy blond hair tied in a ponytail. His long face drooping toward the wooded surface of the bar like melting plastic too close to a fire.

Nyla had the soft face of an angel, but the knowing sharp blue eyes of a cop. “Excuse me,” she said to Mandy who was talking to Clay. Mandy stood up straight to her 5’2″ height and turned to Nyla. “I’ll take over now,” Nyla said.”

Mandy turned to face her and Nyla swept the bountiful redhead into her arms bending her at the waist as a man would at the end of a Tango. She kissed her deeply her tongue slithered past her lips to find the switch to launch her lust. At first Mandy pushed against Nyla’s taught arms, but then gave in. What the hell, she wanted another evening with… But she was as work? What if Marko strolled into the bar, what about the other delirious patron? What did it matter? Nyla felt good, real good in a lustful, notorious sense, like she was doing something terribly wrong, but…

She could feel every curve of Nyla’s boobs as they stood up in unison. Then like the last bite of a delicious cake being taken away abruptly, Nyla broke the kiss. She spun the redhead and patted her ass. “Good to see you, baby. I’ll take over from here,” Nyla said and watch longingly as Mandy’s cute ass jiggled around the corner.

“God, I want her,” Nyla said looking at Clay whose sad eyes were scrunched under a wrinkled forehead as if he had been startled by a slap.

“So how may broads did you fuck while you were married?” Nyla asked abruptly.

Clay didn’t respond, but his face changed as if he was slapped again and was beginning to awake from a terrible dream.

“So your wife was a real bitch?” Nyla said sorta moving away from Clay down the bar. as if she had conversations like this daily.

“My wife was not a bitch,” He said as if he felt had to respond, but didn’t know what to say.

“Mandy tells me that your ol’lady is the bread-winner in the family and does alright,” Nyla commented. Before waiting for a response she added, “must have been a real bitch to fuck around with all those women.”

Something was stirring in Clay that he hadn’t sensed in months, passion and anger. He was getting pissed. “What a minute,” he snapped. He had a cigarette half out of the pack but set it down.

“You want another drink, poor boy?” Nyla asked.

“Ahh,” Clay said. Her question shifted his thinking back to his depression. “Ahh, no. Look, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“Do I?” Nyla said. “Where’d you get the money for the drinks?”

“Now wait just a fuckin’ minute,” Clay snapped, stood up and pushed his stool back, as if he was a gunfighter and it was time to draw. “I drove truck for 12 years.”

“So,” Nyla said ignoring his twitching muscles and testosterone induce stance. “What have you done for the last five?”

“She didn’t want me to work,” he recoiled.

“Oh, she paid you to fuck around?” Nyla said.

Clay freaked, grabbed the heavy crystal shaped double glass and threw it across the bar. Nyla ducked, and the empty glass soared across the island to the other side of the bar shattering against one of the stainless steel sinks. The only other patron in the bar flinched.

“Hey motherfucker,” Charlie shouted. He was a homeless dock worker on strike and alone. He was stocky rotund with dark eyes. Marko heard the calamity from his office and ran inside as Charlie began to round the bar in Clay’s direction. Marko, always on security alert, headed off the patron. He had an uncanny ability to sensed the source of a problem. He steered Charlie back to his stool, “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “You okay, babe?” he said to Nyla.

“She’s bullshit,” Clay snapped.

“And you’re a saint?” Nyla said heading to the area scattered with broken glass.

Clay was so mad he wanted to crawl over the bar top and go after her, but Marko headed him off. “Time to go for a ride, pal,” he said turning Clay around away from eye contact with Nyla. “Pull yourself together. She’s just fuckin’ with you.” Marko said.

Marko glanced over at Nyla and they shared a knowing gaze. He led Clay out the door where they walked to the bike only parking next to the front door and looked out over the parking lot toward the Main Channel of the Harbor.

“So you’re pissed?” Marko asked.

“She has no business… if she was a dude…” Clay began.

“Think about it, Pal,” Marko said and put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Tomorrow’s another day. The New Year is coming, learn from your mistakes and move on.”

“But…,” Clay tried to interrupt.

“Or don’t come back.” Marko said through his salt and pepper goatee. His sharp blue/gray eyes cut into Clay’s beaten mentality like a jack-knife. Marko left the man to his thoughts and turned back toward the Cantina.

Episode 30 ? Misery Loves Company— The holiday season loomed around the Cantina like a priest standing outside a bar hinting at the evil doings inside. Riders and dock workers were consumed by holiday efforts, family, gift giving and nagging wives. Bandit didn’t mind. He enjoyed the break from the hectic crowds to clean and detail the Cantina, but a few single and depressed customers always kept the lights on.

Clay returned on his late ’80s customized Softail on a regular basis. The bike was his modified and fading home. His open belt drive was frayed, the black wrinkle chipped and the polished aluminum gray and nicked. His divorce had hit home like bomb down the stack of a destroyer. He didn’t see it coming. He had fooled around on his wife on a regular basis for the last 10 years, complaining that she wasn’t for him. When she pulled the plug, he quickly discovered how dependent he was on her and the guilt stormed to the surface. The depression poured over him like a heavy blanket of chain-mail over a midget. He could hardly get out of bed in the morning. He was consumed with anxiety. He had never experienced a mental melt-down. He didn’t know whether to stay drunk all the time, run, do drugs or shoot himself. Nothing made sense and he had no control over what he felt. After last week’s conversation with Mandy, the Cantina was becoming a regular sanctuary from the pain. She gave the impression of a vast male understanding.

He rolled up in front and parked in the bike-only zone then roamed inside through the massive rustic oak doors. Mandy was still behind the bar, but about to close out.

“You’re late,” Mandy said in her giggly voice. She sensed his pain. Watching a biker snivel was against the code of the west, but she was a softy and sorta attracted to his rough handsome exterior. “Are you feeling better?”

“I will after a couple of doubles,” Clay said unable to even look around at the only other patron in the bar. He needed a drink like a heroin addict needs a fix after a week on the run. He felt as though his joints would shear off and he’d crumble to the floor. He almost shook as he pulled the bar stool out and sat, but that didn’t appease the pain. He was too nervous to sit.

“Gold Cadillac?” Mandy asked, her flaming auburn hair warming the room with it’s rich hues. She wanted to hold him and take the pain away.

“Just a straight double shot of Gold,” Clay said standing again.

“Relax,” Mandy said her bright eyes flickering and reflecting the Cantina Christmas tree lights.

“I can’t,” Clay said and his expression was one of a doomed man on death row with less that 24 hours to live. Mandy could have been his fix, if he could see the way she looked at him.

Bandit put up a massive tree each year and patrons brought ornaments, mostly motorcycle oriented. Each year it was covered with more glistening shit. It had no theme, just a myriad of colored ornaments, lights and tinsel. He did it for the brothers and rare sisters who needed the Christmas spirit in their lonely lives. Riders and dock worker brought presents which he gave to local charities.

Clay’s facial features were drawn and pale. He rode in the rain to the Cantina just to get out of a house packed full of sorrowful memories and raging guilt. Mandy pushed the thick beveled shot glass at Clay and disappeared to the other side of the bar to finish cleaning up before she left. Clay downed the double in direct unexpected fashion. He needed something to squash his jangled nerves and he couldn’t wait while sipping at the dense golden liquid. “Mandy,” Clay said wiping his bearded mouth with the back of his wet sleeve. “Give me another one, quick.”

She heard him but didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t want to leave Nyla with a slobbering basket case. She wiped down the bar and gradually moved back in Clay’s direction.

The Cantina was warm but the windows reflected thick gray storm clouds that hung outside like warnings of the future preventing folks from leaving their comfortable homes to come to the Cantina. The battleship gray ominous surroundings added something strange to the usual sunlit California coastline. Most of the time the coast didn’t contain the chilly winter wonderland atmospheres that haunts much of the rest of the country. The Cantina was dark for a late afternoon and sparkled with Christmas decorations, flickering red candles on the tables and glitter. It had all the trappings of a big farm family living room in Mexico.

Clay was less than observant of the radiant nature of the holidays. He was consumed with dread until the Tequila warmed his quaking guts. He finally calmed enough to sit down. Mandy poured him another double. “Have you seen anyone?” she said as she pushed the glass tentatively toward the shrunken man awash in his own emotions. She retrieved the empty as if he might throw it at someone.

Clay’s blue eyes stared at the glass blindly until he realized that she was talking to him. “What do you mean?” Clay said lifting his gaze slowly as if it was tied to the bar top.

“Are to talking to anyone, another girl, a doctor?” she said, leaning close to the bar, but he didn’t notice the warm curve of her breasts.

“No,” Clays said and downed the double in one gulp.

“You need to,” Mandy said.

“Why,” Clay snapped spraying Tequila across the bar, “It’s all my fuckin’ fault.” His fist pounded the thick bar as if he wished he was hitting himself.

“I’ll listen, when you need to talk,” Mandy said moving away.

Clay ground his teeth. Both hands clutched the glass as if he was holding onto a life-saving railing.

“Look,” Mandy said to Clay as Nyla bounced in the Cantina door swaying in her usual upbeat sexy manner. “I’ve got to go, but remember, millions are suffering the blues like you. You’re not alone. Talk to people.”

Clay looked up slightly then withdrew to the empty glass. The Tequila was taking its toll. The nervousness was abating, but his thoughts were only filled with relationship doom. He looked down at his fingernails which he started biting again and the cigarette stains on his index right index finger. He quit smoking just before he got married 15 years ago and was already back to a pack a day and climbing. He wrenched the pack out of his flannel shirt. He popped a smoke free and tugged it out of the pack with his dry cracked lips. He dug the stainless Zippo out of his Levis and unable to hold it in his quivering grasp dropped it onto the concrete deck. He slipped off the stool and crouched near the painted pavement to retrieve the lighter. Every movement was an effort he almost hoped would be his last.

At one time over a decade ago, he could snap open and light a Zippo with the best of them. Not now. His eyes felt dry and unfocused as he puffed lifelessly on the butt.

Nyla bounced around the bar as if she was a kid with her first ticket to Disneyland. She was unbelievably exuberant until she met Mandy at the back corner of the bar. Mandy pointed out Clay and reminded her of the locker room banter they had after Clay first came into the bar. Nyla had no compassion for cheating bastards. She had been the brunt of unfaithful men and nearly shifted whole heartedly to doing women, except for Bandit. As she gazed at Mandy’s jiggling cleavage she was reminded why. She was tall and slender as she stared longingly at Mandy’s opulent cleavage. As she listened to his nasty exploits her light-hearted step became brass mallets against the bar runners. Mandy recognized her demeanor shift.

“Go easy on him,” Mandy pleaded.

Nyla looked at Mandy’s youthful features, at her milky skin, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. But the kiss didn’t end there. She slid her hand onto Mandy’s waist and the other cupped the curve of her back just above her ass. Nyla pulled herself close to Mandy’s curvy side and her hot breath reached Mandy’s soft ear. “The bastard must pay,” she whispered and blew into Mandy’s ear canal.

Mandy quivered. There was only one other patron in the bar during this dead time. She could feel Nyla’s hand creep up her taught stomach to the curve of her breast. No one ever tantalized her like Nyla could. As her small delicate feet touched down on the bar mat Nyla slipped away and disappeared into the galley and deeper into locker room where she stashed her purse and jacket. She uncovered her dark brunette hair and brushed it out, then tied it into a ponytail. She pulled on her frilly Mexican style blouse and looked down are her own taught nipples at the point of large slopping breasts, sans a bra. Mandy did that to her. She wished she could shut the Cantina down for just an hour.

She strode out into the saloon section of the Cantina and looked at the festive holiday ambiance. It felt good, warm and holiday comforting, but she was on a mission. Mandy was fearful in a lighthearted way of Nyla’s strong personality matched against the frailty of Clay’s frazzled nerves. Nyla was the female leader of the crew. She had an abject bubbly personality full of wild spontaneity, but behind it was concrete intelligence and emotional strength. She was more goal oriented and responsible than the other girls and her abilities gave the other girls confidence.

Nyla approached the corner of the bar and Mandy’s ass that stuck out at her enticingly. Mandy had cleaned all the glasses and hung them above. The booze island in the center of the 360-degree oblong bar was stocked and neat. She looked past Mandy’s mane of auburn hair to the customer bent over the bar. A biker with long thick sandy blond hair tied in a ponytail. His long face drooping toward the wooded surface of the bar like melting plastic too close to a fire.

Nyla had the soft face of an angel, but the knowing sharp blue eyes of a cop. “Excuse me,” she said to Mandy who was talking to Clay. Mandy stood up straight to her 5’2″ height and turned to Nyla. “I’ll take over now,” Nyla said.”

Mandy turned to face her and Nyla swept the bountiful redhead into her arms bending her at the waist as a man would at the end of a Tango. She kissed her deeply her tongue slithered past her lips to find the switch to launch her lust. At first Mandy pushed against Nyla’s taught arms, but then gave in. What the hell, she wanted another evening with… But she was as work? What if Marko strolled into the bar, what about the other delirious patron? What did it matter? Nyla felt good, real good in a lustful, notorious sense, like she was doing something terribly wrong, but…

She could feel every curve of Nyla’s boobs as they stood up in unison. Then like the last bite of a delicious cake being taken away abruptly, Nyla broke the kiss. She spun the redhead and patted her ass. “Good to see you, baby. I’ll take over from here,” Nyla said and watch longingly as Mandy’s cute ass jiggled around the corner.

“God, I want her,” Nyla said looking at Clay whose sad eyes were scrunched under a wrinkled forehead as if he had been startled by a slap.

“So how may broads did you fuck while you were married?” Nyla asked abruptly.

Clay didn’t respond, but his face changed as if he was slapped again and was beginning to awake from a terrible dream.

“So your wife was a real bitch?” Nyla said sorta moving away from Clay down the bar. as if she had conversations like this daily.

“My wife was not a bitch,” He said as if he felt had to respond, but didn’t know what to say.

“Mandy tells me that your ol’lady is the bread-winner in the family and does alright,” Nyla commented. Before waiting for a response she added, “must have been a real bitch to fuck around with all those women.”

Something was stirring in Clay that he hadn’t sensed in months, passion and anger. He was getting pissed. “What a minute,” he snapped. He had a cigarette half out of the pack but set it down.

“You want another drink, poor boy?” Nyla asked.

“Ahh,” Clay said. Her question shifted his thinking back to his depression. “Ahh, no. Look, you’ve got it all wrong.”

“Do I?” Nyla said. “Where’d you get the money for the drinks?”

“Now wait just a fuckin’ minute,” Clay snapped, stood up and pushed his stool back, as if he was a gunfighter and it was time to draw. “I drove truck for 12 years.”

“So,” Nyla said ignoring his twitching muscles and testosterone induce stance. “What have you done for the last five?”

“She didn’t want me to work,” he recoiled.

“Oh, she paid you to fuck around?” Nyla said.

Clay freaked, grabbed the heavy crystal shaped double glass and threw it across the bar. Nyla ducked, and the empty glass soared across the island to the other side of the bar shattering against one of the stainless steel sinks. The only other patron in the bar flinched.

“Hey motherfucker,” Charlie shouted. He was a homeless dock worker on strike and alone. He was stocky rotund with dark eyes. Marko heard the calamity from his office and ran inside as Charlie began to round the bar in Clay’s direction. Marko, always on security alert, headed off the patron. He had an uncanny ability to sensed the source of a problem. He steered Charlie back to his stool, “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “You okay, babe?” he said to Nyla.

“She’s bullshit,” Clay snapped.

“And you’re a saint?” Nyla said heading to the area scattered with broken glass.

Clay was so mad he wanted to crawl over the bar top and go after her, but Marko headed him off. “Time to go for a ride, pal,” he said turning Clay around away from eye contact with Nyla. “Pull yourself together. She’s just fuckin’ with you.” Marko said.

Marko glanced over at Nyla and they shared a knowing gaze. He led Clay out the door where they walked to the bike only parking next to the front door and looked out over the parking lot toward the Main Channel of the Harbor.

“So you’re pissed?” Marko asked.

“She has no business… if she was a dude…” Clay began.

“Think about it, Pal,” Marko said and put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Tomorrow’s another day. The New Year is coming, learn from your mistakes and move on.”

“But…,” Clay tried to interrupt.

“Or don’t come back.” Marko said through his salt and pepper goatee. His sharp blue/gray eyes cut into Clay’s beaten mentality like a jack-knife. Marko left the man to his thoughts and turned back toward the Cantina.

A week had passed as calmly as the morning fog burning off the harbor. The Cantina rocked every night. Signs of winter evening chills brought the brothers out in droves. They wanted to party before the misty cold prevented all but the hard-core from riding. Some bikes were headed for teardowns and rebuilds.

It was Friday afternoon and Marko was busying himself around the property sweeping up peanut shells, and cigarette butts. He had been training regularly and came back from a diving exercise off the coast of Catalina Island. Marko was feeling fine, but he had a hankering for a woman as he swept out the patio with some of the kitchen help.

It was during that afternoon lull that Marko watched the lunch crowd clear out. The Cantina was nearly empty. He observed a mammoth Cruise Ship pass as it headed to Catalina then south to Mexico. The water under the brilliant sun showed a turtle green almost hinting at a clean spirit, hiding the oily pollution the harbor was known for.

Since Steve’s departure, Mandy had trained to take over as the morning shift bartender position. She stumbled some learning the tricks of the trade, but her supple feminine form behind the bar made the difference. Her red hair splashed into half the drinks she concocted until she wised up and pulled the natural amber waves into a ponytail.

Just one customer remained at the bar. He was a rider on a older custom Softail still parked in the ?Bike Only? parking outside, so Marko could keep an eye on it. The young rider with stiff dirty blond hair leaned heavily on the bar. He had lunch with an attorney who announced that his wife wanted a divorce and laid down the parameters of her outlandish demands. The slippery attorney took advantage of the fact that Clay had no representation at his side. He poured the incessant claims on Clay almost to the point of requiring the keys to his Softail. That’s when Clay unwrinkled his dower features and told the sonuvabitch to fuck off. He pushed his heavy oak Cantina Mexican style chair back abruptly and jarred the table knocking over his margarita glass. The short, suited attorney was shocked by his outburst. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” Clay snapped.

The attorney, a clean shaven kid had the appearance of a rodent in a suit. He was small, demure looking with a face that scrunched up like the whiskered nose of a startled mouse. He yanked his papers off the rattled table into his briefcase and headed toward the door. Out of range of Clay’s fists he turned as if hiding behind a block of cheese, “You’ll be served…”

“So will you, muthafucker,” Clay snapped startling the other patrons. “Get the hell out of here.” Clay lunged in the weasels direction and the little suit shoved his tail between his legs and scampered out the door.

Clay ignored his half eaten Enchiladas Rancheros and stepped up to the bar. “Gold Margarita on the rocks,” Clay spat, “It’s one of those days. Make it a double.”

Mandy had features that would make any man smile and forget his woes. This was Clay’s first time in the Cantina and he had never set eyes on the redhead with Cherry Ice-cream skin and a light smattering of freckles. Her cheeks glowed with warmth naturally. She had soft green eyes that said everything would be all right.

She stumbled around the bar looking for the Triple Sec and Margarita mix. She poured the drink stiff and slipped in onto the thick lacquered bar on a Cantina napkin. “What happened?”

That was all Clay needed to unleash his wheel-barrel of woes, “My wife of 15 years left me today. No note, no face to face, just this fuckin’ weasel of an attorney. Plus, I had to take my Rottweiler to the vet this morning. He’s in bad shape, getting old. And my best friend had a motorcycle accident last night and I spent all night at the hospital.”

“Will he be all right?” Mandy said wiping down the thick wooden bar top.

“The dog or my brother?” Clay said perking up some.

“Gimme a report on both,” Mandy said, “I had to put my dog down recently.”

“Knucklehead the Rott will be all right with a pile of money,” Clay said. “My brother will also survive. He broke a couple of ribs, but his bike is a mess.”

“I’ll ask Bandit about a good lawyer,” Mandy said and giggled. “He’s been married five times. I suppose that means five attorneys he’s been through.”

“Thanks,” Clay said, “I feel like I’ve been through a ringer.”

“You’ll get your say,” Mandy said and patted Clay’s rough callused hand.

—-

Marko worked out side the Cantina with their upkeep man who kept the Cantina detailed. They roamed the grounds looking for paint that needed touching up, rot iron that required repairs or landscaping fixes. The shop was open where the tools were kept and the thoughtful Hispanic gentleman drew a can of paint and a brush from the shed and went about his careful touch-up operations.

Marko was inspecting the grounds in the sunlight when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder. He spun instinctively lifting his left arm slightly in an automatic defensive maneuver. Generally he was careful never to be caught off guard. He faced the woman who accompanied her drunk sister to the bar a couple of weeks prior.

“Did I startle you?” Marge said in a voice that was brisk, but compassionate. She wore a form fitting white t-shirt with tight black spandex pants that looked like her shapely legs had been painted flat black. She was over 5’6″ tall and her breasts stood directly out from her chest . They weren’t big but well shaped and held tightly to her form with a workout bra. She had a hint of sweat around the soft edge of hair on her forehead.

“Working out?” Marko said.

“Running,” Marge said, her light brown eyes boring into him. She was standing close, very near. She looked at him in a curious fashion, like they were in an ongoing relationship during the infatuation stage, and she was wondering why Marko didn’t snatch her into his arms.

Marko was inquisitive as hell. He didn’t know whether to run his big arm around her waist and pull her to him? All the body signals were telling him affirmative, but he didn’t even know this chick. Only met her once, and he didn’t fare well during that encounter.

“Need some lunch money, lovers?” Salty Mary spat on the recently swept and hosed asphalt startling the couple. She was the toothless bag lady who roamed the water front picking up cans and panhandling. The lovers’ moment was burst like a pin to an over-inflated balloon. Marko’s standard tough, agile demeanor was rocked with sexual tension and Mary recognized her intrusion. “I’m on my way,” she said turning to her rusting grocery cart stacked high with plastic trash bags packed with her collections.

“Yeah,” Mark said unable to grasp a more appropriate retort, then remembered the five spot he found in the parking lot, “Wait Mary,” He said digging deep in his work out pants, “Here,” he said his voice box still tied in knots.

Mary stepped forward and took the money gratefully, shoving it deeply in a small tattered leather hand bag. Usually she would try to kick off some meaningless conversation about cops picking on her, but when she looked in Marge’s eyes she recognized the passionate steam rising in the young slender girls torso. Sex was pulsating around her like radar beams from a war ship. Mary backed off, scratched her ruffled mane of gray hair, bowed slightly and stumbled away pushing the cart. Her feet were graced with two completely different shoes, her thin ankles wrapped in rags to keep her warm while she slept on concrete.

Marko looked at Mary like a symbol of how life can turn on you in the blink of an eye. One wrong drink, one terrible temptation to snort an unknown drug, one wrong wicked relationship that destroys a person forever. It made him shutter and avoid all three.

Marge looked at the woman as if in a Zen session. She was disturbing Marge’s Wa, her area of pleasure. Marge was less the philosophical scholar haunted by the history of others. She wanted the distraction to disappear like a disgruntled parent wants a yapping teenager to go outside. Marge knew what she desired and dismissed the vision of the down-and-out and turned back to Marko. The second she had his full attention she touched his arm and cemented her gaze to his. She was on a sexual mission.

——

Inside Mandy washed glasses from the bustling lunch service and broke one from time to time as she listened to Clay ramble about his wife. He was torn and the news was just beginning to set in. He was so deeply startled by the revelation that his sensors that edited his stories from one woman to another were turned off. He blithered unencumbered by his attraction to the redhead. He needed a pair of ears to listen. He downed the Gold Margarita and ordered another, then began to spill his guts again.

“I’ve been married 15 years and unhappy most of the time. I’ve had more affairs than I can count,” Clay began, and Mandy’s ears perked. “I had one girlfriend for over seven years. She recently dumped me. Didn’t even call, she just dropped me a note, and now this,” Clay’s head drooped closer to the polished bar top.

Mandy didn’t know what to say or do. Her concern for the man’s dour day had slipped into the trash can with the peanut shells, cigarette butts and busted beer bottles.

“I know,” Clay said lifting his face to rest his blue eyes on Mandys hardened features. “I’m not worth the powder to blow me to hell.”

“It’s the honesty thing,” Mandy said.

“I know,” Clay said and his face turned ashen as if suddenly he would light up his scooter and ride off a cliff.

“No,” Mandy said, “You don’t understand. I do. You rarely can be honest with a woman. It forces men to find other outlets for their natural drives.”

Clay looked at her astounded.

———-

“I’ve got some work to do,” Marko said turning, but sensing every millimeter of her lingering touch on his triceps.

“Mind if I hang with you?” Marge said following him into the shop that was used to house motorcycles when customers were too drunk to ride. It was the size of a three-car garage, but only one door was open. Marko strolled deep into the garage where his bike and the work bench was located. She was stride by stride with him. She seemed to be magically and magnetically attached.

When Marko reached the bench, he turned and she slide up next to him. He immediately felt her nipples pressed against his chest. He recognized that she was a sign of the times. Not a sign he rejected, but appalled. The sexually aggressive female. He didn’t turn her down so she pressed in closer until their lips met.

They hadn’t exchanged a dozen words, yet a novel in body language, touch, chemistry and pheromone dueling. They were two tingling beasts who found their match. Marko wasn’t one to play by chemistry. He had been in love once and was dumped. That was enough for him. He hit on chicks for limited sex and moved on. That was the extent of his involvement, but this hit him like a heroin packed needle. As he pressed her tight muscular torso against his equally toned body his bone marrow began to melt. It was a foreign reaction, but a damn pleasant one. He pulled her tighter to him and ran his hands over her smooth ass as his tongue searched her mouth for the meaning of life.

As she felt his erection grow against her toned stomach muscles, she noticed her soft shaved mound arch and reach for his member. Her back was against the bench and with her mouth a suction cup against his bearded face she worked her elastic pants down over her pliable thighs while kicking off her tennies. In a matter of seconds she was nude from the waist down and Marko’s hands slipped into an area of pleasure so overwhelming that man cannot describe the touch of a woman’s ass.

Marko grabbed the sheet that covered his chopper, quickly folding it and laid the soft cloth on the bench. With their mouths locked in the dance of tongues, he lifted her to the top of the bench and drop his sweats. She was so wet he slipped neatly into her as if they had been lovers for years.

Simultaneously they sighed, engulfed in a level of pleasure only new lovers understand. The break from lip contact allowed Marge to yank at the hem of her top and pull the tight white shirt and athletic bra over her head, tossing it down the stainless steel topped bench. For the first time he saw her jutting breasts as he thrust into her naked form on a Friday afternoon in broad daylight in the Cantina garage. For them, there was no clock, no riders pulling up outside the bar for a beer, no workman wandering dangerously close to the open garage door, no daylight, just them connected in a way that removed the rest of the earth from their sexual galaxy. It was just the two to them memorizing every sensation, touch, smell, feel and thrust. She came the first time in less than a minute. “Don’t stop, Marko,” She murmured almost unconscious, “please don’t stop.”

He didn’t want to as he looked at her wonderful form, her bouncing boobs and her euphoric facial features. He didn’t ever want to stop. He wanted it to never end…

—

Clay looked at Mandy dismayed. For the first time in his life, he was rapidly scrambling into a deep depression that was kicked in the ass several weeks ago when he received a ?Dear John? letter from his seven year old fling. The girl was tight, nice and married. She was in a crappy relationship, but other than sex, she had little to offer Clay. He had been married for 15 years to an attractive professional who unknowingly gave him all the financial freedom in the world to hunt the opposite sex while bouncing from one part time gig to another. His wife thought he was playing with his motorcycle, if he wasn’t working.

At first he didn’t think that loosing this girl would bother him, but it did. He was still screwing three other women, but something about the relationship haunted him. Although it wasn’t practical to save her from an abusive marriage, he wanted to be the one, just didn’t have the balls to take the chance.

His life started to slip into a 45-year-old garbage disposal after that with one bummer after another. Everyday his depression seemed to loom like a tsunami building in the Pacific with an earthquake tremor on the sandy bottom that kicked a swell in the ass and sent it rolling and building for devastation once it slammed into the coast. Then Mandy said that shit and suddenly he was standing in the eye of this terrible emotional storm, his world twisting around him, but he was momentarily detached. “What did you say?” he muttered nearly unable to speak.

“Look,” Mandy said. “It’s ridiculous, and I can only say that because I’m not in a relationship.” She paused and looked around as if she was a Nazi about to give a secret to the allied side. “Men are built to chase women. We spend all our lives trying to lure you, then cut you off, once you’re roped in. It’s bullshit to take away sex, then get mad if you look somewhere else. If we were honest, we’d admit it. You’re just caught in the midst of dealing with the outcome of what is natural but not politically correct. It’s cool, you’ll get over all the hurt and be on the prowl in a couple of months.”

Clay looked at her as if she was the Virgin Mary and had cured his life-long blindness. Suddenly he was sober, gave Mandy a twenty dollar tip, spun on light boots and headed for the door.

Mandy looked after him, giggled and continued to wipe the bar down.

—

Marge screamed as she climaxed for the fourth time. Marko couldn’t hang on for another second. His cock was squealing for release with each thrust. It was like a high-powered automatic pistol and he had just stumbled into the perfect holster. He didn’t know whether he would die or explode when he came. His toenails felt loose and rattled as he began to shutter.

She sensed him swell, his taut arm vibrate under her grasp. Her wet mound quivered and she raced toward another climax. They perceived in their lust that the garage was enduring the effects of an ongoing California quake. Marko had never known such a responsive girl and it was a thrilling experience. He was a man of knowing. He knew every aspect of his life like the calloused palm of his hand, except the Cantina clientele. That was the only unknown. He knew his motorcycle stem to stern, his abilities, his workouts, his stunt work and his writing efforts. This was different. He didn’t know anything as his body shuttered and he began to groan completely out of control. She screamed simultaneously as they climaxed together.

Marko was at a mental loss. He wasn’t sure if he had died and gone to heaven, whether he would be the same man when it was over, or if he would be a mere fraction of his former being. Sweat ran over his body freely dripping on the cold concrete of the garage.

As he slipped from her body he felt scared as if his life source would come completely unplugged, but it didn’t. He stood there in a daze and held onto the edge of the bench as she slipped off the bench, stumbled, her legs weak and pulled up her drawers. He glanced at her glistening ass once more as she squirmed into the elastic covering. She snatched the blouse from the far end of the bench and turned toward Marko for final effect as she lifted her arms above her head and revealed her jutting jiggling tits one final time. Then the sweat soaked fabric was pulled over her trembling nipples.

Marko still had his trousers around his ankles as she came near, patted his dripping member, kissed him and laid a card on the bench. “Call me,” she said and strolled out of the garage fussing with her damp hair.

Marko tried to speak, but his throat was dry as a popcorn fart. Nothing came. He watched that spandex engulfed ass sway back and forth as she disappeared out the door.

—–

Clay made his way to his stripped Softail, unlocked the rotor lock and bumped into a lovely form as he inadvertently stepped around the bike to straddle it while he pulled his gloves on. The girl was wet with sweat and smelled of musk. She was in a world of her own as they collided. She looked at Clay and their eyes met briefly. “Excuse me,” Clay said.

She tried to speak, but no words came as she grappled with the small handbag that came loose in the collision. She walked on, but dropped a card from her purse to the pavement. Clay picked it up gingerly.

Her name was Marge.