Monday, May 2, 2011

The Sexual Pheromone Of My First Motorcycle...

I was twelve years old when I got into my last fist-fight and that girl beat the shit out of me so badly it would be years before I’d ever ask another one to be my girlfriend. Her name was Angela, though everyone called her “Chicky.” She was the personification of a Tomboy, with the scrawniest of butts, the boniest knees, and a smattering of freckles across a smudge of a nose. Her hair was a mousey brunette, but my mom said you couldn’t go by that unless you saw it washed. She was the first girl I ever heard use the word “fuck,” and she preceded it with the modifiers “that stupid” when describing a bully who lived on her street.

I thought she was beautiful. We’d pal-ed around as kids for a couple of years, before I started to notice she was a girl. I got the shit beaten out of me for my growing awareness.

Her family moved away shortly thereafter and I asked another girl to the movies three years later. She said, “Yes,” and I was amazed at how painless the process actually was. This is nature’s way of bamboozling the male of the human species into thinking life actually works like this. I would ask many women many things over the course of the next five years (sometimes on the verge of pleading) and there was never a rhyme nor a reason as to why some said “yes” and why others would spit on my shirt and laugh. But it got to the point where I had an outfit made of teflon, so their venom and spittle would run to the floor without sticking.

I thought that riding a motorcycle would recast my image into that of a biker... The kind of guy who rode from place to place, acquiring honeys like bugs on a windshield; yet always moving on solely to prevent them from experiencing the pangs of a broken heart. My friend “Cretin,” who was once married for two weeks, explained to me how women would hate a guy who just left after a couple months, while still wanting him; but would truly despise some simpering wimp who was always trying to kiss their ass in a painfully enduring relationship.

“What is the difference between being hated momentarily and despised in the long run?” I asked.

“Being hated momentarily might give you another shot at it a few months later, if you meet her at a party or something” said Cretin. “Otherwise it’s about the same. But if you’re not there, what do you give a shit?” Cretin could run rings around Plato, Aristotle, and the planet Saturn when it came to irrefutable moto-man logic.

I was going through one of my occasional romantic dry spells (which I used to think could be fatal) and that damn 1975 Kawasaki H2 (which I bought new, earlier that year) was useless in remedying the situation. Real biker chicks scorned it and the only Jap bike that was getting any notice that year was the new Honda 750, which even sounded like real quality. I decided to get out of “Dodge” on the evening in question, and loaded the bike down with the usual camping crap for a couple of nights in the woods. On my way north, I stopped by my college campus, where a raging quad party was in progress. It was the first party of the year and there was a lot of new talent standing around. But my eyes were riveted to a couple hot-dancing to the strains of Led Zeppelin.

Actually, my eyes were riveted to the gyrating ass on the woman.

Her every movement accented denim lines executed in perfect curves. Her hips swung in delicate balance, like a sexual pendulum, offset by long hair that moved from one shoulder to the next. She was modestly endowed, but what she had was flawless. She was wearing a flannel shirt, rolled at the sleeves, and loosely buttoned at the top. She had grabbed a cowboy hat from some asshole, and it just made her look great. Today, I can’t look at Jessica Alba in “Sin City” without thinking of her.

She was dancing with a guy off page three of the Rob Lowe eugenics handbook. The guy was rail thin, tanned, and dressed like he bought his clothes from “Joe Cool.” I couldn’t help thinking, “What must it be like to undress a woman like that?” And, “what must it be like to see her move around like that naked?” While some guys would have been uplifted just to see her dance, the performance left me in the clutches of an acute desire with a jagged edge. In fact, I could feel it pressing against my jugular.

I went over to the keg to grab a fast beer, where a mob of the newer kids were filling cups with foam.

“Not like that,” I snapped. “Do it like this...” I grabbed a cup from the kid’s hand and managed to fill it two-thirds full of amber liquid, with one-third head.

“Thanks,” said the kid, reaching out for the beer.

“No problem,” I smiled. Then I drank it and handed him the empty cup.

To me, beer tastes like liquid bread... And man does not live by bread alone. I had a bottle of Irish whiskey on the bike and I wanted a taste in the worse way. I wanted to feel the bite of the whiskey in my mouth and its burn in my soul. But I knew if I went back to the bike I’d ride off without unpacking it. Two guys on the edge of the crowd were passing a bottle of Scotch and a joint. It was “Fast Eddie” and “Little Joey,” two social lampreys that had the low-down on everything low. One sold really shitty pot and the other sold anything he could get his hands on.

“Yo, Reep,” said Fast Eddie, offering me the joint.

“I’ll take the bottle,” I said.

I love whiskey, but not Scotch. The difference between Irish whiskey and Scotch is that the barley is malted in distilling the latter. And then the fine Scotch single malt is run through fire-blacked oak casks into which three dozen, unwashed jock straps are thrown. To my refined taste, Scotch is the closest thing to unrefined piss. But this was the whiskey of the moment, in my hand. I took a swallow for effect, and another for penance.

“I got some other action on campus,” said Little Joey. “Wanna come with us?”

“The only other action you ever had was with your left hand,” I said, with a laugh. “I’m gonna ride.”

I wanted one more look at the hottie in the jeans. She was gone. Presumably with the eugenic cyborg. I turned to go, and walked right into her.

She looked at me with a half-smile and a half scowl, and said, “The last time you tried this, I beat the shit out of you.”

I was momentarily stunned. Up close, she was far from beautiful. But she was desirable.

“I’m tougher now,” I said.

“I’m looking for something to drink,” she said. “You got anything?”

“I got whiskey on my bike.”

“Jack Daniels?”

“Better than Jack Daniels...”

“What’s better than Jack Daniels?” she asked.

“Jack O’Daniels.”

We settled into the shrubbery about 50 feet from the bike and passed the bottle back and forth for about an hour. She filled me in on the last seven years. She’d met the cyborg in a bar someplace, and he’d brought her here. She was surprised to see me. I was surprised at the dent we’d put in the whiskey.

She put her head up against my shoulder, and I breathed in the scent of her hair. I swear a woman’s hair is the source of the pheromone that helps men find them in the dark, or on foggy nights. Sometimes it becomes the combined elusive scent of their perfume, their conditioner, abnd the natural fragrance that is as unique to a woman as her fingerprints. I had my arm around her and felt the gentle curve of her slight breast. I told her that in my next life, I wanted to be her flannel shirt.

And then I closed my eyes, just for a minute.

The first songbird of the day was just warming up when I opened them again, around 5am. The slightly damp ground was leaching the heat from my body and some part of me ached. I was alone. Both the girl and the whiskey was gone. I stood up and pissed in the bushes that had hidden me from the street all night, and went over to the bike. The rucksack on the sissy bar was slightly askew. When I opened it, her flannel shirt was on top (and one of my tees was missing). I covered my face with it and took a deep breath. The scent of her was strong, but it would fade soon. She hadn’t laid a finger on me this time... And yet I still felt bruised. I imagined her peeling that shirt off in the middle of the dark street, and felt that jagged longing again.

There is something to be said about careening into someone’s life and then leaving while they still want you. But it’s much better to be on the careening end. I fired up the bike and roared out of Rutherford, NJ at first light. The late summer air is almost cold in the morning, and I shivered as I headed to a diner about 30 miles away for coffee. I would never see her again... But I carried her shirt on that bike for a year. I always thought I’d get the chance to re-install it.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2011


cpa3485 said...

Wonderfully descriptive story Jack. I have a few fond memories of girls and circumstances very similar to that. Between you and me, I would have probably taken a hit off the joint (while not inhaling) and had a jolt of whiskey just after.


Allen Madding said...

Another well written story. It causes me to recall a few ships that passed in the dark stories of my own. Funny how the whiskey always wound up missing.


Bruce said...

Its a fine line between just drunk enough and too drunk. Crossed that line on many occasions both myself and my "date"! No fun carrying her up three flights of stairs.What I'm hearing here Jack is that she not only could kick your ass but also drink you under the table (bushes)too! SAD

ADK said...

I've had a applique of a Felix The Cat glued to my guitar case these last 30+yrs. Given to me by by an absolute stunner of a girl, at least 10 levels above my pay grade, in a bar one night. Prior to this evening we'd dated a few times and, I thought, were getting on like the proverbial house on fire. That was before she decided to move away w/ her parents to attend college at the other end of the country. I didn't know it at the time but this was the very last night I'd ever see her. After a couple of drinks and some rather racy conversation she walked into the bathroom, took off her T shirt and unpicked the the stitching from Felix. She came back to the bar and kissed me passionately on the lip, simultaneously slipping Felix into the front pocket of my now very tight Levi's, and said, "I'm keeping the shirt, to remind me never to fall in love again". A long and wondrous time between the sheets later, she was gone. Thus ended the first, but sadly not last, lesson in heartbreak and failed romance. And I didn't even own a bike at the time. That summer sucked ass in soooo many ways.

Unknown said...

Mr Jack r:

I am as pure as spring water, as fresh as the breeze over the ocean that's why I can't wait for our first ride together so I can get to experience some of the rIEPE magic, firsthand.

Riding the Wet Coast

Radar said...

Damn, thought we had finally solved the panties under the seat mystery.

Great story.

Jack Riepe said...

Dear ADK (Chris(:

My ass is ten levels above your pay grade. I am going to try and ride this weekend. My results may vary.

Fondest regards,
Jsck • reep • Toad

ADK said...

Dear Jack,

Your ass is ten levels above all known human powers of description.....and not in a nice way. (:-0)

Unknown said...

I should stab you in the heart for your comments about scotch, though your appreciation for Irish whiskey is slightly redeeming.

The only alcohol I feel so strongly about is vodka. I spent all night drinking it in college, then spent a number of a.m. hours (I'm told) depositing orange juice and Rikaloff around my dorm room. My roommate woke me at noon, said, "What the fuck did you drink?" And I ran to the bathroom to have another heave, though I'm not sure why I bothered. It wouldn't have mattered.

Good story. Sorry to hear you never got to give it back, would have been better. Sometimes, it's better that way. You don't see how their later, heavyweight days ruin your dreams.

Behind Bars - Motorcycles and Life

Steve Williams said...

Mr. Riepe: Not sure if our similar ages or your possession of powers of universal communication but I swear you have a way striking chords of experience that I have forgotten or overlooked.

The scent of a woman's hair. I've not had the vast, epic experience that you have but I well remember the subtle fragrance of each.

Come to think of it, I remember the scent of each of my dogs as well. The last two, Essa and Junior, are outstanding.

Hmmm, from women to dogs. Something must be wrong with your writing. Try and fix that. I don't like feeling weird.

Steve Williams
Scooter in the Sticks
Follow me on Twitter

Doc Rogers said...

Well done Jack,
I've met a few like the one you describe (sans the beating). Sometimes those fragrances and mental images can last for a great while. Ah, but on the other hand, there is a reason that bull elephants at some point in life go off to live in bachelor herds ... not too disimalar from a group of guys taking frequent long rides on their bikes come to think about it. Chuckle. Out of morbid curiosity, what was your next bike? Thanks for bringing back a myriad of memories. Great story!
Doc Rogers

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Scooter In The Sticks:

There was a time in my life when I coulfdn't get laid in Times Square (when it was filled with hookers in the mid-60's). But think about it... One of the great pleasures of life is to bury your face in a woman's hair, on a still summer night, when she is sleeping on the adjacent pillow. And no two are ever alike.

Now we have two huge dogs here... Atticus and Scout. They are groomed every two months, which becomes necessary in the summer. Atticus smells like warm bread, all the time. Scout smells like coconut, right after the groomer's visit, or like fox piss (which she will roll in) the day before the groomer gets here.

Ther fact that you could equate the scent of a woman with the aroma of the family pets leads me to council you against writing romance poetry. The simile's will get you burned at the stake.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Doc Rogers:

There reaches a point in life where the older elk starts to give less of a shit about fighting over the herd of wives. The human male isn't all that much different. But there are times when I will dose off and dream of a certain woman, and the dream is so vivid that I can remember the scent of her hair... And I wake in mourning that I am no longer 30.

Thanks for reading Twisted Roads, and for writing in.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Brady:

There were times when I thought I had aggravated you in some way... And oddly enough I now think we are growing somewhat closer. I am going to miss you when you head off to Europe. Otherwise, I would certainly offer to meet you for dinner on my next run south.

I have many friends who talk about Scotch like it is Lourdes water or something. I have friends who drink odd stuff from Scotland that is nothing but consonants and two vowels. But it makes no difference to me as Scotch still tastes like shit.

I haven't had a puking hangover in two decades, but I have awaked to the horror of plastique exploding in my head. You know, I'm sort of sorry that one got away... But did you ever get the feeling that you were about to get in over your head? There is at least one woman in every man's life that he'd like to have another shot at, even if he knows he's lucky to come away with a flesh wound.

Thanks for reading my crap and for writing in.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear ADK (Chris Wolfe):

There isn't a day when I don't wish that you and Cantwell weren't closer by, on the odd shot that I felt like going for a ride. I am so looking forward to seeing the both of you this summer. I hope you are going to pull that old bullshit about having a wedding to go to in Tunisia again.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Radar:

Panties... Flannel shirts... And endearing notes written on bar napkins in mascara. I've gotten them all. And quite frankly, the world would be a barren place without them.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Bobskoot:

I have decided that for our first ride together, we will cruise 10th Avenue, in New York City, about sunset. You'll be amazed at the potential for romance... And the kind of romance that will leave your dusting of lily white snow with a fine veneer of yellow.

Again, I point out to you that any of my stories concerning a Kawasaki were 35 years ago. I'm afraid the short line that sed to form at the door has grown even shorter.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Bruce:

Let me remind you that a babe in the bushes is worth two in the bar. Actually, to my chagrin, I must admit that she did hold her fire water better than I could that night, and it cannot be denied that she did beat the shit out of me.

But I think her purpose that night was to wind up a few clocks and leave them ticking. Weeks later, I heard she found another swinging dick on campus, conned him into driving her home, and left him waiting at the curb.

Thanks for reading Twisted Roads and for leaving a comment.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Allen Madding:

I find it hard to believe that your life had dark stories. Yet it should be noted that the siren scent of the pheromone has led many a sailer to a rock-bound coast. I always started out with good intentions, but wavered at the flip of a skirt.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear CPA3485:

All of us have had a few circumstances like this one... But more than a few have gone further and some stopped short. I wasn't big on pot, but found a mouthful of whiskey to be reassuring, and nourishing. I could never tell how pot would effect a woman. I knew the symptoms of a good booze buzz, however.

I only drank whiskey in the months when the leaves on the trees matched the color of the liquor. Otherwise it was rum or gin.

Thanks for being the first to write in.

Fondest regards,
Jack •reep • Toad

Ken said...

Ohhh man...that didn't end the way I wanted it to! Riveting nonetheless. Well done!

Steve Williams said...

Ken: Do they ever end the way we want?

Bluekat said...

You have a way of telling a story about boys and their typical rascally behavior, and come off looking like a true romantic.

You remind me of an old school friend, Ralph. He was an incorrigible flirt(and worse) and quite the charmer. My girlfriends and I adored him. No one else could get away with the shenanigans he did and still win our affection, though, to his great disappointment, friendship was all he won. (Well, there was our one friend, Pam...but that's a story for some other time.) Ralph gave me my first motorcycle ride now that I think about it.

I ended up dating his cousin for awhile, my best friend married his other cousin. Poor Ralph faded away sometime after graduation and I've never seen him since. Of all the friends from school, he's one of the few I'd like to see again, just to see how life has treated him.

Great story! I thoroughly enjoyed it!

Gary France said...

A great tale, beautifully written. Reading the story revived a few memories from my own past, both about my first bike and the benefits that came with it in the shape of the young women it attracted.

It must have been a reluctant day that came along a year later and you finally discarded that flannel shirt, along of course with your hopes of putting it back in place.

Keep up the good work.


Nikos said...


You displayed better sense than our future King Charles who once pronounced to Camilla the desire to be her feminine hygiene product.

How does Japanese whiskey rate on the R scale?

Best wishes as ever from you know where,N

BMW-Dick said...

Dear Jack:
You have fallen far from when you lived life without cutting your booze with diet coke. This was an enjoyable tale. Thanks for letting us look over your shoulder.

Cantwell said...

Dear Jack,

Wonderfully written. I cried a bit at the end.


You err, Ihor said...

,as Scotch whiskey is the finest product of the last thousand years. Irish whisky, or that from any other place, is a distant 12th in quality or following. You are no judge of distilled products. Refrain from ever trying Scotch ever again, more for those of us who are worthy!!

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Ken:

I wrote this story especially for Steve Williams and Stacy Bolt to prove that there were plenty of times when the hero did not get the girl. In fact, I am embarrassed to admit the number of times I was left standing at the alter, with my pants around my ankles.

My wild adolescence did not actually start until I was nearly 20, and quite frankly, it was as wild as the periodicals section of the Library of Congress. I did eventually catch up, but that's an entirely different story.

Thanks for reading and for writing in...
Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Scooter In The Sticks (Steve):

Regarding your observation, "Do they ever end the way we want them to," the ansswer is "yes," but not the majority of the time.

There were three women in my life who got away. One, because she had a thing for roofers, and I am to a roofer what a walrus is to a jaguar. (I actually got to take this one on a vacation to an American resort. There is nothing like travel to bring out the differences in a couple.)

She got clean away.

And there was another who got repeatedly away over a twenty-year stretch. The true love of my love once described this situation as saying, "The only romance you ever got out of this was to get jerked off, and that was figuratively."

The third one was the affair of the century. It made up for five years of stalled adolescence. But the crash and burn that followed left me sick for two years. It wasn't until I met a certain woman, with a voice and touch like warm honey, that all previous damage was erased.

It should be noted that I lived with a few people, and got married a few times over this same period. If nothing else, I am an optomist.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear BlueKat:

Romance is like oxygen. If you look carefully, it is all around us... And you need it to live, or at least to live in a style worth writing about. Tell me something, was Ralph fat, or just a bad closer?

I learned one thing from "Cretin:" Every woman wants a bad boy at least once. And a motorcycle is a good indication of an apple that has turned.

I have met the most eclectic women on earth and don't regret a single one of them... Even the ones that left me in the third-degree burn unit. If nothing else, I came away with some really interesting stories.

Thanks for reading my tripe and for leaving a comment.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Gary:

Isn't it amazing how many of the guys who responded to this piece all have a similar tale? In fact, I'm betting most of them have multiple tales like this one, in which they get close to grabbing the brass ring, which slips from their fingers at the last moment.

I used to think it was just me... But now I realize it is every quarter turn on the circle of life.

I also used to think there was nothing quite as exciting as undoing a brasierre for the first time... But that pales in comparison with the first time a woman climbs onto the pillion and puts her arms around you. A simple twist of the throttle at a judicious moment can turn a casual embrace into a python hold, that can escalate into almost anything.

I never really tossed out that shirt. A clever woman I was treating to my patented "battered baby seal look" checked the size and noted, "This was never yours."

Sadly... How true that statement was. She thought it was a poor trophy for last place.

Gary, would you mind if I added your blog to my "destinations" list? I've been meaning to ask you for the past fewe weeks.

Thanks for reading my drivel and for dropping me a line.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Conchscooter said...

I have two theories: one is straight men despise gay men because gay men have more and better sex with each other. They don't have to put up with all this farting around asking her how she feels, flowers etc etc...only to end up with some irrational reason why a great friendship would be wrecked.
The other isScotch Whiskey is Scotland's idea of a joke that went wrong somewhere and everyone started to take it seriously. Far too seriously.
Neither theory has served me at all well in life.

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Nikos:

It is every man'sright to make a fool of himself before a woman, or several, at least once in his life. However, this scenario is best played out in total privacy — especially if you have friends like mine — who will remind him (or you) of it forever.

It is also recommended that public displays of loopiness be kept to a minimum, especially if you go around in a uniform that would become an 18th century French admiral or the doorman to a ritzy 5th Avenue address. I make no reference to Camilla as the woman may possess skills not readily apparent.

Your kind comment has called to my maggot-ridden mind another story that I will draft for next week. This is not the first time your comments have done this. Many thanks.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Mr. Bregstein (Dick):

The days when I could comfortably sip whiskey out of the bottle and ride off into the sunset are far behind me. I was a slow learner and it took me a few years to figure out where all those horrendus headaches were coming from.

Now that I have nothing to prove to anyone (at least not to anyone who counts), I feel perfectly comfortable drinking dark rum cut with diet coke. The days when I could swagger into a room like a moto-pirate are over. (Do you remember the time we rode out to the Whip Tavern for lunch and the elderly lady (with the walker) held the door for me?
I thought you were going to piss yourself laughig. Looking at me, it can be said that the mighty have fallen... But it was a low-side as far as I am concerned.

I think this weekend may be the riding opportunity I've been waiting for.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Cantwell (Mike):

Cynicism does not become you. Chris Wolfe can get away with it because he keeps to the shadows, and never steps out into the light. (Would you if your bike was painted piss yellow?) I showed your comment to Leslie (Stiffie), who claimed you probably did cry a little at the end, and that I should make allowances for your depth of sensitivity.

I replied, "Depth of sensitivity! He rides a K75."

Her response was "Then you should know."

"Exactly," I replied. I stand by my original conclusion.

I look forward to riding with you and Carl next month.

Fondest regards,
Jsack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Ihor:

You and Brady should do a regular broadcast on NPR, called "The Scotch Hour." During that time you could have audience members call in and suggest other things that give Scotch its distinctive taste: like gym socks, medical waste, manure, political speeches, carrion, and spitoons.

I think it would go rather well. It should be noted that St. Patrick invented Irish whiskey, when he drove a snake (or a divorce lawyer) into a barrel of Scotch and purified it. The last Scots saint invented fucking golf.

Thanks for writing in and helping to establish the range for future volleys. If I could only duck and cover.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Conchscooter:

Your comment gave me the first real laugh I had in a week. I once dated a woman who might have driven me gay, if I hadn't met her sister on the way out. I call this the "natural realignment of the cockroach mating ethic."

Your definition of Scotch cannot be improved upon. I want Ihor and Brady to copy it into a note book 500 times each.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Gary France said...

Dear Jack,

Undoing a brassiere for the first time is very exciting, but nowhere as satisfying as realising you have had sufficient practice to learn how to do it with one hand.

I am glad you kept the shirt.

I’d be delighted if my blogs name graved your destinations list. Thank you for asking.


Your opinion, Ihor said...

, has no merit. Irish whisky(note the correct spelling) has neither depth nor breadth. Along with green beer and Irish romance it is a falsehood that persists only as a target of ridicule. Scotch whiskey (again stop using the dictionary as a mounting step) has a broader personality and a varied excellence that far surpasses any other alcoholic beverage. Next trip up North I shall instruct you. Hope it's soon!!

Lady R (Di) said...

Dear Mr. Riepe,

Heartbreak... it get's us all. I remember when my BF of 2 years (during 10th and 11th in High School) came home after a family vacation (where his family went with another family who had a teenage daughter our age at the time) and announced to me that we needed to breakup. WTF?? I was devastated!

Even his parents acted weird which blew my mind because they just looooved me! Well, it all came to light a couple months later when the before mentioned teenage daughter started growing very fat! Next thing ya know... there's a wedding.

I got the last laugh, however, as my brothers love to fill me in on the life and times of Mr. Wonderful whenever I visit back home. Trust me... I was the fortunate one!

I did learn something very valuable in reading your post.
No more "what's on sale" for me! I've got to revive my secret weapon! (I wondered why he's been getting attitude lately!)

I'm just scared YOU'RE gonna pop in my head every time I reach for my shampoo of choice. What will I do then?

Your Honeysuckle scented friend,
Lady R

Cantwell said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Cantwell said...

Dear Jack,
I am a Jack-of-all-trades. Don't sell short my ability to use the battered baby [insert cute baby animal of the month here] method.

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Michael Cantwell:

I would never be one to underestimate your superhero powers. In fact, I suspect your repertoire not only includes animals, but insects as well. Do you remember the day you showed me the ant lions in the garden of my Adirondack house?

Actually, you caught a black ant the size of .44 cal bullet, and the damn thing had fangs on it like a cobra. As I recall, it bit you and wouldn't let go. Then you knocked it off into the ant lion cone trap, where it was executed by the inhabitant.

Then there was the spider demonstration too...

I remember them all.

We have to ride this summer. If you get down here on the Monday before he rally, maybe we can hit North Bowers Beach on Tuesday. Leslie wants to remind you that you are always welcome here.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Lady Ridesalot:

Please be advised that if images of me pop into your head while showering, then you are one of hundreds of lucky women. I suggest you savor the experience.

It is interesting that the last two stories published in Twisted Roads have evoked a lot of memories for a lot of people. I ike to think I can write about stuff that others can relate to... It was amazing art how many guys, and a few ladies, have found themselves in very similar circumstances.

A woman I'd been seeing once said to me, "I hate long goodbyes and suck at writing letters, so have a good life." It was just like getting kicked in the balls.

It's amazing looking back, however, at how narrowly some of us escaped getting the woman or man of our dreams.

Thanks for reading Twisted Roads, and for writing in.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Mr. Sypko:

Irish whisky (spelled without the "e") lacks only the bogginess of Scotch whiskey (spelled with the "e"). It should be noted that true Irish Warrior Poets would no more drink green beer then they would smoke a green cigar (spelled claro,claro, without the "e").

Green beer is consumed by fat, stupid American slobs on March 17th, a day they revere as it allows them to piss in the street with impunity, or so they think. It should be the law that you cannot celebrate St. Paddy's day without having to read two Irish authors.

The closest I ever came to truly delighting in Scotch was the last time you and I sat around a campfire, smoking cigars (maduro, without the "e"), and you poured me a cup. Are the trout still running in the D&R Canal? Wouldn't it be great to catch a couple?

Or are you beyond that at this point?

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

Jack Riepe said...

Dear Gary France:

By the time I retired from such things, I was able to open a brasierre using nothing but telepathy and my patented battered baby seal look. But life has other compensations now. Let's face it, sitting on a motorcycle and hitting the starter button always produces a little thrill, does it not?

And on the rare occasions when a start is not forthcoming, the disappointment is worse tha not having a date on prom night.

Fondest regards,
Jack • reep • Toad

I clarify, Ihor said...

real whisky lacks the 'e'. Can't put anything over you it seems.
I am past fishing for trout in the D & R Canal(horrid hatchery rainbows are like Irish whis..., never mind), haven't had a NJ license in a decade. I'm up for a trip to trout fish in the ADKs or on the Antietam anytime you are. Kayak or canoe at the ready!! Dave Z would be happy to oblige, I'm certain. Scotch optional, cigars as they apply.

Chris said...

Another enjoyable read Jack. Your responses to the comments were almost better than the story itself.

red said...

We didn't grow up in even remotely close time periods. Yet every time I read one of your stories, it's like I'm recalling memories I never had, from a time period I never saw.

Thank you for all the great posts.

fasthair said...

Mr. Jack,

Was this ladies name Alice? Today marks the third time she was waltzed in than out of my life. Each time that jagged edge seems just a bit deeper.

She did leave a tin of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies on my door step for my 50th today. The text message states they are safe to eat. Would you like one?


The Armed Christian said...

Awesome tale Jack. Really enjoyed it.

Hang in there.


eula_w said...

Enjoyed reading your post Jack. Maybe this gal is using pheromones.:)

do pheromones work