Women are an anomaly to men. A woman should just be another person, but she is not. Women are blossoms on two delicate feet, sex goddesses, play toys, objects of power and stature, and temptresses like a field of opium.
Some of them want to be all of the latter and some just want to be people. Take the sex thing and appearance bullshit and shove it up your ass. I just thought of an analogy: the Chopper. A sleek, beautiful, flamed, chromed-out chopper began as a plain motorcycle. Maybe that’s the root of our problem as bikers, the chopper and the babe.
I’ll tell you a funny story that might illustrate this lesson. I was 25, a longhaired biker roaming the streets of Ventura with members of the Question Marks, the Moloch’s, a Mexican club and the local club, the Orphans. At the time, everyone got along. We were just young guys building motorcycles, getting high and chasing broads. We had a blast and drank too much of everything. I may have been drinking tequila and smoking something strange that night.
There weren’t a lot of hot babes running with this band of grubby, smelly, oil-soaked bikers riding old, barely running Harleys and getting high every night. So, I ended up at a pad as the night got late. I sat on a grubby throw rug, leaning against a stained sofa, with a few other guys and all the good-looking, and even average-looking girls were taken. Hell, it was probably three guys to one girl.
At one point in the evening, I was crawling with sexual desire and the only girl in the room was seriously over weight. She wasn’t hot looking by any stretch of the imagination (nothing like Tracy here), but I was on the hunt and started to train my clouded energy on her round form.
She was blond and spoke comfortably and I started to lean on her. We had a taste of chemical attraction, but as my hands started to wander, she stopped me. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but the conclusion was, “We will both regret this.”
In some respects, she looked out for me and in another respect, she was a good girl who didn’t want to fuck around just to fuck. She wanted something more and even high, she stuck to her guns.
I rode a ’52 Panhead back to Oxnard that night and discovered I was too high to ride. I pulled over on a desolate seaside road, in the sand, leaned back and passed out for a couple of hours. Then I woke up and rode home.
On the way, I thought about my dad after WWII. He was a good-looking guy and the party was on. His first wife fooled around on him while he fought in the Pacific as a Seabee, even Guadalcanal. They parted and when he returned, hot looking party girls were everywhere. He ended up in Vegas where the action was high every night.
That’s when he decided he wanted something more, a good girl. Shortly after, he met my mother, Alma, in Long Beach, who was visiting from Kansas City, Missouri. She was good to the bone and boot tough. The rest is history. They were together forever.
Did I learn something that night? I did, but still made a number of mistakes along the way of life, but what the hell. I wasn’t looking for good, but adventure and I had plenty. Hell, if Tracy was the girl in the room, it would have taken a herd of elephants to force me away from her.
–Bandit
