#sex · Humor · Sexuality



The time I was a sex worker happened to intersect with the era of custom motorcycle TV shows. Choppers were everywhere, and all the rich douchebags at the time had to have one. None of them could ride the damn things. I grew up with motocross and street bikes, and it was pretty difficult to hide my disgust at the Hells Angels wannabes. It was all I could do not to shout at these freaks, “Sorry about your DICK” as they wobbled by me on the street. It was only a matter of time before one of these tools called for an appointment. Standard operating procedure is that you talk to the client to get a feel for what they want, how they want it, and if they’re the law. This guy had a reference from another area escort I knew fairly well. Blah blah lawyer blah blah, money no object, blah blah. He had a special request, that he wanted to fuck on his new custom chopper. My eyes rolled so far back in my head he probably heard it on the phone. However, I was all business and said sure, ride it over to my apartment.

There’s precious few things in my life as an escort I regret, and this was one of them. My client pulled in on a gorgeous custom chopper set up from one of the top shops. This bike was mat black with metallic black pinstripes that made it glisten, stretched and gorgeous. The sweetness of this bike didn’t distract me enough to notice the rider didn’t even know how to shift the gears. He barely had it fast enough to stay upright. My client looked to be mid fifties, medium built, riding a performance bike in cargo shorts, tee shirt and Nikes. Said dipshit also lacked a helmet (to be fair, not required in KY, but I’ll still judge you an idiot without one), no protective gear, and the audacity to ask why I wasn’t “ready” to go. He was expecting something “sexy”, and I was in tight jeans, denim jacket and Doc Martens. By the slimmest chance I disguised my disgust when I explained I considered safe to be sexy and it was non negotiable. $350 an hour wasn’t worth my life. So be it he says, climb on, let’s go. Against my better judgement, I agreed after he said he had a small out of the way place picked out of town only 20 minutes away.

It took 45 fucking minutes to get to the appointed spot. He stalled it twice, and would have tipped it over at red lights if I hadn’t been on the back to put my booted foot down. This guy wasn’t aware you had to lean into turns for balance. I even volunteered to drive it for him, and was told sternly that he didn’t ride on the “bitch seat”. People on the street shot compassionate glances toward me, as it was painfully obvious I was on a bike with an asshole. The good thing was that he’d chosen one of Lexington’s big parks to go to. I made a mental map of how far I’d have to hike out to get a taxi. By this point, there wasn’t any way in Hell I was getting back on that bike with him, no matter how sweet the chopper.

The logistics of fucking on a motorcycle isn’t tough if you’re creative. The guy gets on the far back of the bike, and it’s all reverse cowgirl from there. The guy braces the bike with both feet down, and away you go. A good to fine motorcycle has splendid shocks, so the giddyup is provided. You could go doggie, but it’s not nearly as much fun as living out your inner biker girl/ rodeo fantasy. This is all sexy time if your partner isn’t a jackass. This time, I told my client he had to get behind me, in my best Dominatrix tone, so I could ride him. He began to get pissy, but I reminded him the money was in the bank, the tip was in my pocket, and I could walk away. He obeyed, shut his mouth, and the deed was completed. Of course, Mr. Compensating finished in short order.

I was tying my boots when the last bit of this farce struck: the bike wouldn’t start. The engine tried to turn over, but the gears were grinding. His answer for this was to kick and swear at the bike. At that point, I was done. He was on his cell calling a tow truck, and I was on mine calling my taxi driver friend to come to the park and get me. In the moment before I rounded the corner, he shouted, “I’ll call you!” No, you won’t, I though as I blocked his number on my cell.  After getting something to eat with my female taxi friend, I called the referring escort to ask what the fuck. She was astonished, telling me this guy was incredibly generous and cool with her. My advice back: if he wants to take you out on the bike, refuse or take double pay. For safety and sanity’s sake.


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