Mr Ducati

This short story appeared in DNA Magazine (Australia) in 2008. It was one of my first published pieces. Not bad for a horny little stalker with a keyboard.

The First Glance

I hit both the front and rear brakes at the same time and skid to a halt beside the flaming red Ducati.

The guy riding it is in a tight blue outfit and a smoky gray helmet with a tinted visor. I can’t see his face. Doesn’t matter. I’d do him anyway. Clothes on, clothes off, who cares. We could go at it right here at the traffic lights.

The lights turn green and Mr Ducati takes off. I twist the throttle on my black Honda and chase him. Missed my exit but screw it. I’ll follow this man wherever he’s going.

Subtle Signals and Obvious Lust

Yes, I’m a stalker. Or maybe just a sucker for a guy on a hot bike. I’m sure he gave me the eye earlier. Even if I couldn’t see his eyes, I felt the look. The nod. The way his helmet turned just slightly. That was an invitation.

I’m tailing him at 145 km/h, five meters behind. Another set of lights. I pull up next to him.

This time, he lifts the visor. Flame-filled blue eyes. I melt. I stare. He’s smiling. I lift mine. There’s this pulse between us. Unspoken heat. He wants me too. No doubt.

The Turnoff

The lights change again and this time I launch first. I indicate right. My heart thumps when he does the same.

We turn together into a quiet neighborhood. His riding suit hugs him like a second skin. I can’t stop imagining what’s underneath.

He leans into a corner and almost scrapes his knee on the asphalt. Sexy and skilled. Then I realised that I really want him.

I try to match his move. I lean. My knee touches the ground. I start to wobble. Too much lean. Not enough recovery. The kerb comes fast. So do the bins.

The Crash

I hit the green bins. Garbage explodes around me. I’m in it. Under it. Rubbish, slime, shame.

There’s goo on my visor. I can’t see much, but I know what I look like. I’m that idiot on someone’s lawn, tangled in trash, covered in banana peels and humiliation.

Please don’t come back, Mr Ducati. Let me die here in this compost heap of bad decisions.

Of Course He Comes Back

He does. Of course he does. His shadow blocks the sun as he reaches down for my hand.

I try to stand but slip on something disgusting. I yank him down instead. Another bin crashes onto us. More garbage. More mortification.

He starts laughing. I do too. It’s actually funny in the worst possible way.

This isn’t exactly how I imagined him on top of me. But here we are. We lay there, covered in filth, laughing like lunatics.

Clean-Up Duty

Eventually he gets up and helps me to my feet. We check the bikes. Miraculously, no damage. My gear’s fine too, thanks to the soft landing on the lawn.

We pick up as much rubbish as we can and shove it back into the bins.

He tells me he lives nearby and offers his shower. I say yes before he even finishes the sentence.

Towel Time

I follow him home. In the garage we strip down to underwear and I finally get a good look. Worth the crash. Worth the slime. Hotter than his bike. Maybe hotter than the sun.

He gives me a towel and points me to the shower. I suggest we share it. He laughs and says he’ll wash our gear instead.

Fine. I shower. Come out wrapped in a towel and watch him disappear into the bathroom. I hang the gear to dry and wait.

The Familiar Stranger

We sit on his patio, wrapped in towels, sipping coffee. Talking like we didn’t just meet in the middle of traffic and a garbage heap.

Then it hits me. We’ve met before. At a gay bar. He remembers too.

He tells me he’s newly single and not looking for anything serious, but he’s open to a riding buddy.

I pretend I don’t immediately wish he meant a different kind of riding.

But there’s a look. A pause. A maybe. If I’m patient.

I’ve already gone 30 kilometers off course chasing this man. I figure I can wait a little longer.

See more stories like this in Memoir & Real Life category.