Pussy Venom Story by Anonymous

My name is David. And I love bikes. This is my story.

The sound of the bikes in the distance made me shiver. They were coming. The whole gang, by the sound of it. I couldn't stop watching the horizon. I could just picture them cresting the black asphalt, cutting the twilight blue sky with their silhouettes, their speed and their power exhilarating even from a distance.

I stood up from the bench and tried to ignore the flutter in my stomach. I knew I was crushing the plastic cup in my hand, but I didn't care, not at this very moment. I saw the people on the benches further down begin to stir, to button their jackets, adjust their scarves, and stand, one by one, in singles and in groups. I loved this. How all of us were here to pay homage. To worship the riders of bikes. To listen to that particular music. To admire the muscle.

Then they were upon us. The whole gang, in their skin-tight lycra, the tiny chinks and clinks of their bicycle's metal frames a sound like tiny bells beneath the whisper of the slim tires against the road. I almost forgot myself. I almost forgot my moment to worship them. My arm jerked forward as a biker with dark hair and a blue helmet swerved near to me, reaching, reaching as if for the very heart that banged in my chest. He took the cup of sports drink directly from my hand. His sweating fingers brushed mine. The tattered fabric of his gloves slid across my skin, making me breathless with the intensity of the contact. And the cup was gone.

The sound of the bikes disappearing into the distance made me shiver. God, they were beautiful. Watching the whole gang leave made me feel weak. Weaker than anyone would believe, given my 6'2" frame, leather pants, chains, and bulky black leather 'Pussy Venom' jacket.