The image of women as leather-wearing, motorcycle-riding, sexually-charged predators is a vibrant mainstay in popular culture in my world. In books, movies and on television, women on motorcycles are glorified as defiant rebels, going wherever the wind takes them, hard-brawlin', hard-boozin' and hard-lovin'. If there was ever a phrase that brought a worried furrowing to the brows of a boy's parents, it would be "She rides a motorcycle."Some househusbands, sitting in the passenger seats of their wives' SUVs still feel a
little tremor in their hearts seeing a biker roaring down the street, her boy sitting insolently between her thighs on the leather seat, and think back to when they were younger, the fervent crush they'd had on the bad girl from the other side of town, fantasies about holding on to her for dear life as she gunned her chrome machine down the long empty stretch of open road to the American dreamscape. And, when she got there, how she'd throw them down on a splendid unending field of grass and then slowly, have her way with them.
No comments:
Post a Comment