by Hellena Handbasket
C.UN.T., Volume 5, Spring 1997
So there I am, unlocking my bike from a handy downtown bike post. I'm fumbling with my quick-release wheel, which, incidentally, always slows me down. My hands occupied with the bike frame, I clamp my knees around the front wheel to steady it. I'm suddenly made aware of a gross guy, sitting in his parked car a few feet away.
Hey", he says, and then again louder. "Hey!"
I look up.
"I wish I could be where that wheel was", he leers.
Oh. So the bastard wants to get between my legs. And he's eloquent about it, too. A fucking poet.
"What did you say? Though I already heard him. He becomes coy. "Oh, nothing, nothing...
"Yes, you did say something. Something very stupid".
After such a stunning intro, there's no telling where our conversation will go. As it is, we're cut short by his girlfriend/wife/whatever, who steps out of the bank, walks to the car, and gets clumsily into the passenger seat. She glances at me, then at her gross boyfriend/husband/whatever. Gross guy puts his hands on the steering wheel and looks straight, ahead.
I get my bike together, mount it, and hop down the curb onto Bloor Street. Gross guy and his lady friend pull into traffic too, only to be stopped ten metres later, in the inevitable rush-hour crawl. I pedal past them with glee.
Many blocks later, having lithely biked through a sea of troubles, I start to feel sorry for Gross Guy. Stranded in a stinky car in a stinky traffic jam, has already lardy ass getting lardier and lardier. And as for his inane treatment, well, can I really blame a guy for wanting to get between my legs? It is pretty excellent down there. But it’s a pleasure I only share with sexy cyclists, and with my sexy bicycle.
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