Disco Foxy

The year is 1974.

The American Dream’s been splitting at the seams for a long time, but nobody’s said the words out loud yet. I don’t know if anyone’s noticed.

I have. I notice everything.

I eat up the miles of straightaway on my Harley, shoulder-length hair snapping in the balmy Sonora wind.

Just me and the heat-beaten air, the Harley’s growl living in my teeth like a range bull ready to rut.

Time to time I catch a whiff of last night’s pussy on my mouth, and the scent satisfies me. I get plenty of it. But not always.

Sometimes, I forget about the Legend Club, the bull rides, the shadow-eating victories and think I’m missing some unknown thrill. Sometimes it’s a specific pussy I can’t quite picture unless I’ve had a few—floating out there on the hard-blown stream of desert heat, just past my reach.

I’ve left a wake of yesteryear’s sluts behind.

Isn’t that enough?

As the myth goes, they put me on a Harley as a baby instead of a cradle, and all the pleasantries of time and place got abandoned. Sometimes on the late-night rides I catch a whiff of breast milk. Shouldn’t remember what it smells like. But I do.

Proof positive I can sense everything.

And I’m damn sure of one other thing: surviving Vietnam did nothing to rid me of death’s stench. I know it’s in the rearview, but no matter how fast I ride toward home, I can’t see anything but what’s on my back.

I’ve tried to be decent. Solid. The war made me a solitary bastard. Women love pricks, or I’m just in bad form.

Right about now I can taste pussy and sour mash whiskey, and it’s still not enough.

Dunno what the hell is.

The road doesn’t cut it. That’s the lie I keep testing. Hundred miles, two hundred, the Harley mowing down the straight-ahead like it’s got a bone to pick with the asphalt—and the restlessness just rides pillion. Never gets tired. Never needs to stop for gas.

Vietnam gave me a talent for withstanding and an inability to be still, which turns out to be the same thing wearing different pants.

The Legend Club gives me brothers, purpose, and structure if I squint. Bull rides, border runs, and the camaraderie of men.

But there are nights—a few times a month, late, late—so black there’s only a few random star constellations overhead—when brotherhood feels like a loud room I’m outside of, pressed up against the glass with my nose smooshed.

What I want is a woman that doesn’t bore me before breakfast. What I want is a fuck that doesn’t feel like scratching a dry itch. I want one night where the dream doesn’t visit, so I can wake up with steady hands and an unhostile chest.

The Harley doesn’t care either way. It just eats miles and throws heat off the engine.

Until the rages rear their heads, it’s almost enough.

 

Miles passes, and a silhouette pops up on the soft curve ahead, right side of the road, thumb cocked like it’s a favor and not a middle finger.

She’s wearing slutsville camouflage.

I bad-idea her with my eyes as I whip by on the chopper—prolonged scrutiny at speed. Did she fall out of a Blaxploitation movie?

Five-foot-six, scrawny but tittied, smooth chocolate legs running out of a too-short skirt, ass-popping short shorts, white go-go boots, gold hoop earrings. A white T-shirt with leopard-print slashes.

She’s begging me to stop.

Foxy lady. No question.

Nobody in this godforsaken stretch is going to mistake her for anything she isn’t. She might be unlucky, but she’s not a slut. I sniff the distance with a quirk of my mouth, best shadow-behind-the-Ray-Bans snark engaged.

She’s lucky. Boy, is she lucky.

My Harley and I could run right over her. As I fly past, she looks up and meets my eyes, her smile