• Brian D. Hinson

Partying with Naked Motorcycle Riders

(names have been changed mostly because I don’t remember them)

As I waited in the Isotopes Park Uber lot, the rider called me. There was no doubt this guy was drunk and had little idea where he was. I could see his location on my Uber map, which meant he could see mine. I patiently explained where I was, which was no help since he didn’t know where he was. I could not orient the man to north. I couldn’t get him to see what intersection he wandered about. I couldn’t even get him to get that I was, indeed, at the same stadium he just walked out of.

“Dude, I have a ten-dollar tip for you if you wait for me.”

Actually, I was thinking about abandoning this hopeless case. But he finally managed to orient and find his waiting chariot. Him and his entourage of three.

Everyone was friendly as we took off toward the West Side. My lost, inebriated man introduced himself as Dave. There was a woman in the back (Dahlia), her husband Jones, Dahlia’s 18-year-old nephew Steve…and was there another voice back there?

Dave was an animated fellow. After chatting for ten minutes he proposed that I party with them back at their other friend’s house, the destination. I said I needed to be out here making money. He added that if I stopped in for a couple hours my tip would hit sixty dollars. That was a fine proposal, but did I want to party with these folks? They started off by annoying me by being too drunk. Dave sweetened the deal by asking what I liked to drink. And offered to buy me a bottle of tequila if I’d make an extra stop at the nearby Smith’s.

I stopped at the Smith’s, Dave got out and I seriously thought he’d forget about the whole deal but he came out with a huge pack of beer for the crew and a bottle of tequila. Reposado, just like I preferred.

It looked like I was taking an Uber break.

The West Side neighborhood was nice, the house quite large and well-appointed. That’s when I noticed that Dahlia had been laying across three laps in the back seat. There was another dude back there. This was not the first time I had more riders than legal space.

As we went in Dave slipped me a $100 bill. “I couldn’t get change. It’s all yours.” Wow. I’d really received a decent bribe to just hang out. It was on.

I was introduced to the hosts, a cute couple, early 40s abouts. They welcomed me and the guy rolled his eyes at the way I was shanghaied into the party. I didn’t mention the money. Shots were had, music blared, and I mingled. Everyone was a lot more interesting and fun beyond the confines of the Uber. Dave and I chatted about dogs. Young Steve was introduced to tequila and chewing tobacco. Jones and I talked about psychedelic mushrooms (his wife Dahlia grows them) and molly.

Truly, this was a fun time.

Then came the subject of motorcycles. I used to own a Yahama Virago 750, so this was another subject I enjoyed with these folks. Dave had a Ducati. In our hosts’ garage sat a shiny Triumph. Then came the critical nugget: Dave said they have a thing about riding the bike naked to the stop sign and back.

“What?” I asked.

Dave started taking off his clothes right there in the garage, lights on and door fully open. He stood there in nothing but his shoes, his uncircumcised penis hanging there, as penises do. He straddled the Triumph and scooted down the drive past my parked Jetta. He waited for a truck to pass. Slowly, the driver likely spotted naked Dave and paused.

And he was gone down the street, everyone in the garage giggling.

In a minute he came riding back, parking by the curb. Dahlia went down the drive to meet him. She started shucking her clothes. Once nude, they traded places. The owner of the bike (and the house) shouted, “Don’t you set that bike down!”

“I won’t,” she replied, irritated that he’d say such a thing.

Jones walked down the drive to talk with his wife. I couldn’t hear what was said, but after a bit her clothes made it back on to her body. I was disappointed. She got back on the back and raced down the street. When she returned, she was still clothed. I was sorta hoping she’d return naked.

No one else took a turn on the bike. And the party moved to the back yard.

I’m no stranger to clothing optional parties. Usually they involved the aforementioned molly and sometimes a hot tub. But this was a big surprise on a work night.

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