Brief background to this story: Everyone should know I love dressing up. Anything with a theme, I’m in. The weirder, the better! If it involves a wig, glasses, cape or chest hair – CALL ME. Halloween is my day of the year not because I can dress like a slut, but because I can look like an ass, and this is the one day of the year it is actually acceptable to look like one. I also can choose characters that like to wrestle, dance or engage in physical violence. It’s a win-win for everyone. Well, except for the person’s face I’m pummeling with my bare hands. “Whatcha’ gonna do brothaaaaaa?!”
Awhile ago I found myself at a late night dive bar. Mind you, this is not at all surprising. If fun is to be had, I want to be the one having it. As I’ve gotten older I’ve been less and less inclined to stay out super late. I can still manage it, but will pay the price for days after.
Ok, late night dive bar. I’ve probably consumed a fair share of rum and was feeling no pain at this point. Most of the night was spent giggling, dancing and drinking. Then suddenly I spotted what I have been dreaming about for months – a helmet! It was hiding in a corner of the bar, but my eagle eyes found it. I raced over to Mr. Helmet, put it on and begin parading it around the bar.
As I’m posed for a picture in the helmet (Profile pic! Tag me!), I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to face a bearded man who I noticed was wearing a jean jacket covered in all sorts of different pins. He was wearing some type of makeshift fedora as well and, if memory serves, a plaid shirt. “You like my helmet?” he asked flirtatiously.
Now, I definitely do not have a “type” when it comes to men. But if I did, it would not involve a jean jacket covered in funky pins from the 80s, 90s and today. Considering I’m drunk and he seems “interesting,” this doesn’t really phase me in the least. We begin talking, I’m sure he bought me a drink or two, then he asked me if I’d like to take a ride on his bike.
When I was little, my uncle used to own a motorcycle and I recall taking rides on it and having a blast. Fast forward 20 years when I’m drunk at a bar at 4 AM, I’m not sure this would be quite the same experience. Considering I was wearing heels, a short dress and he was a virtual stranger, of course I said yes. He even let me wear the helmet!
As we were tooling around the city for what feels like an eternity, I start coming to and realize this was probably not the smartest idea in the world. I squeeze him, he pulled over and I asked him if he could take me home. He respectfully obliged and off we went.
As he pulled up near my place and shut off his “hog,” I realized I was in a bit of a predicament given my outfit. The state of affairs was that my dress was basically up around my waist and if he got off the bike first he would see my jiggles and bits. I guess my chest was mostly covered, but he would definitely see my bits! Instead of waiting for him to dismount, I proceeded to spring off the seat as gracious as a hippopotamus. In the process, I feel intense heat against my calf and heard a loud sizzle. At first I’m hopeful he had somehow found a way to cook me some bacon on this magical bike, but then I realized that was not the case at all.
That’s when I felt the pain that is commonly associated with seering off your skin on a tailpipe. I’m still a bit numb at this point and, not wanting to seem like a wuss, I try to brush off his concern. I raced up the stairs to my place and gave him a wave (but no number), which I’m sure was no great disappointment, as at least he can peel my burnt skin off his bike as a keepsake.
Although I never went to the doctor, it was a pretty bad burn. Like, really bad. I don’t want anyone to lose their appetites, but there was some major blistering and leakage going on for weeks. Not very pretty.
But the worst part about the night? I didn’t even think to rip off one of his sweet pins as a memento.
Moral of the Story:
If you’re going to ride off into the sunset (or sunrise, in my case) on some stranger’s motorcycle when drunk at 4 AM, it is probably a good idea to at least wear pants. Or, at the very least, don’t wear a short, flowy dress that flies up the entire time you are riding. The only thing hotter than having to see my bare ass straddling a big, hot piece of metal is then having to smell my burnt skin residing on your tailpipe. (I’m a Greek – it smells like lemon & oregano!) I will assault every single one of your senses!