Chrome Deficiency Disorder
We girls are experiencing a terrible problem. There is a serious lack in this city—I don’t think it’s all of Canada, and the Americans seem to have it down pat, but—girls and boys alike, there is a serious motorcycle depletion in Toronto today. Where are our dykes on bikes? Where are our boys with their chrome stallions? They simply do not exist. If they do, they must have excellent girlfriends who are holding onto them very tightly, fucking them on the bikes nightly, and making them excellent dinners, with great fresh pussy for dessert, and therefore keeping them out of circulation.
Motorcycle girlfriends!!! Tell me your secrets!!! What do you have to do to get a motorcycle boygirl??? I first realised this was going to be a problem when I shot my first porn with the butch. We got to get heavy on the back of a Honda, maybe it was a Rebel, —maybe I’m just projecting because that’s my favourite model—Anyway, I’m fully addicted after getting to lay back, hold onto the handlebars, and ride.
So, now that I’m fully confident that a motorcycle will not in fact fall over when you fuck on it, I need more. Faster. Harder, variety, all the things that make a fuck, I mean, a toy, worthwhile.
What I’ve realised is: I Have A Problem. I think it’ s serious. I’m suffering from a terrible case of CHROME DEFICIENCY DISORDER. I doubt that I’m going to make it much longer. Since there is a relatively slim chance that I will win the lottery anytime soon, there’s not much chance of me getting my own bike. Either I will have to hustle for it, or improve my flirting skills. The latter seems more likely, if less effective or implementable soon enough for my liking.
I’ve attempted harassing some of my motorcycle-owing acquaintances for dates, lifetime commitments, I’ve even gone so far as to offering co-parenting duties, all for a simple, quick ride. I didn’t think that I was an overbearing or terrifying passenger, but apparently, that’s just what I am. Because, after months of no one returning my phone pleas, only one boy—I think he’s brave, you may think he’s an opportunist—heeded my cry for help.
But, as I said, I put the call out there, got a response, and I told the guy: listen honey, I’m craving chrome—probably a too-obvious reference to the bike and not to him, but it’s true, so say it, you know…that’s my motto.
The boy-who-got-back-to-me tells me if I hear the hum of a bike outside my window, it’s him. Awesome. That very night, I began launching into my best Rapunzel act every time a vehicle went past my window: lounging in lingerie with the curtains open, thus being alluring and inaccessible, certainly titillating my neighbours, and hopefully a butch on a bike! It was hard work, but so is safely navigating a bi-wheeled hunk of steel with some squealing lady with her legs spread behind you, so I figured it would even out.
Anyway, that lasted exactly one evening, until a reply email dashed my princess’ hopes and dreams. It seems that Mr. chrome-provider who “knew of a very effective supplement which would lessen, if not eradicate symptoms,” (yes, Yes YES!!), the boy who would supply “a worthwhile, albeit temporary solution” was in fact unable to perform! For the first time I was cursed by motorbike impotence! Due to some namby-pamby lisecensing issue, my heater got turned all the way up, just to get unplugged before I even got warm enough to relax! And this was MONTHS ago, people!
cough, choke, turning greenish
Listen: I’ve turned to spray painting various object-de-kitsch with chrome paint and trying to cozy up to them, but who’s kidding who here, that’s no antidote—that’s a cry for fucking help. I need treatment, boys. Think about it, how easy it would be to make this girl happy. I mean really happy. And a happy femme is a grateful femme, and a grateful femme would be more than willing to grab those handlebars & ride.
