Going to the place that’s the best…

Unlike what most people imagine, my experience with the Biker gang wasn’t fundamentally different from my gender rigid role childhood.  While i most fervently hope that there is one single Club House in the Sky, where all of our fallen brothers and sisters went before us and are waiting for another reason to have a cook-out.  i hope heaven has miles of clean ocean and rows of Harley’s.

My biological father is a biker.  The very best memory i have of him is wrapping my arms around him and sitting so close on the bike.  i didn’t have to let go.  i couldn’t stop smiling and swallowed a bug.  He called me Angel.  He smelled like leather, sweat, and a bit sweet from his pipe.  i wanted that bike ride to never end.

My mother said the only time she was happy during her pregnancy was on the back of his bike.

She also told me she’d get angry and literally kick his bike over.  It wasn’t until i was becoming Property that i understood what a truly heinous act this would be.  Any woman should expect to be beat bad enough to be praying to die.  It amazed me he hadn’t killed her.

So, biker is in my blood.

The first-and last-man i was with Owned me.  When i say, “Owned,” i mean that.  He moved me out to five acres of land, in a shack, two hours from anyone i knew.  The closest neighbors were close to a mile away.  i was unable to make phone calls, since everyone was long distance.  There was only one person outside of Wayne and the kids that knew where i was.  By design.  He taught me that men were very elegant creatures, and if you give him a chef in the kitchen, a lady in the parlor, and a whore in the bedroom=happy man.  So, the first order of the day, was for me to learn to never resist him in any manner, passive or not.

i also had to have a basic understanding of the hierarchy and what role women played in that.  i found it pretty interesting that a lot of the women would outright mouth off as they fetched the beer.  The men would all guffaw at her in unison, all except the FNG, or, officially “the prospect.”  Even the mama’s and whores could laugh at anything funny.  The FNGs knew better than to stand out.  Women had only one way to rise up the rank: be chosen by a man of position.

Back in the day, my Owner Wayne was Secretary.  It was an important position, but in his main group, the hierarchy had remained intact despite any current official ties to the Outlaws .  He informed people of my status by introducing me as “his ol lady.”  Most of the men were decades long friends now, in their forties and fifties, laughing about all of the shit they were still doing and getting away with it.  Unlike Hollywood portrayal, Bikers are no more one dimensional than any other human being.

Waterbed was the biggest, burliest, strongest man i had ever seen.  His body was built for sword fighting.  He had piercing blue eyes and a full red beard.  The poor got his knick name from his ol lady leaving him and taking literally everything in the house except for the waterbed.

i kept wanting to call him washing machine.  Heh.  He absolutely melted around his daughter, who was around five and in her bossy stage of development.  So guess who was wearing the princess hat?

My Owner was a poet and interpreter for the deaf.  Another man was a lawyer.  Several owned Construction Companies or did skilled labor.  A few were dirt poor, like we were, living in dilapidated houses.  All of them had various degrees of trauma, most having seen Active Duty or hadn’t been called up yet and had close friends die.  i think a lot of the guys would have lost what was left of themselves without their brothers and sisters in leather.  i hope they are all going to the place that’s the best.  i’m sure they are.

The women were all allowed certain access to sex.  It’s the only time i’ve ever known a group of women who universally got nailed daily or more often.  i can literally suck a man off in my sleep, wake up, fix coffee, get cleaned up, and am ready.  It was simple without a choice.  It was also a huge stress buster.  Between that and the pot, i was much better.

And then he went from belt beating me to punching me.  He punched me while i miscarried his child.  We dissolved everything.

Two years later, i showed up unannounced at 1am.  It was raining lightly and the earth smelled happy.  He let me in and i reflexively went to the frig for a beer, opened it, served it.  Finally, he broke the silence.  “Hello Babe, it’s good to see you.”

i told him i was in the middle of packing my mother’s house of shit by myself.  That i hadn’t slept in days and hadn’t packed anything up yet of my own.

The glint in his eyes told me he knew why.

i swallowed my pride and i asked him if i could leave and go back home to Florida.

“I’ll have to think about that,” he replied, and steered me into his bed.  There was no way out of this thing i had to do.  Since i had to do it, i might as well try to stay in my body and give him pleasure.  When i woke we were intertwined,  pressed tight together, and i realized that his arms would never be home again.

i knew what his answer would be.  A part of me wanted to pull on my dress and boots and leave.  Instead, i cleaned up and used his toothbrush while i made coffee.  His eyes were grey now, sad.  “You were always a good girl,” he says.  I instantly thought of all of the foolish, young, headstrong, stubborn things i had done.  i had to smile.  He always wiped the slate clean after i paid, and i was willing to pay whatever it cost in welts and tears to get there.

Simply, i loved the man.

He Owned me until that morning, when he gave me permission to go.  Consistent to the end, he produced months of surveillance on me.  Photos.  Times i was driving (3am)!  Things no one else knew unless he had me watched.  It wasn’t the first time, thankfully, because let’s just say i didn’t react well.  By now, i knew to expect it.  As i walked out the door, i heard him ripping the back patch i wore.  i turned to face it.  We both were grief masks.  He kissed my forehead, led me back inside by the hand, and we shared a joint together.  He turned on some music and we laughed about how i researched using the last twenty years of “Easy Rider” for gaps in my understanding.  We laughed about the time we went to a national park to get high and go skinny dipping while trespassing.  We talked about him stumbling drunk and still able to fuck.  We laughed.  And when we parted, he said he see me at the great spirit in the sky.

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5 thoughts on “Going to the place that’s the best…

  1. morgianacontentlycaptured says:

    I have never actually known all of this at one time in one place. Hugs.

  2. Tiggs at hundred acres says:

    that’s remarkably touching and sad and beautiful even though what he did punching you like that wasn’t…. It makes me feel conflicted.

  3. karida says:

    Reblogged this on Submission and the City and commented:
    This is my best friend jade. I can’t think of a better friend than here to have. I love her. Here is a little piece of her to share…

  4. […] Source: Going to the place that’s the best… […]

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