The Fake Harley

 May 1994

By May, school was behind me. I landed a job in a motorbike shop. I wasn't a mechanic—I didn't know a piston from a spark plug—but I could talk. I was a salesman.

To complete the role, I bought a prop: a customized 250cc cruiser. It was a budget machine, but with the heavy chrome and the low rumble, it looked like a Harley Davidson to the untrained eye. When I put on my leather jacket and sat on that bike, I felt a surge of artificial confidence. I wasn't the shy kid with glasses anymore. I was the guy on the bike.

That boldness followed me into the bedroom. We were twenty, and our energy was endless. We didn't let anything stop us—not even biology.

When her period arrived, we improvised. Sometimes we used towels and ignored the mess. Other times, we found friction where we could. And sometimes, if the mood was right, we bypassed the blockade entirely and took the back entrance. It wasn't about being kinky; it was a chaotic, hungry search for any way to get off.

But living on adrenaline has a price. Eventually, you crash.

One afternoon at her parents' apartment, we got careless. We locked the front door from the inside, thinking we were safe. We were in the middle of sex when the handle rattled violently. Keys scratched against the metal, blocked by our key.

"Clara? Open up!" Her father’s voice boomed from the hallway.

Panic hit us instantly. "Quick, hide!" she hissed. "I can't!" Clara screamed toward the door, her voice high and terrified. "I'm naked! Give me a minute!"

While she bought time, I grabbed my clothes and dove under her bed. I slid into the darkness, pressing my face into the dust bunnies. My heart hammered against the floorboards so hard I thought he would hear it.

Her father entered. He grumbled about the lock, but he believed her excuse. For an hour, I lay there in the dust, paralyzed. I listened to him moving around the kitchen, the mundane sound of a spoon scraping a soup bowl, while I lay naked on the floor. It was the reality of forbidden sex: humiliating, uncomfortable, and terrifying.

Our luck ran out completely a few months later.

On a quiet night, her brother was home but asleep. We thought we were safe. We were in her room, getting loud, lost in the rhythm. CLICK. The room flooded with light. We froze. Her brother stood in the doorway, blinking, his face twisted in shock.

I scrambled to pull the sheet up, muttering a pathetic excuse about giving her a massage. He didn't buy it. He stood there, furious, his hand moving toward the hallway phone. "I’m calling Dad," he threatened.

The leather-jacket confidence evaporated. I wasn't a tough guy; I was a terrified kid. I spent the next ten minutes begging him in a hushed, desperate voice. I eventually convinced him to put the phone down, but the spell was broken. The thrill was gone.

By the summer of '95, the spark had died. We agreed to take a break.

I spent that summer working at a bar. That’s when I met "Julia." She was a dead ringer for a young Julia Roberts—tall, radiant, and intimidating. One night, after the bar closed, she asked me for a ride. We ended up on a deserted beach, the moon reflecting off the black ocean. We sat on the sand. She leaned in. We kissed. My hands explored her body, and she didn't stop me.

But in my head, I hesitated. I thought I was being a gentleman. I thought I was playing the long game. I pulled back, thinking, There will be a next time.

I was wrong. The next time I saw her, the window had closed. I had missed the signal. She shifted into "friend" mode. It wasn't a harsh rejection, just a silent realization that I had failed to seize the moment.

The summer ended with no new girlfriend and a bruised ego. The hunger drove me back to the only safe harbor I knew. I called Clara.

The ritual was always the same. We met for coffee to "talk." By the second coffee, we were at my place to "watch a movie." The movie never mattered. We ended up in bed, sliding back into the comfort of familiar skin. We labeled it "Friends with Benefits," but the gravity was too strong. We slid right back into a relationship, resuming the cycle until the next break.

I had the bike. I had the job. But as I looked at the road ahead, I knew I was stuck in the same loop.