When you pick me up from the end of my shift as a bicycle mechanic,
you grab me by the hand. My fingers are clean, but still darkened by
chain grease. I ride close behind you on your faded but well kept red
Puch Maxi, gripping your hips firmly as the pavement rumbles by
beneath us. We arrive at the Knockout, former site of the Odeon where
my friend's band is about to start their set. He gives us the nod and
motions to the bartender who pours us two shots of Fernet with ginger
ale chasers. We take the shots at the bar and retire to a dark table
in the corner to watch the set. The tiny hairs on the back of your
neck stand up as my lips touch you softly. You're busy unzipping my G-
Star Raw jeans. I slip my hand under your green and white cotton
skirt and touch your pussy through the black leggings you're wearing
underneath.