There was no doubt desire was the spice of my life, but I couldn’t help but wonder. What if my deepest desire was not for the object of my affection, but for the longing itself?
I now longed for Jackson’s approval. He was a very intriguing man, and the thought of being his sexual interest consumed me. Considering what he shared with me regarding his sexual prowess, my desire to be included in his short list of sexual partners weighed on me quite heavily.
“So what exactly is this?” I asked as I stirred the noodle dish with my chopsticks.
“Malaysian rice noodles,” Jackson responded.
The noodles were thin, orange in color, and were mixed with various vegetables, chicken, and an unidentifiable spice which all but took my breath away with each bite. In short, it was repulsive.
He paused. With his elbow resting on the table, noodles dangled from the tips of his chopsticks. “Do you like it?” he asked.
I nodded my head and forced another bite into my mouth.
“It’s good,” I lied.
I wasn’t certain, but I suspected everything he was doing with me was a test of some sort. As I forced myself to consume the fiery noodles of Malaysian origin, I imagined him sitting at a computer, Googling ‘ten most repulsive dishes of all time’ - only to find Malaysian rice noodles at the top of the list. Upon determining the food was impossible to enjoy, he searched for a restaurant that was willing to risk their reputation, the lives of customers, and a few million respective taste buds by serving the dish to the unknowing - or the occasional innocent woman who desperately desired to be accepted - all the while hoping the acceptance would allow her to submit sexually to a handsome biker with quick fists, a soothing voice, and an iron stomach.
I continued to force the food into my mouth, doing my best to wash away the taste every three or four bites with a drink of water. Soon, I was in a rhythm, shoveling the food down my unwilling throat no differently than a fat kid at an all-you-can-eat cupcake buffet.
“So, you like curry?” Jackson asked.
“Huh?” I said as I reached for my glass of water.
“Curry. The spice. I’m guessing you like it,” he said as he nodded his head toward my almost empty plate.
I swallowed the water, pressed my tongue against the top of my mouth, and attempted to rid it of the spicy film that covered it.
Curry?
Actually, I hate it.
“Is that what this is? The spice? Curry?” I asked as I dragged my tongue across my teeth.
He nodded his head.
“That’s it. It’s common in India, Indonesia, Vietnam, Thailand, China, Japan, Malaysia, Jamaica…I even think the Japanese use it in a few dishes,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I said as I picked up my chopsticks and prepared to force myself to eat the remaining noodles.
He glanced at his plate and plucked a piece of chicken from his noodles. I sat with the chopsticks dangling from my fingers and stared at him admiringly. He seemed too good to be true. He was articulate, intelligent, had a very attractive body, was handsome, and although he had proven his toughness, explained he would never harm me. The entire biker thing he had going on was enough of a bonus to place him on a pedestal clearly out of reach by all of the other men I expected I would ever encounter.
I gazed at him while he ate, waiting for horns to pop from his forehead or his wife to storm into the restaurant screaming, but neither happened. I studied his hands, his face, and his pattern of eating. Thrilled to be in his presence, and eager to make long strides toward my ultimate goal of finding out if the entire submissive thing was for me, I eventually shifted my focus to what little of my meal remained. After a few well-placed Kung Fu chopstick grips on my noodles, I dropped the orange stained utensils onto my plate.
Finito.
What do I win?
Jackson took a few more slow bites and laid his chopsticks on the side of his plate. After taking a drink of water and wiping his mouth with a napkin, he pushed himself away from the table and studied me.
“I want you to know something,” he said after a long but not-so-awkward silence.
“Okay.”
I sat nervously as he continued to study me, his eyes shifting from my face to my hands, and then along what portions of my body were exposed from the structure of the table in front of me. I wanted to ask if something was wrong, but I believed with Jackson the less I said the better off I would remain. As I began to squirm in my seat, he took a shallow breath and grinned slightly.
Just slightly.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Em,” he said.
My heart rose into my throat. I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply sat and basked in his compliment until I began to believe him.
“Thank you,” I responded.
“You ready?” he asked.
I wasn’t. As much as I enjoyed being on his motorcycle, I wanted to sit for the remaining portion of the night, admiring him, and having him admire me.
“Sure,” I responded, even though it was on the threshold of being a lie.
As he reached for his wallet, I objected.
“Not really,” I blurted.
He paused, crossed his arms, and widened his eyes slightly.
“I really don’t know what I’m doing with all of this, you know, the submissive thing. But I’ve always been a straightforward person, so I’m just going to say it.” I hesitated and bit my lower lip as I collected my thoughts.
“I like it when you look at me like you were a minute ago. It makes me feel good. And when you said what you said, the beautiful thing? Yeah, that really made me happy. You intimidate me, like a lot. I feel comfortable with you, and protected - but you scare me. I’m afraid I’m going to do something and you’re going to just snap and say something like ‘okay, Em, that’s it. Sorry, but you failed’, and I don’t want that to happen,” I said, my voice beginning to show the emotion I felt as I spoke.
He raised his index finger in the air. “The first woman I was with?”
I nodded my head as I fought back tears that were unnecessarily filling my eyes. I wanted him to want me so desperately, but I feared I would undoubtedly fuck something up. In no way was I in love with him, nor was I even close, but for some reason I wanted his acceptance, and it bothered me that I didn’t feel I was obtaining it.
I nodded my head. “Yeah.”
“She was killed in a car accident,” he said flatly.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.
He wagged his finger in the air as he shook his head. “And the second was in the Air Force. She got deployed to Iraq, and while she was there, had a reaction to a shot they gave her - some vaccination or something. She died a few days later.”
“I believe in God, and I believe God provides me with challenges and rewards. I’m not a religious man, but I’m what many refer to as spiritual. I don’t believe I have to sit amongst the masses within the walls of a church to be accepted as being one of his children, I believe we all are, regardless. I have my own set of rules I live by, and most don’t agree with me. I’m an Outlaw, Em. I’ve always been one, and I always will be, but I believe God accepts me regardless. Now, the reason I told you about the two former loves of my life was to try to assure you of something,” He leaned forward and exhaled sharply.
“We didn’t break up. There wasn’t a disagreement. They both died. Why? I have no idea. But I haven’t attempted to be with another woman since, and I really haven’t had a desire. It’s been almost two years since, and I’ve done nothing but wait for God to provide. Now, I am of the opinion you and me didn’t meet by accident, I really am. Does that mean I’m going to go back to your house and fuck you? It sure doesn’t. Does it mean this is destiny or some ridiculous shit? No, it sure as fuck doesn’t. But, does it mean I’m interested enough in you to give this a try? Yes, Em, it does. And, if it appears you’re someone who can put up with me and my faults, and I’m willing to accept yours…”
He leaned back into his se
at and reached for his wallet. As he placed a fifty-dollar bill under his glass of water, he continued.
“Well, I suppose this might last a lifetime, or until you’re sick of me, whichever comes first. But I can promise you this far in advance,” he said as he stood and extended his hand.
I felt better about our situation, but I felt sorry for him. I wanted to hug him, hold him, explain my beliefs in God, religion, fate, love, lust and acceptance…but I remained silent and reached for his hand instead.
“Along the way, I’m going to do things that’ll make you second guess whether or not you made the right choice,” he said as he positioned my hand on the inside of his bicep.
“When will you know if we’re going to give it a try?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll just know.”
As I gripped his arm lightly, I didn’t care what he might do to make me second guess myself or when he would know if I was capable of pleasing him. At that time I really didn’t care. During that moment, as we walked out of the restaurant and to his motorcycle, I was with him.
And that was all that mattered.
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Seven
JACK
June 13, 2006
There seemed to be something about everyone that eventually came to the surface and bothered me. With Em, I had yet to have anything she said or did get under my skin. I suspected in time there would be something, but to date she had revealed nothing that caused me to take a step back and wonder. As a result of the perfection she portrayed, I made every effort to expose a part of her that I would find unacceptable.
“Hand me the ratchet,” I said as I nodded my head toward the pile of tools on the garage floor.
After a short study of the items in front of her, she handed me the ratchet. I didn’t need the ratchet, I needed the allen wrench set, but I had asked for the ratchet with the hope of frustrating her. To be honest, inviting her to my home while I worked on my bike was done solely to frustrate her. I placed the unneeded ratchet beside the chrome air cleaner cover and gazed in her direction.
“Allen wrenches, please,” I said.
She reached for the allen wrenches, picked them up, and studied them intently for a short time.
“It doesn’t say if they’re standard or metric, which do you want?” she asked as she handed me the set of wrenches.
“Well, damn near everything on a Harley is standard, so this is the right set,” I responded.
I had purchased a small rolling stool to relieve my knees while working on my motorcycle. It was twelve inches tall, rectangular shaped, and designed for mechanics to use while working on cars. As I worked on various areas on the bike, the stool allowed me to roll from one end to the other without repeated standing or kneeling. In a short time I purchased another, because it seemed there was always someone showing up and crouching beside me as I worked.
As I sat on one stool and stared blankly at the carburetor, Em began to slowly twirl in circles on the other stool. Watching her made me feel young and happy - something I felt from time to time, but never as frequently as I liked.
“You seem to know your way around a set of tools, where’d you learn about them?” I asked as her face twirled past me.
She stopped on her next rotation and grinned as she responded. “My dad. I used to help him work on his cars when I was little. Well, I didn’t help him do the work, but I’d hand him the tools. It made me feel good to be helping him. This kind of reminds me of it.”
I nodded my head. “Well, you’re a great help.”
She grinned and began to spin in circles again.
“Thank you,” she said as she began to twirl faster and faster.
“You’re cute,” I said as she continued to pick up speed.
She planted her feet on the floor, stopped spinning, and slowly inched her way around until she faced me.
“Thank you,” she said with a grin.
I removed the allen wrench from the set and tightened the air cleaner backing plate to the carburetor bracket. After checking the bracket for stability, I glanced in her direction. Still spinning in circles, she seemed to truly be enjoying herself.
“Come here for a minute,” I said as I shook my head in more of an envious manner than anything.
I often wished I had fond memories of being a child and doing childish things. Forced to immediately grow up after the death of my parents, I felt the need to be a man much earlier than most boys my age. By the time I was ten years old I was taking care of my younger sister no differently than if I was her father. We lived in a foster home at the time, but the family didn’t provide any nurturing or love to either of us. Now, as a grown man, I felt as if I had missed out on being a child.
She stopped the stool from spinning and scooted it from the rear of the bike to the side where I was working.
“Yes?” she asked.
I pointed toward the air cleaner backing plate and glanced in her direction.
“See this?” I asked.
She stood from the stool, pressed her hands against her bare thighs, and stared intently at the bracket almost as if she were trying to decide if it needed to be reengineered. Dressed in her jean shorts, sneakers, and a loose fitting tee shirt, she looked absolutely adorable. As she continued to gaze at the bracket, she reached for the strands of her hair which hung down into her line of sight. As she brushed them behind her ears, she grinned.
“Yep” she said as she continued to study the bracket.
I tore my eyes from her and turned toward the motorcycle. It was becoming increasingly difficult not to stare at her. As time passed, I found her to be more attractive, and in ways and manners other than her appearance. As difficult as it was becoming, I forced myself to maintain a level of discipline and not outwardly express my attraction.
“This gets loose from all the vibration. Then, the air cleaner rattles, and it drives me fucking insane. So, you’ve got to tighten this up from time to time. Now, when I bolt the air cleaner back on, it won’t rattle,” I explained as I tapped my finger against the bracket.
“Good, because it drove me nuts too,” she responded.
“Oh really?” I said with a note of sarcasm in my voice.
“Yep. When we were at a stoplight, and at about, oh I don’t know, maybe thirty miles an hour or so. Didn’t notice it much any time other than that. But it was annoying,” she said with a nod of her head.
At an idle and thirty miles an hour was exactly when the air cleaner rattled. Surprised that she noticed the noise, I narrowed my eyes slightly and gazed blankly at the air cleaner.
“Alright, go back to doing what you were doing,” I said.
She flopped onto the stool, gazed in my direction, and grinned.
“I like watching you,” she said as she twisted her knees back and forth, swiveling the stool from left to right.
“I’m growing pretty fond of watching you too,” I responded.
“What’s the big guys name again? The one that came by the bar last night for a minute?” she asked.
“Sarge, why?” I responded as I tightened the bolts in the air breather cover.
“Well, that’s what I was thinking, and his little patch says that, but you called him something else,” she said.
“I call him a lot of things. But his name’s Sarge,” I said as I gathered up the tools.
“I like him, he’s nice. He scared me the first night, I didn’t know what to think. He’s huge. I mean you’re huge, but he’s like huge,” she said as she spread her arms wide.
I nodded my head as I stood from my stool. “He’s a good man. And you’re right, he’s pretty damned big,” I agreed.
She nodded her head and grinned.
“Alright, we’re done with the bike,” I said. “You ready?”
“Yep,” she responded as she stood.
I laid the tools on the bench beside where she stood and turned to face her. No differently than any other man, I wanted a female companion. Knowing me,
I realized simply having a female in my life didn’t solve any problems, and in fact, it created them. Having the right woman in my life, however, filled a desire within me completely; leaving me with very little need in life. In many respects, the motorcycle club acted as my means of satisfaction in the absence of a woman.
After spending the last ten days with Em, I was slowly beginning to believe she was potentially the answer to my life’s hope to feel complete. As I gazed at her blankly, satisfied with who she was and what she seemed to offer me, I decided to press a little further and see how she reacted.
“If you did something that really pissed me off, and I reacted physically, how would that make you feel?” I asked.
She narrowed her eyes slightly and scrunched her nose.
“What do you mean, physically?” she asked.
I did my utmost to remain straight-faced and show no emotion as I spoke.
“Physically. If say you did something and I hit you or slapped the shit out of you in response?” I asked stone-faced.
“Seriously? Is this one of your little tests? I’m not a doormat, Jackson. I may want to be your significant other, and I might show signs of being submissive or whatever, but that doesn’t mean I’m a punching bag. If you hit me or slapped me, I’d leave you,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
I nodded my head as I studied her posture. Now standing with her arms crossed and leaning away from me, it was apparent she took exception to my question. Satisfied with her response, and knowing I would never physically harm her no matter what she did, I believed I should clarify myself before she became even more angry thinking about it.
I raised my hand in the air and extended my index finger. “I’ll never hit you or do anything for that matter to hurt you physically. I just wanted to know how you’d react to the thought of it,” I said.
She gazed down at the floor and shook her head. “The thought of it makes me sick. One thing I liked about you from the beginning is that you said you’d never hurt me.”
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