PILLION

Brisbane 2008

Paul and those girls. Just a handful of them, but enough for me to think that we could not be friends. Last night, I felt myself closing off, an irritable stepping away. But we are participating in a workshop together this morning and I said that I would give Paul a lift. So here I am right on time.

My motorcycle is high at the pillion and he has to climb up, tugging at my shoulder, but when he is seated there is a pleasant pressure of his thighs around me and he holds me gently. There have been pillions who have hugged so tight I couldn’t breathe or lean into a corner. There have been pillions who are taller and bigger and shift the balance subtly but unpleasantly. Paul touches me on the waist, but without pressure. His weight settles the bike more steadily on the road.

I once said that if my bike likes my pillion then I will like them, too—like someone with a beloved dog who helps them make informed decisions about their friends. A good pillion will be a solid friend. But perhaps it has nothing to do with friendship, because last night I felt the pricking of anger and I have decided that after this trip I will not waste my time on someone who is friends with the only three people in the world that I have difficulty liking.

It is Paul’s first time on a bike and I feel him tense as we pull away from the curb. The first stretch is always the most difficult and he settles quickly. When we speed up for the highway I think about how sexual the whole thing is, the reality of sitting behind someone, gripping their ass with your thighs, the trust that is involved in the whole process of riding pillion. I find myself softening to him.

We have barely been going fifteen minutes before there is a spotting on my helmet. It is going to rain. There is nothing to do but sit and let it soak through us: riding into it there is no way to keep it out. It gets in. Even with wet weather gear, which I have not brought, it gets in through your gloves, into your boots, trousers damp and sticking to your knees. I can feel twin rivulets of rain over my chest, finding a circuitous route around the swell of my breasts, puddling in my panties, a cold finger of water teasing me toward thoughts of sex. Paul will be getting wet. He will be cursing, he could be warm and dry inside a car.

His hands are on my hips. The warmth of his fingers burns against the chill of the rain. Despite the fact that I am still irritated with him, I feel his legs rub against mine on every bump, I imagine his hands sliding forward and I am ready for this possibility if it happens. I remember the nice clean smell of him over drinks, the musky body heat. Some people are just like that, sweating out their sexuality for the world to smell.

I know that if we stopped now I could turn around and taste him, lapping sweat and rain from his skin. I know the wetness isn’t just from the rain pooling in my lap. I so rarely become damp with desire, but I feel the little flutter low in my groin. The rain, the vibrations from the engine, the open road, and the memory of the smell of him.

At some point I realize we are lost.