Drunk cycling is…. awesome cycling

Drunk cycled home from a family do. Super fun. Yay family! Cool family.

Drunk cycled on my old bike, the one that looks like something a monkey might impressively command across a tight rope in something picketed by Peta. My skirt was almost trailing on the ground. And you know how long my skirts are…. it’s a ridiculous bike.

So this piece of junk has no breaks. I figured that out late, slowly, recently… because it’s a slow ass motherfuckin ride anyway, and it just came to me tonight that the only reason my bike slowed down at all when I squoze on the breaks was that I also stopped pedalling. The breaks are no more. Were there ever breaks? It doesn’t matter.

So I careered around a corner, in control of my destiny, free as a bird strapped to a tinfoil paper aeroplane. Missed a prostitute by a few cms. Skidded, used feet as breaks. Came to a screechy half. She was startled, looked at me, and we both broke out laughing. It was really cool for a moment. We were looking at each other, in stitches, laughing our asses off… both in ridiculous slutty getups, her covering her herpeous mouth (probably) with a red-taloned hand and me bent over the handlebars of my cockroach of bicycles, guffawing like a fucking lunatic. We laughed loud and ridiculously. I considered what kind of woman becomes a prostitute. What kind of life she had. But fuck it. Compassion and acceptance for all races and creeds welled up inside me. We’re the same, man. I wanted to shake her hand and tell her I thought she was awesome. But I didn’t. The lights went green. We smiled, I waggled my hands in what I meant to be a sort of apologetic, look at this world! eh!? Gesture, but obviously too drunk.. and that probably wouldn’t work as a gesture anyway. She waved me on in a slightly flirtatious manner. I paused as my boot floundered at the pedal pathetically. Feet got caught in my coat. Considered the prostitute. I just got paid. What would it be like? I could just pay her money, and she would come home with me. I could be like, I just want to talk. She would be all, you still pay. And I’m like that’s ok, I got the cash. And then… what? We scissor? No. Boring. I honestly would find women attractive if there was any end result I was interested in. It’s not like I’d do a guy either if the only thing on offer was head. Fuck that. That’s foreplay. I know, I know. I got married really young and missed out on the really fucking important formative years of sexual awakening. I never had anyone down there, really really really doing anything of interest. And all sorts of things. Fucking marriage. I married the first guy… no, the second guy… who ever reeeeeaaaallly fucked me. I thought I was on a bus and I wasn’t sure where I was going, but out the window I saw an awesome lay… and I panicked and got off the bus. I was too afraid of staying on the bus and maybe missing the stop. I fucked up. I missed out on a lot of sluttiness I would have loved. Men my age getting good in bed. I missed that.

While I was getting down missionary style, the ass became… expected. How? Why? Since when?

Before I got married, my having a fully waxed vadge was like, oh so porn star. Now I’m supposed to be waxed, AND into anal? Fuck that. I’m not happy with that. I don’t want that. Suddenly I’m a prude? Before I got married, the fact that I can deep throat was fucking amazing. It was a major achievement. I put it on my cv. Not really. I’m lying. But it was impressive anyway. I felt way ahead of my buddies. They didn’t know how to deep throat. I was so impressive… and now, it’s like, oh yeah deep throating? Whatever. Maybe. Actually I’ve never heard anyone say whatever to deep throating. But it’s not as impressive or exclusive any more. Damn I’m a dick. What was I saying? Ah who knows.

I drunk cycled home and considered bringing a prostitute on my handlebars. But I didn’t. Thank fuck. And then I cycled on, and nearly decapitated myself on a dog leash. This woman was on the cycle path and her dog was waaaaaay off in the distance down on the grass, probably taking a massive crap in the dark while the owner thought, haha! Don’t have to clean this up, no one here to say. What a dick. And I didn’t see the leash because it was one of those extendable ones and I cycled whing right into it. And made a strangled little cry, but my bike is so slow I just got a little inconvenienced and the dog owner apologised but it put me off my awesome cyclist game so the rest of the journey was in silence. OH yeah up until then (possibly source of prostitute’s intense laughter) I had been singing Prefab Sprout “Cars and Girls” to myself, crooning away, thinking oh yes hit me with that poignant shit right there, that’s it. My voice is not pleasant. But what it lacks in sweetness it makes up for in drunken volume. Oh I’m going to listen to it again and sing.

Ok people.

Just look at us now, we’re cycling! Some things hurt more, much more that bikes and prostitutes. oh wooo whooo…

Oh yes.


6 responses to “Drunk cycling is…. awesome cycling

  1. I swear in a past life you did something so horrible that the man who invited bikes cursed you for using them for the rest of eternity. That’s a pretty impressive feat. Getting cursed. For all eternity. I don’t think you’ve had one successful bike ride you always seem to half crash into something.

  2. I don’t write about my successful bike rides. But yes, I admit they are fewer than my crashing adventure bike rides. I only learnt how to ride a bike at all less than a year ago… it’s just when I have a few drinks in me, I’m fucking invincible super cyclist, in my head. And there are so many prostitutes in my neighbourhood… I’m probably super cursed, cursed to ride my shitty bike around like a special child while observing women no hotter than me who get paid to do what I can’t even give away for FREE.

  3. No I didn’t use training wheels. And I’m too cool and invincible for a helmet. (the only cheap helmet I could find has a dragon on the side and says “Mr Jason” on it for some reason. I wore it the first day because i was scared of brain injury but soon opted to risk the brain injury rather than look like this.

    • …. God dammit. Too awesome. I’d say I’d love you if I didn’t already know you’d destroy my mind in the process, eat my soul, and grow stronger after each man meal you consume. I kind of like thinking your half spider, just devouring the unsuspecting male. Those poor, poor souls.

      • I am no part spider. Dammit the intention is there to be a maneating powerful female with muscular haunches that can crush a man or an empty can of beans (that would be awesome, save me some hassle with the recycling) but I can’t quite pull it off because I inevitably switch back to needy desperate girl whenever my attention is grabbed by someone my taste of the moment approves of… I don’t grow stronger after my man meals, I whimper and fizzle out into something that disgusts me completely. That’s why I’m so awesome right now, my she-powers have not been plundered in so long… oooh I feel a drunk post coming on! But damn I walked home, no prostitutes were harmed in the process.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s