Everyone from feminist scholars to third-rate rock stars has identified motorcycles as potent metaphors for sex. The speed, the danger, the leather clothing, the excitement of a good ride are all very similar to the sensations most of us associate with great sex. And who would argue that a Ducati 998 isn't every bit as gorgeous as a naked woman, or that the rush of going knee down or carrying a sick second-gear wheelie isn't orgasmic? Motorcycles are damn sexy. So guys, it goes without saying that the motorcycle you ride makes a powerful statement about your sexual prowess. Quit snickering--you'd be surprised at how much a savvy woman who rides (and what savvy woman doesn't?) can tell about your skills between the sheets by just a quick glance at your bike. For instance, intelligent women know that ratty stunt-bike riders make the best lovers. Their, um, "services" are in such high demand that they're barely able to find time to lube the chain, much less hand-rub 30 coats of clear lacquer. Keeping this in mind, it might be helpful to consider the particular statement your own scooter makes about your sexuality.
I'll start with those cruiser guys, because aside from a red Corvette and a pneumatic, 19-year-old "personal assistant," nothing screams midlife crisis quite like a chopper. Start with the pipes--even a nun knows a rider's package measurements are inversely proportional to the length and girth of his exhaust pipes. Other accessories can betray as well. See mudflaps tacked onto the fenders? He irons his socks and wears them to bed, too. Naked-lady murals on the tank? Never seen a real pair of breasts in his life. And ladies, watch out for Harleys with sky-scraping sissy bars out back. His favorite bedroom accessory straps around your waist.
You sportbike guys are almost as bad. A Gixxer with a neon-lime windscreen and polished wheels screams, "I'll pick you up for our first date in a jacked-up Cutlass with a silly sticker of a cartoon character pissing in the back window, and we're going to Red Lobster." Race leathers worn on the street are another red flag, especially those pasted with phony sponsor decals. You still buy Underoos from the little boy's department and play Dungeons & Dragons. Online. Other sportbike warning signs: fender eliminator? Castration anxiety, and he's only gonna get off if there are garden shears in the bed. Stealth turn signals? Subscriber to Close Shave. Rollin' on 190-series rear tires? See "exhaust pipes" above. And pity the poor fool rockin' a Ducati 9xx with a tank bra and a color-matched seat cover--his bike just screams cross-dresser with a possible secret diaper fetish.
Sport-tourers are definitely the worst, though. VFR/ST4/Sprint ST riders are perpetual adolescents--they play like they're down with the mortgage and 2.5 kids, but every other Saturday they're slurping tequila from the navel of some girl named Mindy and conducting field research on the "Mutation and Proliferation of Common STDs." And nothing says poseur like an adventure tourer. He's a wannabe rugged individualist who spends all night downloading maps of exotic destinations he'll never see. Speaking of that GPS clamped to the handlebar--gadget fetish, and definite robot-sex fantasies.
No matter what sort of bike you ride, it broadcasts a crystal-clear message about your sexual peccadilloes. Naked bike? Exhibitionist and nude-beach freak with more hair on his back than his head. Dual-sport riders like to get freaky outdoors, not to mention that they're not very good about washing "down there." If you ride a V-Max you're an S&M enthusiast with a flogger made from spark-plug leads. If you ride a Warrior (or other "performance cruiser") you've got the same S&M inclinations, only you repress these by coaching Little League on the weekends. I could go on, but I think you get the picture.
So where, exactly, does all this leave a worldly woman rider wishing for a motorcyclist with just the right mix of studliness and sensitivity to sexually satisfy her for all eternity? In my experience, wheelying off into the sunset, solo, astride an SV650. (Which, by the way, boys, is definitely not a girl's bike!) Most of you biker boyz are too busy standing around the parking lot at some Hooters bike night comparing one another's "camshafts" to even notice a classy babe like me.
And don't even get me started on those Hooters bike nights! I feel another rant coming on...