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Backroads

By: budnging2000



I take a shortcut down a backroad to get home each night after work. The drive takes me by a small park where the neighborhood kids play. Everyday, she is there. You know who I mean, the girl from your past that you dreamt about, except now she's a woman. Most days, she would sit on a bench that faced the road, watching her niece play with the other kids, but her eyes would stray to the road when a car drove by. Some days she was alone, but still watching cars drive by, more often than not, she was drinking a beer with a cigarette in her other hand. She looked out of place sitting there on a park bench with her hair perfect, those shiny nails, and a glittering rock on her finger that could finance a third world country. I knew that her house was not too far up the road, had watched her once as she walked to that same spot, her bench, in my mind. 

I knew her name, hell, every guy in town knew her. We had all loved her in school, wanted her, spent our youth jacking off thinking of her face between our legs. She was homecoming queen, prom queen, student this, student that. She had smiled, waved as expected when she won, but there was something behind that smile that seemed gone and hollow.

Back then, I had pictured her in my mind many times, her cheerleader outfit being pushed up by me, and not that brainless jock she later married. My hands had played across her tan skin to squeeze those pert tits, lips kissing hers, my hands fumbling into her panties, touching that place of velvet jelly inside her. I usually came at that image, drifting to sleep with sticky fingers. 

Now, she lived down this quiet stretch of road from me, married to Mr. Asshole, still beautiful, but sad looking, too. Every day she was there, a drink or cigarette as her best friends, just looking at us. I never stopped, never had the nerve. I started to count on her being there. If she was gone, I panicked a little, wondering if something was wrong. If she had left him, left me also. But, she would always be back, her feet keeping beat to a tune only she heard. 

One day, she waved. It happened so quickly I almost missed it. She waved at me. I didn't wreck, luckily. My eyes were so far behind me trying to see her, I clipped the tree with my side mirror, causing the spring to snap back hard, totally scaring the shit out of me. I jerked the truck back hard, too fast now... 'fuck' ...fishtailed, then went straight again. I was embarrassed and sweating from adrenaline. Great! Just great... she waves and I damn near kill myself. I didn't turn around. I jerked off that night, alone in the bathroom while my wife slept. I pictured her waving and her smile. Of course, she was naked now, her breasts tan, no lines. Her hips swayed as she walked to me, she smiled as we touched, it was electric. Her hands were cool, delicate as they touched me. I came as soon as she pushed her hands inside my jeans. 

"God damn it!" I thought, "Fifteen years, and I still can't go all the way with her." 

She was not there the next day, or the next. I started to think that she had wanted to talk with me, but after watching my near crash had thought better of it. Each evening as I came around the bend I sat up straighter, then slumped again as I drove by the empty bench. The third day she was there again. Sitting on her bench, drinking again as a misty rain started to drizzle on her. She waved at me again. I stopped clean this time, I had to talk to her. I had to know that this was real. I parked close to her, started to get out. My heart was pounding as her hips swayed as she walked up to me, pushed me back inside.

"Wait, not here. I wanna get in. We can go on down to mine, he's gone on a trip with his loser buddies. He called from Florida. It's all fishing and strippers by now." She climbed in my truck, her hand never leaving the beer or the cigarette clutched tight in one small fist.

"Do you remember me, from school I mean?" I asked her. 

"Honey, I remember everyone from school," she took a drag on the smoldering cigarette; "I wondered why you never left here. I was a little disappointed that you never seemed interested enough to ask me out" she smiled wanly at that, like she was going back there in her head, then she shook a little, smiled at me again. 

"Hell, you know I wanted to ask you out, but you were always with Mr. Sports, and I liked walking without a cane." I lied. I would never have had the nerve back then. 

She laughed at me, not mean, just a giggle. Then more loudly until she spilled a little of her beer on her T-shirt. Damn! A nice wet spot right on her breast. Right there! Thanks, I'm hard now, I thought. 

"I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you...Just thinking about him. How many times I fucked around behind him back then. I wished you'd asked me. I stopped after we got married. I wanted to be a good wife, no foolin' around. Things weren't half bad, but then he found out I couldn't have his litter. He never looks at me sober anymore. Fuck, he doesn't look at me at all now." She looked away at that last part, her hand covering her mouth. She blew smoke into the bottle, then she sucked down another drink. 

She just looked straight ahead. I tried to process everything I had heard, put it together somehow. He never touched her anymore? What the fuck? 'Cause she couldn't have his damn kids? Like I said, asshole then, asshole now. I don't have kids either, but that was by choice. I didn't touch my wife 'cause I got tired of the slap on my hand that usually followed, or the boring routine if she didn't. 

She sat quietly, sipping her beer as we drove to her home. The place sat back from the end of the road with no one else around for a mile in any direction. I have to admit her home was beautiful. With the money he made playing ball, it should have been. I can still remember the satisfaction I felt watching him blow out a knee running down a routine ground ball. Fucker! He didn't appreciate her then, didn't now. Now, he sold real estate, took trips without her. I wondered how anyone could let her out of his sight or touch. 

When we stopped, she slid to the door, turning to look at me. I felt like I was being appraised. She looked at me like I look at strippers. But when she did it I felt comforted. 

We talked about what we had both done since we graduated school a thousand years ago. She told me she had wanted to go to college, but he wanted her home, available to travel with him while he was on the road. She said after the first year, she traveled with him less and less. There's plenty of women available on the road… She said she did not mind really, he was lousy in bed, but she did like spending his money. 

I just followed her, picturing how her mouth would look, saying 'yes' to me. I drank beer with her, and after six, I began to feel a little like I was swimming, like she was talking to me under water. I blinked once, then saw that she was next to me. I never saw her move, she was just there. When she leaned in this time I didn't come like in the dream, I just settled into the kiss, alcohol I guess making me bolder. It was just like I had imagined, maybe better, with her insistent tongue pushing inside my mouth. I tasted her beer, the cigarette, I loved it. She licked me, my hands bunching in her hair as I felt that droning start in the back of your mind when you haven't breathed in enough air. We broke then, gasping a little. She smiled at me and her eyes got a little dreamy while she wiped her chin. 

"I've watched you for a while," she smiled, "I've thought about this. I asked around town what your situation was. You never seemed connected to us in school. Not in a mean way..., just like you didn't care. I always wanted to know why." She leaned over and started kissing me again. 

As she did this I tried to comprehend what the hell she meant. I was a shy, underweight goof in school, to scared to ever approach her. But if that came across as mysterious to her, then great. 

"I think you're still cute," she said. 

I felt, then heard the zipper going down and her hand tugging at my belt. My stomach got that fluttery feeling you get just before a hand slips in, your mind is screaming 'YES!', wanting it to happen. If I had been a little more sober I might have actually come when she pulled me out, instead I simply watched her. She looked into my eyes and gave me a small smile. Her gaze never left me as she went down on me. I watched as her head tilted to suck me in. Her tongue slipped around my shaft, her mouth wet and hot. I couldn't keep my eyes open as I fought that toe curling feeling of wanting to shoot off now. Her head beat a steady pace up and down, her hands on my knees. It was the most supremely satisfying moment of my life. 

She kept sucking, just her mouth. I had never known that it could be like that. I felt her desire, not just to please me, but to please herself while each movement was bringing me closer. At times, she stopped and swirled her tongue over the tip, her giggle muffled by my cock. I felt out of body, like I was observing some other guy getting fantastic head. I warned her I was close, that I was so close. Then she did something my wife had never done. With no pause, she simply reached up, her hand on my mouth, telling me to keep quiet. I erupted at that.

Every fantasy moment I had ever imagined with her spilled into her mouth. Her lips never left me, drinking me. I usually make no sounds other than a quiet hiss when I cum. With her I screamed, my hips pushing, trying to get as deep in her as I could. I think I slipped into her throat then. It's hard to tell when you are fighting to stay conscious. She kept sucking, wanting it all. At last, satisfied there was no more, she looked up then, eyes watery, makeup running. I leaned down, to kiss her. She seemed a little startled and tried to say that she still had some of me in her mouth. I didn't care. She grabbed me harder then, kissing frantically, pulling me down on top of her. I pulled up, trying to catch my breath. 

"Nobody ever did that with me, I mean, not after I..." she seemed so amazed, but smiled just the same. 

I cut her off with another kiss, my hands cupping her breasts. I felt her up like I had wanted to all those years ago, squeezing, pulling. She had no bra on, so I flipped her t-shirt up. I suckled her, my teeth grazing the nipples. They were perfect, Just Perfect. I circled them, my hands never off her, lifting, holding. She started to breathe harder, pulled me tighter. My leg slipped between hers, our jeans rubbing. The more I bit, pulled on her nipples, the harder she humped my leg, her hands holding the back of my head.

I could hear her whispering, "Yes… yes... sweet" was all she said. 

I dropped down to the floor, my hands tugging her jeans off, her own struggling to help me. She kicked them off, her breathing ragged. She had nothing under the jeans. I went around her hips, my hands digging into that sweet ass, that perfect heart shape. She was there, right in front of me after all this time. I was drooling at that point. Then I saw something I have never seen before or since. She was shaved with only a triangle of hair above her lips. As I watched as they parted like time-lapse photos of a flower, her wetness making her look polished.

I settled into her, my lips pursed in sucking her. I slipped fingers in her as I ate her, first just one, then as she bucked at me, cried out 'yes, yes' I slipped in another, then a third. I twisted then in her, reached around to her g-spot. She came yelling my name, then again. I was holding her up by then, greedy to keep going, but she started to pull away. I kept sucking, my fingers fucking her deeper. My other hand had been teasing her ass. When I slipped a finger inside her back passage, it offered no resistance, just like a hot knife into butter. I thought she had moaned and screamed before. I was wrong. She started coming in rolling waves, her hands beating on me, her words just gibberish and curses... Then it hit me, full in my face. No other woman! Never! Ever! She squirted on me! It was scalding hot with her body heat. Right into my mouth and on my face. I knew what it was, had heard of it, never thought it was real. I got hard again, harder than I had since I was sixteen. 

She fell to the floor as she rode out the waves. I was soaked. My shirt, drenched with the liquid she had just given me. I felt myself growing harder still, but I also needed to pee from the damn beer. I stumbled up, my pants still on, but undone from her sucking me. I knew that I could not use her bathroom if I was that hard, I could never bend it down that far. I thought a trip to the bushes was called for. 

"I'll be right back" I kissed her and stepped outside. 

There was a stand of trees just off the side of her home, so I went over to them, fishing it out to relieve myself. I was still as stiff as a piece or iron. Next thing I knew, she was next to me still naked from the waist down. I jumped when I felt her hands on my hips. 

"What are you doing out here, why'd you go?" she pouted. 

"I have to pee, honey, but you made me hard again, I...I can't get it down so I was just gonna pee out here" I said. 

"Oh...oh...Ohhhhh..."She giggled at first, then laughing till tears started at her eyes. 

She gave me the giggles just watching her, which only made it worse. Finally, she stopped and then stepped up closer to me. 

"Uummmmmm......let me.....lemme...hold it when you do it...okay?" she whispered in my ear, her hand snaking around me. I had thought I was hard before, wrong. "I wanna feel it, He'd never let me do this, hold it, I mean." She nodded at me, "Do it...do it...do it...pee" 

I trusted her, trusted her voice. Hell, we all pee, but I had the hottest woman I have ever known holding my cock when I did it. Her hand on me was that same cool touch of my dreams, I relaxed and let go. She enjoyed it, making me shoot up and down. I got harder still. The beer gone, she giggled, shaking me like I told her, her grip hard on her new toy. Satisfied, she turned me a little then, bending at the waist, sucking me back in her mouth. She sucked then popped off, a loud 'smack' as she did it, smiling at me. She held my prick then like you do a dog's leash, pulling me to the porch. She squatted down, taking my shoes, socks, pants off. I stripped off my shirt as she worked below. We were both naked finally. The day was hot and the fine drizzle of rain cooled us off. She knelt on the porch bench with her head on the pillow and her ass in the air. She moved her hips in invitation and I didn't have to be asked twice. I thought her mouth had been tight, but it was nothing like the feeling of spearing inside her, going in until my balls hit her clit as she pushed back. She felt hotter than any other woman I had ever been with. I started pumping as hard as I could with my hands gripping her hips so I wouldn't die. Each time I pushed in my hips slapped against her ass, the skin pale where her suit covered her when she tanned. It looked like she was still dressed. 

"Slap it.......slap my ass as you fuck me" she said, moaning on each pump. 

I hit her ass with a light slap then saw her flush and buck harder. I hit her cheeks again, harder, then another harder. Each time I did it she flushed again, the red handprints now accompanied by her yelp, the 'yessssss' she squeezed out between clenched teeth. I started to feel it coming, the pressure. I pulled out, now shiny myself, rubbing her with the wet cock that she has just been fucking. She spun around, pushing me down violently on the bench, bent over again sucking me, tasting her cream on me, moaning with each draw of her cheeks. She crawled on my lap, her hand reaching in to guide me. Joined again we fucked harder and more frenzied in complete rhythm. She would sense when I was close, stop, suck me, climb back on when she wasn't kissing me.

"I want something from you," she gasped out "something I've wanted but never done. I've never trusted him, never wanted to give it to him". 

She bounced off me then, leaving me waving in frustration. I saw her fingers disappear in her cleft. I knew what she was doing, what she was lubing. She backed up to me. She reached behind, spreading her ass open, inviting me with her eyes to do it as she looked over her shoulder at me. 

I felt her hand on my cock, only now she stepped back, tilted her hips a little, my hands holding her open. I pushed up, the head at her anus. For the first time for either of us, I settled into her ass. She opened to me, pulled me in like her pussy never could. Each part of me was caressed, like a fist grasping me. I was in her where no one else had been. She leaned back then, her legs spread wide. She felt tiny to me as I held her up, bouncing her in tempo. I have no idea how long we fucked that way, it felt like forever. She had her hands inside her cunt, drawing her orgasms out, my balls wet with her as she came. Her arm wrapped around my neck got tighter each time she came. My hands were cupping her behind her knees, still pumping her to 'fuck me, fuck me, fuck, fuck.' 

I was shaking, my muscle control gone, as I felt myself shooting in her, shots that seemed to start at my feet. Each spasm made her moan, telling me 'yes baby, come,...come', her mouth on my ear purring. Not made for it, her passage squirted me out, the come running down her thigh, coating me as well. She stood up, unsteady on her legs. She reached down, her hand in the sticky white mess on my lap. She drew her fingers up, strings connecting us. She tasted it, smiled at me. She drew another, then leaned in, kissing me as before, pushing it into my mouth, still amazed that I wanted her to. 

She came back outside after getting us one more drink. We sat on her lawn letting the rain hit us as we kissed. 

She promised me she would be there tomorrow, that she would wait for me. We met again and again. It's regular now. I find places on her that she didn't know she had, she draws out fantasies from me that I have never even whispered in my own head. I have no idea where her road leads. I'm just going till it runs out.

Backroads, v2







Backroads, v2



The troopers asked the bikers to take it easy on their way out, and after a while the herd filed out too and mounted their rockets; they roared back up the road they'd just come down, leaving the diner all but silent --except for the rattling air conditioner.

The place was a mess now; it looked like a bomb had gone off in there, and the girl, Mary, came out and looked it over and shook her head. I was still sitting by the air conditioner, map spread out over the table and looking for possible routes into the mountains ahead. I looked at her again; she was maybe thirty, thirty five, her sandy brown hair was short, almost too short, and she looked strong, almost muscular. Not quite feminine, not quite boyish. It seemed to me she comfortably inhabited the nether regions between two opposites. She looked content, if not exactly happy.

She came over to the table and sat down.

"Where you headed?"

"Nowhere in particular. East, I guess."

She looked out the front window, took on that faraway look that defines the joining of memory to borderline discontentment. "That your Wing?" she asked a minute later.

"Yup."

"Love the color," she said, and I could tell she meant it, too. "Kind of like a desert rose." She stared out the glass door at the bike, eyes full of daydreams. "Would be fun again; to just point and go wherever the road takes you. How long you been on the road?"

I looked down at my watch. "About six hours, give or take."

She laughed.

"I just got the bike, a couple of days ago. Have some time off; thought I'd ride up to the mountains."

"Stay on 12 and ride along the Snake and keep on to Missoula. Go north to Flathead, then up to Glacier. Take the highway over to St Mary's. Nice ride."

"Done it before?"

"Yeah, couple of times. You campin'?"

"That's the plan."

"Rain comin' this afternoon. Thunderstorms. Might want to find a good place to set up around four or so."

I have no idea why I said what I said next; it kind of caught me off-guard too.

"You want some help cleaning up this mess?"

She turned and looked at me, and it was like the first time she really saw me. A little smile passed across her face, like a cloud across a vast prairie, and her eyes grew soft and warm. "If you want. Sure."

We carried a load into the kitchen and she turned on the water, let it warm up and I bussed loads to her while she washed. We dried and I helped her put the clean stuff away, then we went out and cleaned off the tables. Afterwards I sat at the counter, folded maps and gathered my things and she brought me another Coke.

"On the house," she said.

"Gracias."

"Por nada."

I smiled. She smiled. I felt a hint of expectation in the air, and she leaned forward, kissed me lightly on the lips. I kissed her back. She liked that, and so did I. She leaned in to me; I took her and wrapped myself around her. She reached down, felt familiar places and sighed through our kiss. Her breath was sweet, her eyes full of mischief and suddenly too many nights drifting among songs best left unsung crossed between us, and I could feel our pulsing need filling the air inside that little diner with a steam of our own. We didn't say much, made no promises, but I heard the music, sure enough.

"Office in back," she whispered breathlessly, then she broke free, staggered to the front door and locked it, came and took my hand and led me through the kitchen and on into another world.

A desk, a chair, a little cot against one wall. I peeled shorts down slim, smooth legs and kissed her flat, fluttering stomach, her fingers slipped through my hair, urging me onward, downward. She sat back on the desk, spread her legs, held my head tightly when I found the center of her need. In the eye of her storm she paused, shook, cried and begged for more, and who was I to argue. She was a fine cook, and it was my firm intention to eat whatever she put in front of me.

+++++

She lived in a spare little house behind the diner. The place was neat, reflected an almost ascetic life, but I could immediately see she did not live alone.

"Don't worry about it," she said, and I didn't.

We made love, I mean love in the best, loosest sense of the word, for hours. She was, I think, patient with my deliberateness, my needing to see her wantonly sated, and was I tolerant of the extremities that came for her, and I pushed my way past unseen demons that lurked in the shadows of her barely open eyes.

She had just mounted my face again, and as I lay under her I heard the front door open, then quietly closing.

Mary slipped down a bit, sat on my chest, pinning my arms deliberately I think, while her roommate walked over and looked down at me. I was all too aware that there was still a flagpole between my legs pointed right at the ceiling fan.

I felt a little awkward. Maybe.

Mary's roommate's name was Betsy, by the way, in case you were wondering, and it seemed Betsy was quite content to have a go at the world record for flagpole sitting. Or so it seemed to me when I thought about things later that evening.

+++++

Next morning I loaded my stuff in The Desert Rose, for Mary had christened the poor beast when I pulled the Wing around later that evening. I said my goodbyes while the sun poked over the hills east of town, and I left the girls standing in their doorway feeling all kinds of smug. I think I was smiling a little too, come to think of it.

East on Highway 12, easy twisting curves ahead, up hills and down endlessly, real mountains looming ahead in the gold morning air, deer beside the road grazing on long, soft grass. An hour and the fuel gauge has barely moved; two hours and well more than a half tank remained. I was confused, but the scenery was grand. Win some, lose some, I guess.

Came out along the Snake River and kept heading east; small towns with strange names drifted by, some towns smaller than small. Filled up mid-morning, grabbed breakfast at another little Main Street diner, and looked on with wonder as the waitress in this place berated all her regular customers like a drill sergeant. I'm sure someone somewhere found her attractive, but I was all too glad to hit the road again -- and lost in awe that two women like Mary and Betsy thrived out here among the tall grass and antelope. I could have lingered for days in their soft arms and gentle sighs, and was sorry that I hadn't.

The highway lifted into mountains, left the Snake and ran alongside other, smaller rivers and streams that lined the meadow-strewn flats of those steep-walled valleys. The air grew thin and clear, a hint of cold bit into my hands and face, snow capped mountains loomed in the distance. How different all this was, I thought, than the journeys men on horseback made a hundred years before me, yet in the careless way Time takes measure of such things, the impulse really was the same. I leaned into a deep curve and just as I came out of the turn found myself almost eye to eye with an elk; I hit the brakes hard and leaned on the horn. The animal's antlers seemed about ten feet taller than me as the Wing whizzed by about three inches from its nose; I kept braking and came to a stop on a gray gravel shoulder and climbed off the bike. My knees wobbly, now breathing in deep, shocked gasps, I turned and watched as the elk meandered along the roadside munching something obviously quite irresistible. I pulled down my zipper and took a leak right then and there. It was that or wet myself, and I still consider myself either too old or not old enough for that kind of bullshit.

I took a granola bar from a saddlebag and unwrapped the thing; the elk apparently thought I'd just rung the dinner bell and trotted down the middle of the road toward me. Over the years I've read a few accounts of what elk can do to a man, especially during their rut, but this damn thing looked and acted like it had just been sprung from a petting zoo for good behavior. It stopped a couple yards away and just looked at me, then at my goddamn granola bar!

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" I shouted at the thing. He just stood there, waiting. I opened the saddlebag again and took out a couple of bars and unwrapped one; the elk raised his head a little, a good sign, I hoped, and I took a step towards him. He met me halfway and took the bar gently, chewed the thing up in short order and waited for another.

"Alright, Bullwinkle," I said to the looming rack of antlers. "But this is the last one. No more." I held out the bar and the elk's neck leaned forward; he took the bar in his mouth, then crossed the road and disappeared into a well of darkness. While the animal rumbled through dark shadowed trees I tried to get it back together, but nothing seemed to make sense for a few minutes. A pickup truck roared by sometime later, the rancher hit his horn and waved as he passed; I tried to wave but ended up leaning against the Wing, lost in jumbled waves of relief and disbelief.

An hour or so later I pulled into a desperately tiny town -- just a couple of storefronts and a row of rambling cabins set back in the woods -- and I put a couple of gallons in the tank and got right back on the road. Sometime in the early afternoon we crossed into Montana and the sky seemed to open up overhead; the arc of the sky was suddenly so pronounced, spread so wide in every direction, it looked as though the curvature of the earth had been subtly and inexplicably altered.

As evening softened the landscape, the lights of Missoula appeared in a huge valley spread across the far horizon; I was tired, my butt was hot and sore, and I was pretty sure I could win just about any contest for worst body odor hands down. I wanted, I told myself, a hot shower, a soft bed, and a chicken-fried steak with a quart of cream gravy all over it. And damned if my GPS didn't tell me right where to find one, too.

So of course I rode into Missoula and turned into a little KOA campground and pitched my tent; by the light of a little battery powered lantern I boiled some water over an open fire and cooked some Ramen noodles; I got desperate and grilled some sausages too. I was so tired I barely made it into the tent; I fell asleep with my clothes on and was soon dreaming of being bathed in cream gravy by gorgeously garish geisha girls.

About the time I woke with a desperately full bladder I heard someone outside in the darkness banging pots and pans, then shouting "Bear! Run for it!" -- followed by car doors slamming and engines starting. I was sitting up in the tent about half a heartbeat later, half in and half out of my sleeping bag, the need to take a leak suddenly the sole focus of my all my earthly desires, when I heard something shuffling and snorting right outside the tent.

I was under no illusions as I sat there; I knew the tent would prove to be about as significant a barrier to a pissed-off bear as a wet Kleenex, and now all I could think about was having eaten sausages and Ramen noodles, and had I remembered to wash my fucking hands afterward? A nine hundred pound carnivore was sniffing around on the other side my lightweight rip-stop nylon home-away-from-home, searching for the source of his hunger, and he'd found it, too.

A truck came thundering into the campground and someone was firing a rifle; I heard the bear streaking off into the mobile home park next door, dry wood cracking, small trees snapping, thundering footsteps receding into the darkness. A few minutes later I unzipped the tent and walked to the bathrooms. I took a pillow and blanket with me.

+++++

The ride north to Flathead Lake was full of contradictions; a Jesuit Mission here, a root beer stand there, our oldest traditions cloaked behind layers of ambivalent indifference, hidden from view in plain sight. I was beginning to see signs of this everywhere I went: billboards proclaiming yet another entertaining diversion just a few miles ahead, as if the overwhelming natural beauty around this part of the world was not worth a second thought. Had we really become a culture that hides from it's traditions, sacrifices our natural gifts on the altar of sensory overload? If that was true, what did Mary and Jennifer mean inside that inward spiraling dynamic? What had we sacrificed, with our interstate highways and jumbo jets? Connection? Or was the time we spent on superhighways or tucked away inside superjets meaningful beyond the mere passing interest the experience provided? Without some sort of belief in an underlying purpose in life, was there any context to understand the deeper implications of any encounter we might chance upon? Or was there simply no purpose to these meetings? Had three people just bathed in pure experience for a few hours, then simply turned away from all meaning, turned to bask on rocks warmed by the indifference of a cold, empty universe?

Some days out on the road are filled with thoughts like these. A root beer float sounds good; you pull into an A&W for a break and see half-naked children caked in dirt sitting in the shadows of a rusted-out trailer. What do you think, what do you feel? Was luck all that separated me from those kid? Were those children paying the price for someone else's bad choices, and was this truly the only world they would know? I could just get on the Wing and leave. What would happen to these kids? In a world filled with so much indifference, was it relevant to simply pass through fields of experience like a combine across prairies of amber waving grain?

Flathead Lake was huge, by the way; the way around followed sharp contours along it's western shore. Maybe all my life ahead would be like this backroad: sharp contours close to the edge, turning always turning and struggling to keep my balance among all the indifferent roadside attractions and wasted lives.

Then Whitefish Montana lay just ahead, purple mountains majesty ringed the horizon everywhere I looked. What waited down this road, I thought, or that one? Would whatever happened be a simple matter of indifference and timing? Could you believe in fate, in destiny, in the face of so many contradictions out here?

Pulled into Whitefish a little after noon, rolled through the town looking for a gas station and a place to sleep where I might not be on the menu, and instead found myself in front of a train station. Orange and brown railway memorabilia decorated the grounds; a well preserved steam locomotive and old signage seemed to point the way back to a different time, these things wanted you to stop and think about what had happened here once upon a time, and by implication, what we'd turned away from in our mad dash for Utopia. A gleaming silver passenger train pulled into the station and dozens of people got off; some remained on the platform, smoking cigarettes and looking at the old station, while others danced over to waiting people and disappeared in happy clouds of reunion. Memories were everywhere, being made, being relived, being watched over like precious stones, and I found it a touching scene. How many memories had been made on this one platform over the hundred or so years of its being?

I waited until the conductor shouted out "All aboard!" and waved to the engineer, and I watched the train pull from the station, heading west. I stepped onto the platform and watched it disappear around a curve, but I could still hear it. That lumbering rumble, the occasional blast of its horn, but soon even that was gone and all that remained was wind passing through pines.

I turned and walked by the relics, was kept in good company by a few good memories, then turned to walk to the Wing, my Desert Rose.

There was a woman standing beside the bike; she was looking at it closely, leaning over to examine the instrument panel. She looked to be about fifty and as short as a fireplug; her round face was framed by short red hair, her skin shockingly white. A small backpack was on the ground at her feet, a walking stick in her right hand.

As I got closer she must have felt me coming; she turned and looked at me, her eyes wide and open and green.

I remember thinking something about fate and destiny when I looked at her, wondered what the road ahead held in store for us. Then she smiled at me.

"Is this your motorbike?" she asked. Her lilting accent was thick, almost indecipherable; I guessed Irish, maybe a Scot, but I didn't really know.

I nodded as I walked up to the Wing. "Last time I checked."

"It's fantastic! Huge! I've never seen anything like it."

"Really? Are you into bikes?"

"No, not really. Never been on one."

She continued to walk around the Wing, looking with what I took to be a mild form of astonishment. Next to the bike, the woman looked almost dwarfish.

She couldn't have been more than five feet tall, yet neither was she what I'd have called petite. She left the impression, in fact, of being rather more round than anything else, yet she wasn't fat, not even plump. Maybe it was her face, maybe her body, but there just weren't any hard lines or angles anywhere on her frame; all was soft and -- round. She was wearing jeans and hiking boots, and an oatmeal colored sweater; a blue New York Yankees ball cap was strapped to her yellow backpack.

"So, where're you headed?" I asked. "Up to the park?"

"That's right. S'posed to be a motorbus come round in a bit."

"You camping?"

"Me? Lord no. Just packed light." She touched the saddle, looked at the Wing again.

"Where're you from?"

"Dublin. And you?"

"Oregon."

"Oh, yes, I'm off to Portland after Glacier."

"Me too." I looked at her, possibilities turned over in my head like tumblers in a safe.

"I really need to get something to eat and my bus isn't due for an hour. Man in the station said the diner across the street is pretty fair."

"Want some company? I could use a bite myself?"

She looked at me with that. "Sure. I could use some help with the menu."

We walked across the street, into a dark place that seemed to have been filled with slot machines and pool tables decades ago, but there were some tables in the back, and a waitress walking by with a load of food. We made our way through the tiny casino, our eyes not yet adjusted to the smoke-filled darkness, and we groped our way to a table along the back wall. She leaned her pack against the wall, sat down and looked around, trying, I guess, to make sense of these bizarre surroundings.

"You'll excuse me," she said, "but is this simply the norm around here, or is it as strange as it seems." She looked a little uneasy. I looked around the room; my eyes could make out a bit more now. About half the machines in the casino were being played by old men, most appeared to be Native American and drunk. A couple of glassy-eyed women leaned against the bar on the far side of the room nursing empty glasses of beer and counting coins.

"You're out west now. Things are different here, different than most other places in America. Still a wild independent streak in the people."

"I was thinking it's like a time warp. Weird, you know? Like a saloon in the old west, from the movies, like, but full of stoned Indians and neon lighting."

I laughed. "Pretty fair description, really. Lots of booze and drugs out here now, a lot of dead end roads, no where to go."

"Do they still live on reservations? The Indians, I mean?"

"Yeah, all over the place, but usually the land isn't worth a damn."

"You sound like you know a something about it."

"Not a lot. I worked on one for a year, north of Seattle. Indian Health Service; part of my training."

"Oh, you're a physician?"

"Yup."

"So? Booze, drugs? Dead end roads?"

"Not much to talk about. It's a welfare state gone mad, cradle to grave socialism, no incentives. Most of the men are fat and diabetic by the time they hit their teens; the women usually wait until after they've had a couple of babies before gaining their third hundred pounds. A huge percentage are alcoholic, lots of drug abuse, meth and heroin mainly, and free health care waiting to pick them up when they fall down. They don't have any incentive to improve their lives, so most simply don't. They give up. If they weren't on a reservation they'd be homeless, or worse."




Backroads, v2



"Why? I mean, why is it allowed to continue?"

A waitress came by with menus and we ordered a couple of Cokes while we looked them over.

"So, what's good here," I asked the waitress when she returned with the drinks.

"Chicken-fried steak and fries are good, home made. The steak sandwich is good, too. Every time the governor's in town he gets that."

"The governor?" I replied. "Really? Should we be impressed?"

"What's a chicken fried steak?"

"Ah, you'd better give us a minute here," I said to the waitress.

"Sure thing, honey."

"I think we'd, uh, do better here if we knew each other's name, don't you?" she said.

"Right," I said. "James, uh, Jim Winchenbach."

She leaned over the table, right hand extended. "Jennie," she said as we shook hands.

"So, Jennie from Dublin. Chicken fried steak. A staple of the American culinary tradition, a product of the deep south. You take an almost inedible piece of tough meat, you pound it, hopefully that makes it a little less chewy, then it's dipped in an egg and buttermilk batter, then dredged in flour, salt and pepper. The resulting death-bomb is then fried until a dark, crispy brown. Usually served with something euphemistically called 'cream gravy', which is an artery clogging concoction made from flour, milk, and the particulate remains of what has just been fried. If done well, Jennie from Dublin, it is outrageously good tasting and hideously bad for you. With good, home made French fries it is beyond evil."

"And a steak sandwich?"

"Out here? Usually a small strip steak served on a long roll. Maybe some beef juice or brown gravy. Mayo is deadly, by the by. Pretty plain grub."

"So you're having the fried steak."

"Absolutely."

"Better make it two, then."

"Absolutely." I caught the waitress's eye and she came over and I ordered.

"So, what's it like? Riding that yellow beast?"

"Fun, I guess. I rode a smaller bike years ago, well, decades ago, and caught the bug to do it again a couple of days ago."

"Days?"

"Yeah, like last Wednesday."

"Wow."

"Can't explain it, really, I just wanted to ride again, but I don't know why, really. Guess I wanted to see a lot of this country while I still can. Once you hit sixty it seems like the slide really picks up speed, you know. Ten years flies by in a blink, and ten years from now I might not be up to it."

"I know what you mean."

"What about you? Why are you here?"

She laughed. "Why indeed? I've never been to America, always wanted to see the west. Your Amtrak has been advertising a lot, especially on the web, and I bought a pass that lets me ride anywhere I want for a month. I flew to Boston about ten days ago, went to New York and Washington, then over to Chicago. I've been to Lexington and Concord, the Statue of Liberty, and the Lincoln Memorial. I wanted to see Glacier National Park because of that movie, What Dreams May Come. You remember? With Robin Williams? That lake scene in the mountains in the beginning? It was filmed at Grinnell Lake, at the Many Glacier Lodge, and ever since I saw the film I've wanted to see that mountain."

"I didn't know that. Pretty film, though. Weird, but pretty."

"Yes, well, next I want to go see San Francisco and Yosemite, maybe LA, then the Grand Canyon. And I want to see New Orleans. Then I'll have to hurry back to Boston to catch my flight home."

"The Grand Tour. Well, that should be fun. Hell, you've already seem more of America than most people here ever do."

"Yes, isn't that funny. A lot of Americans are probably more familiar with France or Italy than their own country. Air travel, I suppose, changed everything."

"Wonder what'll happen when that becomes too expensive. You know, if oil prices go crazy again one day?"

"The world will change again, don't you think? Maybe this will be regarded as a golden age some time in the near future. Hard to imagine, though."

"So, what do you do back in Ireland?"

"Government. Politics."

"Really? Such as?"

"I, uh, well, I'm an MP, a member of Parliament, in the Seanad, or what you would call the Senate."

"A senator?"

"Yes."

"You're a senator, with a backpack, taking a train ride across America?"

"Yes."

"You just took off. To go take a train across America?

"Well actually, don't tell anyone, but I'm, oh, what do you call it?"

"Playing hooky?"

"That's it!" she almost shouted. "I've been trying to remember that word for days!"

"And I just ordered you a chicken fried steak. Oh my and Good Golly Miss Molly."

"Why? What on earth ... why are you making such a face?"

"You'll be ruined for life, that's why. You'll never want to go back home after eating one of these things. You'll want to move to Mississippi and have children with names like Billy-Bob and Alice-Ann. You'll develop an attraction to strange music and an uncontrollable compulsion to drive a pickup truck to the Dairy Queen for a Dilly Bar. All this awaits you after just one chicken fried steak."

She laughed. "Do you s'pose they have corned beef and cabbage, then?"

"Too late, Senator. Here it comes. Say goodbye to life as you know it."

The waitress put the platters down on the table, then rushed off to refill our Cokes; I looked across the table at Jennie from Dublin, at her eyes. They were as big around as saucers; she was shocked beyond speech. She was staring at the plate in front of her, at a pile of golden brown French fried potatoes four inches high and ten around, at a steak maybe twice that size, every last bit covered with thick white cream gravy, and I saw a look of complete shock on her face.

"Is all this is for me?"

"That's a fact," I said, grinning. "Welcome to America."

"You could feed a family of four..." she seemed dismayed. "I mean, why? Why so much? How many calories must such a meal contain?"

"About ten million or so. That would my guess, anyway."

"Dear God. I feel full and I haven't taken a bite."

"That's the grease. Even the odor is fattening."

"I have no doubt..."

"Well? You gonna try it or make me eat 'em both.?"

"Both? You couldn't!"

"You're right, so help me out here. You'll never know if you don't jump in with both feet."

She did, and she liked it too. I managed a little more than half before crying 'uncle'; she piled through a bit less and seemed in genuine distress when she gave up. The waitress came by near the end and asked if either of us wanted desert and I thought Jennie was going to explode. She pushed back from the table, her face red, her expression pained.

"I can't believe anyone would voluntarily do this to themselves," she cried. "Oh my God."

"Well, I can see Mississippi won't be gaining a new resident this week."

"Indeed, no. No. Oh my God, I can't believe I ate all that."

"Now you know why Alka-Seltzer was invented here."

"What? Does it help?"

"See the cash-register over there? Little blue foil packets?"

"Would you, please, get me some? Oh, Saint's alive, make it stop!"

I walked over to the counter, paid the bill and got a couple of packets and two glasses of chilled water, then walked back to the table.

"Plop-plop, fizz-fizz, oh what a relief it is..." I sang as I dropped the tabs into the water.

"What? There are special incantations one need chant while doing this?"

"What? You didn't know? Of course, foolish woman! Sing! Sing or the cramping will never go away!"

She laughed again, then caught her sides and moaned. I handed her a glass and we clinked them together.

"It's very important to drink this down in one fell swoop," I told her.

"Why?" She looked suspicious now, wary.

"Because it tastes so foul you'll never take a second." I raised mine and tossed it down; she looked uncertainly at me, then shook her head and tossed hers down too. We both shivered about the same time. "That's the Alka-Seltzer rumble. We may just survive."

"I think next time I'll try the steak sandwich."

"Wait 'till you try Mexican food in LA. Geesh! They call it the Aztec two-step, and don't ask why. You'll just have to experience it for yourself."

I left a tip and we walked out into the bright afternoon sun, shielded our eyes while they adjusted, and we both saw her bus pulling away from the station across the street at about the same time. We walked over to the Wing, stood silently and watched as the bus drove down the street, and she kind of laughed when it turned out of sight.

"Oh my," said Jennie from Dublin. She laughed again, but more quietly now, the forlorn laughter that accompanies severe abdominal cramps and blowing a deadline. "I'm not so sure I'd have enjoyed being locked in a bus for hours right now. Perhaps I should go find a room for the night."

"Don't you have a reservation at Many Glacier?"

"Oh, yes, well actually at the Lake McDonald Lodge tonight, Many Glacier tomorrow."

"Well, let's strap your pack on back and get going." I fired up the GPS and started looking at the route.

"I, uh..."

"Come on, there's a motorcycle shop down the street. Let's get you a helmet and go."

I could see the indecision on her face, indecision that bordered on fear of the unknown coupled with a healthy, newfound respect for chicken fried steak, but she looked down the street toward the cycle shop, then at the Wing.

"Alright, let's! I'm game if you are!"

I got her pack bungee'd down and helped her climb up, then slipped into reverse and walked the bike back into the street, then we puttered down to the shop. As these things so often go, we even found a brown helmet that was a near match to mine. Soon we were headed northeast from town on Highway 2 and off towards West Glacier. Before long we passed the bus she would have been on and waved as we whizzed by. A half hour later we turned off onto the Going To The Sun Highway and pulled up to the park gate. A ranger manned a little brown shack; she looked at us as we drove up.

"Just the two of you?" the Ranger said.

"You're kidding, right?" I shot back, and I heard Jennie suppress a chuckle. "Well, it's no use; you caught us. We're trying to smuggle three kids in; they're in the saddlebags."

The Ranger smiled. "Twenty five dollars, sir."

"Uh, wait a minute Jim; the embassy gave me something." I felt Jennie from Dublin fumbling for something in her jacket, and after a moment she handed a letter over to the Ranger. The girl read it, her eyes went wide for a moment, then she reached for her phone and made a call. I couldn't hear what the girl said but she came out a moment later and stuck a decal on the windscreen and went around back and stuck one there too. She handed the letter back to Jennie along with some park materials and bid us a good afternoon.

"What was that all about?"

"Just something from the embassy. Kind of a 'be nice to her or else' letter, or so I was told."

"Kind of handy. Think you could get me one of those?"

She laughed again, and as soon as she had all her stuff put away we took off down the road. The lake itself was impossibly long and narrow, seemed to stretch away forever deep into the mountains north of us. It was getting cool out now, and shadows across the road were growing long and dark. Golden afternoon light dappled the shadows, filled the air with an amber haze, and towering mountains loomed all around us. The traffic in both directions grew heavy around scenic overlooks and waterfalls, but we easily skirted those on the Wing. A few more miles and I saw signs for the lodge and made the hard left turn onto the driveway. I could just see the lodge through trees ahead; it looked like one of those Swiss mountain lodges that seemed so popular in the 1930s -- the ground floor was white painted stone and the upper floors dark brown timber. I pulled up front into a lot and helped her off the Wing, got her pack off the rack and walked with her into the lobby.

I have a weakness for this old architecture, the vaulting atriums made from hewn logs, Mission Style lamps casting pools of gold light over Stickley furniture. It all feels very western and comfortable to me, like an old pair of boots, but the Park Service had outdone themselves out west. Timberline in Oregon, the Old Faithful Lodge in Yellowstone -- they are preserved miracles of eclectic design, and so was this place.

Jennie went up to the desk and checked in; everything was ready for her and the guy behind the desk looked at me?

"You don't happen to have another room, do you?"

He smiled. "Sir, we're generally booked up a year in advance, more for popular holidays."

"I see. Any campgrounds around?"

"Pretty much the same applies, sir, until you leave the park." We walked out into the lobby, sat down under a huge mounted elk's head.

"Ah, well, sounds like it's back to Whitefish for me tonight."

"I'm sorry." Jennie looked around the room as if she was expecting to see someone. "Listen, would you stay here for a minute. I just want to go put this backpack up in my room."

"Sure."

Turned out she walked over to the reception desk, talked to the kid behind the counter again and he nodded his head, smiled. She made her way to a stairway and began the climb up. I went to the gift shop and picked up a topo-map of the park and a book about geologic formations along the highway, then wandered over to the restaurant, looked at the menu, and then walked back to the lobby. She came down a few minutes later.

"There's a boat taking a sunset cruise on the lake in a few minutes," she began, "and I've got reservations for the two of us in the dining room about ten." She held out her hand, waiting for me to take it. "Let's go see a sunset, shall we?"

I stood, looked at my watch, noticed Jennie looking at me, judging me, wondering what I'd do next.

"Sounds like a plan," I said as I took her hand. We walked through the lobby and down to the lake to a little metal ramp that led to a small steamer. There were a few other people gathered round waiting to board, but the whole operation seemed low-key, an off the beaten path kind of thing. A kid came down and boarded us, and a few minutes later the boat took off across the mirror smooth lake.

A little v-shaped wake extended behind us and faded away toward the rocky shore; it drifted into ever wider wavelets as it spread. The sky grew darker, a soft light gathered in the air, distant mountains hovered over blue haze.

"So, what's an Irish MP doing playing hooky in Glacier National Park?"

Jennie looked away, looked out over the lake. "Running away, I guess."

"From?"

Silence gathered in the air, too.

"Shall we talk about something else, Jim?" She was looking at me now, not pleading, and definitely not asking.

"Think that kid's selling beer up front. Want one?"

"That would be lovely." I came back with a couple of microbrews and handed her one.

"So, you came to see Grinnell Lake?"

"Yes, that's right. When I saw that movie, the Robin Williams thing, I thought the scene on the lake was in Switzerland, they said they were there, anyway. Lake Como or something. But then I read they filmed that part here, in the park, and ever since I've wanted to see it. Something about it called out to me, you know."

"Is it the park, the scenery that attracts you, or was it something in the movie?"

"Both, I think." She looked out at the lake, and our progress across the water produced a little breeze. Her short hair lifted and fluttered. I thought she looked cute. Not beautiful, not gorgeous, but cute. Her eyes were startlingly clear and green, her skin white but landscaped with an impossible forest of pale freckles under her eyes and across her nose.

"How did you like the ride, uh, up here this afternoon?"

"It was magic. Really, Jim, I had no idea. That last bit, the lake off to the side, the sunlight falling through the trees. It was like a million strobe lights firing through the haze. Oh, and that golden haze. I don't think I shall ever forget that so long as I live. I thank you."

"Thank me? For what?"

She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. "For giving me the memory. I never expected that in a million years."

I think I was blushing; I'm pretty sure because my face was burning, but it was getting too dark out for anyone else to see. I turned to look at her, at her little round face. She was about a foot shorter than I, but there was something almost athletic about her stance, something firm, resolute, or perhaps enduring was the word that drifted through my mind.

"You're welcome."

"Do you suppose I could talk you into taking me across tomorrow?"

"Across?"

"To the lake." I held out my arm and she looked at me, puzzled. "What?"

"Go ahead, twist my arm." She got it then, and laughed again.

"I think I've laughed more today than I have in the past twelve years."

"You wear it well, Jennie."

"Hm-m, what?"

"Your face lights up when you laugh; the cares of this world fall away and you come alive." I looked at her; something told me she wanted to look away but no longer could. Or no longer wanted to.

"You're not a psychiatrist, are you?"

"Me? Lord no."

"What do you do?"

"Nothing so glamorous, really." I looked away, tired of my life, tired of the futility of my calling.

"Is it so bad for you as well?"

"You've no idea. I teach infectious diseases, work at a teaching hospital in Portland."

"Ah. HIV, TB, that lot?" She looked at me intently now, interested, politically engaged.

"Yes."

"So, the motorcycle. Tell me about it."

"I get a couple weeks off in the summer, and again at Christmas, but a lot depends on what we have in the wards. I haven't had time off in about three years. And I'm tired, Jennie. Tired of it all."

"Me too."

"Why?"

"We just went through a brutal election; lot of voter dissatisfaction. The Celtic Tiger, the so-called economic miracle of the 90s, the recession, now this tepid recovery. I was persuaded to run again, but my heart wasn't really in it. Now I know I did the wrong thing. Our generation has made too many mistakes. It's time to let fresh blood in, fresh ideas into the arena."

"Are you going to resign?"

"Are you going to quit medicine?"

"I've thought about it."

"And do what?"

"Go to Africa, maybe."

"Noble sentiment. Why?"

"I guess if anything I'd like to feel needed again. I don't anymore. Not here, anyway."

"Did you ever get married?"

"No. There was never time."

"Really?"

"Between med school and all the training, well, no. It just never happened."

"Not even close?"

"Once. Yeah, once it did."

"What happened?"

"A drunk ran a red light."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

"It was a long time ago. I think I fell into work then; fell there instead of the black hole that defined my life for a while. Guess it was the safe thing to do."

"I'm not sure why you say 'safe'. Is riding a motorcycle 'safe'?"

"Probably not, but it's safer than eating chicken fried steak?"

"I'll not argue the point. What a vile thing that was. Good, mind you, but at the same time -- ridiculous, vile."

"It's nice out here. The light. Look at the lodge, would you? The reflections, lights on the water. Thanks for asking me out here, by the way."

I felt her next to me then; she edged in a little closer, turned to face me. I turned to meet her, looked at her, for she was on her toes now, pulling my face toward hers. Ours was a gentle kiss, a kiss on the lips, but there was immense feeling pent up inside both of us now and all those feelings came together like thunder in that moment. She held me close after our mouths broke apart, I felt her hot breath on chest, her fingers massaging the back of my neck.

"Thank you, Jim," she whispered, and I felt a tremor pass though her.

"Are you getting cold?"

"Maybe a little." I could hear a soft cry, a cough, the gentle restraint of holding deep feelings in check; I took off my windbreaker and wrapped it over her shoulders, held her close to my body. She pulled back a moment later, looked back toward the lodge and gasped.




Backroads, v2



I turned, saw a full moon rising through pine-crested hills. We were caught by the light, so we watched the moon rise as the little boat turned back for the hotel, and we stood in silent awe of the beauty that was unfolding all around us. The mountaintops that rimmed the lake glowed silver now; the trees below a darker gray that shimmered in moon-shadow. The moon's cold light rippled across the landscape, and I found it hard to imagine a more perfect beauty. The lake remained perfectly still, lost in this perfect calm, and two moons hovered between vaguely shifting horizons.

+++++

Our table was lost in the glow of amber candles, windows beside us held reflections of quiet talk; Jennie sat across from me in the glass, and I could see her eyes dancing even there. Shadows shifted as if caught between wayward currents of light; now in their indecision they waved to no avail against the contradictory impulses of this night. We picked at our food; thoughts ordained by random chance floated between us unsaid, unsayable. We seemed to have gathered on the edge of a great resolve, and there we waited, waiting.

I find it hard to think about that night now, about all the things we might have said to one another, and the things we tried to say just inside soft edges of our reflections.

She wanted too talk about the choices she had made, choices that had come for her in the dead of night. Choices that had laid claim to her soul. About a man, a brutal man who had seduced her years ago, given her great joy for a time, then an undiminished sadness. She had been running ever since, and said she understood now there were no coincidences in life.

I think I knew even then what she meant to say, but could not quite. Our meeting, she implied, had not been a chance encounter; we had, she thought, been drawn to that time, to that place, for a purpose.

"Are you sure it's alright if I ride with you tomorrow?" she asked while we sat next to the fireplace in the lobby after dinner.

"Sure. That would be nice. It's late though, and I need to head back to town, find someplace to bunk down for the night."

"Why don't you come upstairs with me?"

There it was. So simple, so straightforward. I looked at her, and she did not look away; rather, she stood, held out her hand.

"Come," she said.

And I did. Several times, as a matter of fact.

+++++

I woke in the middle of the night thinking about Mary and Betsy, about the two of them together and how the experience of that night had been like a life-preserver thrown to a drowning man. As 'out of the blue' as the two of them had been, and as furiously out of character as my response to them had been, there was something of that night that lingered in the air above my head. I couldn't quite get them out of my mind. Then I realized I didn't want to, not yet, anyway.

Jennie lay next to me, her hair still damp from a quick dash to the shower; she was breathing quietly, peacefully, yet somehow I knew this peace was something fundamentally out of character for her. She had engaged life on so many levels, so many I'd never know, and they'd all left their mark on her. But the man she alluded to, the man who'd somehow torn her up and tossed her aside, had left deep scars. Her lovemaking with me had been tentative, she had been unsure of her every move, and after a while I sensed she had been hurt, and badly, and there had been no one around to help her put the pieces back together. Other times I felt like everything was a game to her, that life was somehow almost a joke.

It was, I soon saw, like she wanted to be told what to do, told how to act in bed. Not that she didn't know how, or hadn't done so before; no, it was like she had been broken by a man as a horse might be broken. She'd been told how to behave, she'd been tamed, controlled, and discovered she liked the feeling, and just once that night I'd felt her respond to our union in a way that had truly frightened me.

I had been on top of her, her legs pulled up close to my chest, and with her eyes wide open, locked on mine, she'd put my hands around her neck. "Hurt me," she'd said, "hurt me. I deserve to be hurt." I had been stunned, shocked, couldn't go there with her, and I guess she figured out fast I simply wasn't wired that way; she came back from the edge and reverted instantly to the tenderness I seemed most comfortable with.

Was it all an act?

And if so, why did she feel she needed to act with me?

There was something fundamentally unfair about this too, and not to me, but rather to her. I couldn't know what needs this earlier relationship had awakened in her, or what this other man had developed in her to meet this need; all I knew was in that moment I felt as though I was standing at the edge of the known world, and I'd been afraid for the first time in a long, long time. Of what, or even why, I had no idea. What we had experienced was satisfying, to me at least, but I knew I'd been unable to go where she wanted me to go. We'd soon grown tired, however, and with muscles sore we retreated to the shower.

I held her while hot water ran down our bodies, I kissed her, then I felt the welts on her back. She'd watched me, watched to see how I'd react to this insight but I hid my face in her hair, moved my hands to her shoulders, ran into the comfortable arms of denial. She'd not said a word; I think she understood.

I hoped she had, anyway.

I woke before she did, went down to the Wing and got some things, came back up and she was in the shower. She came out lightly, danced around the room while she dressed, then she went over to the windows and opened them, looked out on this vast alpine landscape and breathed in deeply.

"What a fantastic place!" she said. "The air is so... pure!"

We went to breakfast, took a walk down by the water's edge then got her backpack and carried it to the Wing. I half expected her to bail out and take the little red Park Wagon over the highway, but she strapped on her helmet like she'd been doing it for years and hopped on her seat. After the bike warmed up we were off, the brisk mountain air hitting our faces, making our eyes water. Traffic was light, low clouds nestled in deep valleys across the lake, the road elegant.

Brake lights ahead, cars stopping suddenly, pulling sharply from the road. I eased off the throttle and coasted to a stop; a hundred yards ahead a Grizzly bear, her back all silver-matted tufts, and three cubs walked out onto the road. The mother eased out onto the road and stood up, looked my way, and suddenly I felt like I was on the menu again. After what felt like several hours the bear slumped back to the pavement and resumed her walk toward the lake, which was about fifty feet off to the left side of the road; her little cubs bounded aimlessly and wrestled with each other all the while. I shut down the motor and listened to them; they sounded like puppies playing, setting out the rules of their game.

We got on our way after the bears disappeared in the wood, wound our way through deep forests and across roaring waterfalls and turquoise pools. The road began the long climb up Logan Pass; the air grew cool and thin, even my gloved hands began to feel the cold. There was no one ahead of us and though the speed limit was a little on the slow side I managed to make more than respectable progress up the narrow road. Occasionally a motor home would come lumbering down the steep grade towards us, taking up -- it seemed -- more than its fair share of the road, and a couple of them passed within -- I felt -- inches of us.

After a couple of hairpin switchbacks the road took off at a gentle incline for the long run to the summit, and this was, to me, anyway, the most interesting part of the ride. There was, you see, a little stone wall on the right side of the road. No shoulder, no safety lane to pull off onto, just a little stone wall, perhaps a foot and a half tall, certainly no more than that. I found this a little uncomfortable at first; off to the right were tree-covered mountains across a broad valley, but soon this valley narrowed, and the road climbed sharply away from the trees and the safety of the valley floor.

Now our view off to the right was of the little stone wall, and then: air. Air -- as in a delightful thousand foot drop on the other side of that insignificant stone wall, and I could see up the valley ahead, see where this road was taking us. It looked like the road for the next ten miles was going to be just like this, only the amount of drop-off was going to increase exponentially as we gained altitude. This of course led to a mild case of the butterflies, but even they figured out it would safer somewhere -- anywhere -- else; soon all I felt was my puckered-up asshole trying to glue itself down to the brown vinyl seat.

After a few minutes of this Jennie tapped on my shoulder and asked me to pull over; there was a little pull-out ahead and I gleefully pulled off the road, slapped the kickstand down and hopped off the bike. I wanted to run across the road and hug a tree.

Jennie fished around in her pack and pulled a smart little Leica M out and took a couple of pictures, asked me take one of her standing atop the little stone wall (and I nearly passed out when she hopped up there), then another with her sitting on the back of the Wing. That accomplished, I reluctantly got back on the Wing and pulled back onto the asphalt; now the road began to climb with a vengeance, the drop went from passably precipitous to viscerally vertiginous, and my asshole began to spasm like two monkeys with pipe wrenches were down there having fun seeing who could screw it down tightest.

A sign ahead indicated another pull-out; just ahead I could see dozens of cars and campers pulled off beside a rambling waterfall off the left side of the road, and Jennie tapped my shoulder again. I was only too happy to comply, again, and pulled off the road into the narrow lot. I was just stopping, unclipping my chin strap when I heard it: a blood-curdling scream, then children screaming, all from over by the waterfall. I turned, could see wild-eyed kids and panicked parents blasting from the low brush, running for the safety of cars, then a woman's body sailing through the air -- followed by the unmistakable roar of a large, pissed off carnivore. I slipped the clutch, dropped into first gear just as the Grizzly came ripping through the brush ahead of us; I hit the throttle and blew past the stunned bear and didn't slow down for a mile, all thought of the chasm beside up completely forgotten.

Jennie was screaming and at first I thought the bear had taken a swipe at her, then I heard her screams turn to a kind of laughter; maybe just the sheer joy of being alive had overtaken her but I felt laughter was probably the least appropriate thing imaginable under the circumstances. And at just that moment, with the looming precipice still just off the right side of the road, a motor home rounded the bend just ahead, fully taking up about half my lane. I blasted the horn, flashed my high-beams, all to no avail. I could see a pale white Q-tip peeking through the steering wheel, the driver of this moving mountain had to be at least a hundred and twenty years old and probably had the visual acuity of a three-toed sloth. No matter; I had about twenty inches of useable roadway ahead, a two thousand foot drop-off pulling at me with some kind of perverted gravity, and my nuts chose that moment to go into a full and righteous spasm.

Some days life ain't fair.

It's all instinct at a time like that. Brake, keep your eyes on the road, cross your fingers and hope for the best. I was aware for a moment that the Wing was riding the line, that the tires were right on the line between asphalt and gravel, the little stone wall about a foot to the right of my boot, then in a whoosh the Winnebago was by and Jennie was laughing harder than ever -- whooping it up, in fact.

There is a huge visitor center atop the pass and I pulled in, parked next to some low, stunted pines, and got off the bike, my knees wobbly, my mouth dry. I half expected to turn around at any moment and see a cavalry charge of Grizzly bears munching through the crowd headed to and from their cars, but in truth my mind was full of images of the front end of that last Winnebago, and of a yellow motorcycle tumbling over the edge of the roadway and falling and falling to a fiery doom in the valley below. Just for grins, the sight of the woman vaulting above the trees came back, and the bear standing inches from us as we roared past on the Wing. What a fun morning this had been!

Already there were rangers responding to the waterfall incident, and the parking lot was abuzz with the news. I walked around a moment, got my wits -- and my breath -- about me, then took off my helmet...

"There's bears all over this fucking mountain!" I heard a passerby, an old man, saying.

"Where? What did you say?" said a woman standing next to us, just getting out of her car.

The man turned to her: "There's at least two Grizz up there on the nature trail. Ranger just shut it down. Bunch of folks stranded out at the overlook. They'll have to wait 'til the bears move on before they can hike back here."

"Is this normal?" I asked. "I mean, they seem pretty aggressive."

The old-timer laughed. "Normal? For a Grizz? They do pretty much whatever they like around here. Lot of rain lately, lots of berries to eat, and they're protected, so no one messes with 'em."

"They're magnificent!" Jennie said. "Jim, that was the most exhilarating ten minutes of my life!"

"Yeah. Exhilarating. The very word I was searching for."

"Pardon me, sir," she continued, "but did you say there are more up there? On that hillside?"

"Yep. Head over to the trail on the right side of the building, walk up there a ways. You'll see all the Grizz you'll ever want to see."

"Come on, Jim, let's go!"

Well, I was back on the menu again.

I think we were both daunted and saved that morning by the sheer elevation of the visitor center. There were stairs leading from the parking lot up to the main building and on to the trails beyond, steep concrete stairs as a matter of fact, but we were both huffing and puffing by the time we reached the top. We set off down the trail, itself modestly inclined, and after about five minutes of this we both sounded like old steam locomotives. We walked up to a large gathering of people, saw a ranger talking and pointing up the moraine and I could immediately see two huge animals up there walking across the flanks of a mountain not two hundred yards away.

Jennie was enthralled. I think she wanted to have one wrapped up so she could take it home with her on the airplane.

We watched the bears amble across the shale face and disappear into low scrubby pines -- trees not unlike those we'd just walked through ourselves -- then we opted to amble our own little butts down to the visitor center in search of something to eat or drink. This facility, being run by the National Park Service, of course had nothing of the kind available.

Granola bars! I still had some granola bars in one of the saddlebags!

We ate the last of them up there, and I assure you nothing ever tasted so good as half-melted chocolate chip granola bars. Really. Take my word for it.

I was also beginning to think that maybe Jennie had more than a few loose screws upstairs.

+++++

So of course we pulled into the Many Glacier Lodge not five minutes after they stopped serving lunch. Did I mention something about life sometimes not being fair?

Anyway. The drive down from the summit of the pass had been just as spectacular, if not more so, than that highly entertaining ride up. Huge alpine lakes lined the way down the valley, each new vista evolved cataclysmically from the landscape, each seemed to lie in wait, ready to pounce on us unawares, exploding from around the next bend in the road in overwhelming, rapturous beauty. I'd never seen anything like this anywhere else in America; I'm sure only the high Swiss Alps, perhaps the Italian Dolomites and the Andes could compare with what we saw that morning. And bighorn sheep, too, all over the hills above us. Piles of cars clustered roadside, hundreds of people gathered with binoculars in hand, staring up at the tawny beasts. They were quite a sight. The sheep, not the gawkers.

Filled up with gas in St Mary, turned north and ran up toward the Canadian border but stopped short and turned west towards the Many Glacier Lodge. And it was just like the movie, too. Grinnell Peak, the lake, all of it. The lodge there was bigger than the McDonald lodge, more fantastic in that the huge building looked so totally out of place. Here was this huge brown monstrosity, another early 20th-century masterpiece, plopped down smack dab in the middle of a a high alpine wilderness. Not another thing around aside from some dormitories for employees, and a campground across the lake.

And of course there were signs all over the place warning people not to feed the bears. Like what, I asked no one in particular, would you feed a Grizzly? Your firstborn son? Your pet Labrador? One of those people who come to your door trying to get you to see the light? I was intensely curious. Who but a future Darwin Award recipient would try to feed a Grizzly bear? I could heartily understand not wanting to be killed and eaten by a bear, but feed one? Surely this was some sign-maker's idea of a sick joke. No one could be that stupid.

Not so, the man at the reception desk told us. Lots of folks tried to, he said, every couple of weeks in fact. Bears came down from the mountains and looked over the cars in the parking lots just as the sun starts to come up -- hoping to find a window down, perhaps, or an argumentative mother. Some folks, wanting to get an early start on the road after a long vacation ventured out into the parking lots at the crack of dawn. Those that didn't get eaten, I assumed, made it back to the dining room for a hasty breakfast enjoyed for perhaps three or four hours.

"Do they ever mess around with motorcycles parked up there?" I asked, pointing at the parking lot.

The man rolled his eyes. "Do they ever! Make sure you wipe down the seats this afternoon, and don't use anything scented! And don't leave any trace of food."

"Swell."

I had visions of the Wing lying on its side in the parking lot tomorrow morning; in my mind's eye I saw it shredded, looking like a pile of grated cheddar cheese atop a spreading pool of oil and antifreeze. Then a Park Ranger would come up and cite me for littering, followed by an official from the EPA who would fine me for indiscriminately spilling oil in a National Park.

"Let's go get an ice cream cone," Jennie said.

"What?"

"There's a snack bar downstairs. Ice cream?" She was looking at me like I had grown a third head. "You alright?"

"Fine. Peachy. Never been better."

"What is it with you and bears, anyway?"

"Excuse me?"

"You seem terrified of them. I wonder why?"

"Really? The woman lifting off through the trees this morning like a space shuttle didn't alarm you? Just a wee bit? I mean, this place is crawling with bears! We came about six inches from becoming a first course on their menu. I think I'm quite justified being a little annoyed."

"It's their home, Jim. Of course there are bears here. And it's glorious!"

I saw a man coming out of the gift shop with a huge bottle of "Bear Spray"; he was as white as a Klansman's bed-sheet and looked as though he'd narrowly avoided being skewered and eaten recently.

I veered and walked over to the gift shop; Jennie followed, laughed when I picked up two canisters and holsters.

"Boy Scouts," I said. "You know. Be prepared; all that crap."

"Uh-huh. You know, they have some Astroglide over there. Can we pick some up?"




Backroads, v2



"What do we need that for?" Now I was really scared. What did she have in mind? Something with me, or something perhaps something a little more extreme with a furry four legged carnivore in the parking lot. If it was pain she wanted I was rather certain a Grizzly would be more than willing to help her out.

She just winked at me and bought an industrial sized bottle of the stuff, then picked up several pairs of pantyhose and a tube of toothpaste. I paid for the stuff and walked out to the lobby. Someone screamed, of course, and I saw a commotion out front, then a wall of people running into the lobby; a doorman ran in and bolted the door shut. We walked over in time to see a bear walking across a pile of luggage strewn about like an overturned litter barrel, the old man was firing off his new canister of bear spray before piling into his Mercedes, then -- and this is my favorite part -- the bear was standing up on hind legs, licking the spray off its snout and extended front claws.

As the thoroughly cowed bear walked off I dumped my "bear repellant" in a trash can and followed Jennie as she headed off in search of Rocky Road ice cream.

+++++

We were out on a huge terrace overlooking the lake, watching a thunderstorm over the mountains beyond Grinnell Peak; great cracks of thunder split the air, sheets of lightning rolled through clouds then arced down to mountaintops. We could see a white wall of rain moving our way, the sky above the mountains was black and purple and overtly menacing; kayakers on the lake were scurrying in as fast as they could paddle. They looked faintly funny as they rolled and stroked and thudded onto the rocky shore.

"I love to fuck during storms like this," Jennie said.

"Oh, do you like lightning with your Astroglide?"

She laughed. "Come on, let's go find the room."

"Seriously? Lightning makes you horny?"

"You've no fucking idea!"

"This I've got to see. Lead on."

We found the room up on the top floor, and when I opened the door I could see out over the lake; lightning was flashing everywhere. The room itself was tiny; the walls thin, the curtains looked like they were original issue and hadn't been washed since Queen Victoria blew a gasket. There was, I noted, a smallish bathroom, two towels a little larger than a tissue and a window inside the shower looking out over the lake. How interesting. A public shower. I never would have thought of that.

"Let's take a shower," Jennie said.

"Of course. Why not."

She really was horny. Really horny, I thought.

We ducked under hot water and some of the tension I felt washed away, and Jennie started doing things with her hands and my cock that definitely got my mind off bears. She knelt down at one point and played with it, wrapped her fingers around it and jerked it a few times, all quite playfully, then she leaned forward and bit the tip. Hard.

"Yeeooww!" I stood on my toes, jerked my cock from her mouth as I hopped up and away. Then she growled. I shit you not. Growled like a bear.

"You got away from one today," she said now, grinning, "but not again. I'm going to eat you up and spit out the bones."

"Really? You don't swallow?"

She stood and smiled. "You'll find out. Now, you wait here. I'll call you when I'm ready for you."

"Yes Ma'am."

She smiled as she walked out of the bathroom, and she closed the door behind her. I looked down at my cock; it was at half mast and I wasn't sure if it was her lipstick or my blood smeared all over the head.

+++++

"Alright, Jim. Come in here, now."

I dried off; the bathroom was hot as hell but the room was freezing. All the windows had been thrown wide open, curtains flew in the stormy wind, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. Jennie looked possessed; my cock tried to run from the room in terror.

"Lie down," she commanded.

"You betcha."

"You like being a smart ass, don't you little boy."

"Well, if the shoe fits..." I made it to the bed, was about to pull the covers down...

"No! Leave them alone. Lie down. Now!"

Lightning flashed over the lake. The lake right outside that open window.

"Is this horny? Are we horny yet?" I lay down, spread my legs a bit and put my hands behind my head.

"Move your hands." I could see her now; she had been standing in shadow. She was wearing a black leather brassiere and fishnet stockings. There were little cut outs in the bra and her nipples jutted out fiercely. She came and sat by me; put a scarf over my eyes. "Lift your head." She tied the scarf behind my head, then let my head drop; the pillow was gone. "Arms out."

"Jennie, what are..."

"Arms out, Jim, or you don't get to play."

"What makes you think I want to?" I said this, of course, while I was extending my arms. Freud was so right.

"That's a good boy." I felt something loop around my left wrist, then the loop tightened. She moved around to the other side of the bed and did the same, then moved down to my ankles and tied them off as well.

"How do you feel, Jim?"

"Cold."

Something hard slapped the tops of my thighs.

"And now my legs hurt."

Another slap, this time harder. "I can do it much harder, Jim. Would you like that?"

"Whatever floats your boat, baby."

The next blow was seriously sharp; I bit my lip and laughed at the same time. The next blow did, however, get my more immediate attention.

"Okay! You win! Time for dinner? Reservation's at six?"

Another slap, harder still, then I felt her standing bedside. "Lift your butt," she whispered into my ear.

"Pardon me."

Hard blow.

"Lift your ass, Jim." She grabbed my cock and pulled it toward the ceiling. My back arched obligingly; she slipped a mound of pillows underneath my ass. "Good boy," she said sweetly.

I felt her hands on my cock, then hot breath; her tongue drew lazy circles on the head as it grew harder, and sharp fingernails pulsed down the shaft. I may have moaned then, but I wouldn't have made a bet on it.

"You like that, Jim?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Thanks for asking."

Big slap across the thighs.

"You must really enjoy being a smart ass, Jim. Go ahead, though, if you like."

"I've been trying to quit, honestly I have, but..."

Whack! Laughter. Hers, not mine, by the way. I felt her sliding between my legs, then she flicked one of my nuts with a finger and I jumped. I mean seriously Jumped.

"Okay. Uncle. I give. Time for ole Jim to ..."

"Jim?" she said this while she flicked the other nut, though she managed to knock this one with what felt like a sand wedge or a nine iron.

"Yes?" I groaned.

"Shut the fuck up, Jim."

"Right."

I heard plastic snapping, then felt cold liquid pouring down my cock; said cock was, as I'm sure you can guess, about as hard as a lead pipe. A huge wad of the stuff, really cold, too, dripped down the shaft, then her hands swirled around and rubbed the stuff in. She held my cock straight out then slapped the snot out of it; it bounced from side to side a couple of times.

"You know, I could have sworn it was you who was into pain."

"Oh, I am, Jim. I am."

"Swell."

Whack!

Then she was all smooth and tender, made little loving noises over my cock, nibbled at it playfully from time to time while she continued massaging me. More fluid, this time running down over my sack, and she massaged that whole area as well. Then she pinched the sack. Once. Twice. A third time. I was hopping around like popcorn in a kettle, then as suddenly she was back to the gentle thing; smooth, even strokes, both hands wrapped around the shaft -- pulsing up and down in long, tight pulls. There was slick stuff running down my asshole and she found it, began running her finger over the opening, slowly, gently, lingering, probing a little with one finger while her other hand kept working over my cock.

She moaned a little, or was it me? "Ooh, you like that Jim, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Your cock just got real hard, Jim. Very, very hard and, ooh, yes, a little pre-cum, Jim. Ooh, yes, a nice little stream of it. Would you like this first bit, or can I?"

"Oh, feel free."

"I don't want to be selfish, Jim." I felt her fingernail scooping around the tip of my cock, her hand milking the shaft and then scooping even more. "Open your mouth, Jim."

"Uh, no thanks, really..."

Fingernails digging into the skin of my inner thigh, total pain now.

"Open your mouth, Jim. Now, that's a good boy. Stick your tongue out, Jim, here it is."

It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but the Astroglide left a weird aftertaste. Hardly mattered, though, because she slipped a second finger up the back passage and started moving her fingers in and out, slowly, gently, slowly, evenly, in and out, in and out, then more pressure, a third finger in and out and in and out and then a forth finger and the pressure was building building in and out slowly in and out gently what the hell is she doing I can feel her thumb sliding-in -- unbearable pain -- blinding light -- pop!

She's turning her hand inside me and somewhere a part of me is aware of that but all I'm really aware of are echoes of intense pain washing across and through me.

"What? Are you? Doing?" I felt myself floating, drifting...

"I'm fisting you, Jim. Ever been fisted?"

"Where am I?"

"All around me, Jim. And I have you, don't worry."

"Oh. Good."

Another flash of lightning, a sudden crack, then the boom of thunder just overhead.

"Yes, Jim. Good. Are you ready to cum for me, Jim?"

"Cum?"

"Yes, Jim. Cum. I want you to cum for me now."

I felt pressure on my cock, insane pressure inside my bowels, then as she began jacking my cock and turning her fist inside me I felt every synapse in my body firing simultaneously, my back arching off the bed, her hands sloshing in lubed hammer blows and all was white... all was orgasm. I was aware of her mouth engulfing the head of my cock, my sperm flooding into her warmth and it was endless, endless...

I came-to I don't know how much later. She wasn't on the bed; I could hear her in the shower, and she came out a few minutes later, humming some Irish ditty and going about getting dressed like I wasn't in the room. I tried to talk, but couldn't. My tongue felt dry, my cheeks full, and I could hear a muffled voice inside my head when I tried to speak.

"What was that, Jim?"

More muffled noises that used to be my voice.

"Oh. I'm sorry Jim, but I stuffed some dirty underwear in your mouth and tied them in place with a stocking."

Loud muffled voice, some jerking of restraints.

"Now, Jim, don't be rude or next time I'll stick my foot up your asshole. Would you like that, Jim?"

Dead silence.

"That's a good boy, Jim. I'm going to go down to dinner now. Maybe I'll find someone to come up and play with us. Hm-m? Would you like that, Jim?"

Continued dead silence on my part.

"Well, let me make a call before I go."

I heard her walk to the desk by the bed and punch two numbers.

"Yes, Maid Service? This is room 437; we're off to dinner now and I wondered if you might be able to turn our bed now, perhaps put one of those lovely chocolates on the pillow? Yes? Splendid? Bye-bye."

She laughed a little.

"Well Jim, this might be interesting. Then again, maybe not. I guess all that will depend on one's point of view, won't it?"

Muffled pleading, pulling at restraints on wrist.

"Well, toodle-loo, Jim." Sounds of door opening and closing, followed by the last remnants of the storm rumbling down the valley and away from the lodge.

A clock ticking on the bedside table.

Water falling from the roof to the wood timbered deck outside.

I could feel my cock shriveling, my balls trying to retreat to somewhere near my spleen. Whether they were running from the cold or the impending humiliation, I have no idea.

I heard voices in the hallway. A woman and a man, talking. Voices growing near, then receding. A couple of little kids running down the hall, their laughter skipping like stones across a pond.

A cart, wheels squealing, glasses tinkling, stopping outside the door.

A knock on the door.

"Room service!"

A key in the door, the lock turning. A blast of air as the door opened...

+++++

After I got over being released by a young man from Croatia, I walked down to the dining room; it was huge, tall windows looked out over the lake and Grinnell Peak beyond, and moonlight had filled in behind the passing thunderstorm. There were people queued-up to be seated but I walked past them and entered the room, saw Jennie sitting in a dark corner and walked to her table. I was doing everything in my power to keep calm, doing pretty well, too, given the circumstances, when I noticed the other place at the table was set, a glass of wine waiting.

She smiled when I walked up, indicated with her hand for me to be seated. "Did you have a nice shower?"

"Peachy. How 'bout you?"

"Nice, thank you. So. How do you feel?"

"Feel? I don't know. Maybe relieved you have small hands."

She laughed. "I see."

"Frankly, I doubt you do."

"Jim, don't be angry."

I couldn't tell if she was surprised, taunting me, or simply enjoying the fact of my evident discomfort. So much for my skills as a people person; she was opaque to me now.

"Well, gee. Let me think. Am I angry? Hm-m..."

"It was a gift, Jim. Accept it as such, would you?"

"A gift?"

"Yes. You learned something about yourself tonight, didn't you?"

"Did I?"

"I think you did."

"Such as."

"There's a darkness inside us all, Jim. Sometimes it's good to give that voice expression, revel in the release."

"Really? This might be news to you, but a lot of repression is self-imposed for a reason. It prevents us from acting like barking lunatics, and might even keep us from hurting people who have no interest in being hurt."

She smiled, perhaps a little condescendingly. "So. Tell me about the turn down service."

"What? The maid?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. Nice guy. Perhaps you should ask him what its like to walk into a room and find a buck-naked man bound and gagged to a bed. Personally, I got the impression he was a little annoyed by the whole thing."

"What did he do?"

"Are you going to be getting your rocks-off over his reaction, too?"

"Sure. Why not?"

I stood up. "Well, it's been a real slice, Jennie what-ever-your-name-is. My condolences to your constituents, and good night." I walked from the table.

"Jim!"

People were staring now; perhaps I'd gone a little over the top on the 'bound and gagged' thing and not kept my voice in check, but when you're mad -- you're mad. My face was burning, my stomach knotted and churning, and all I wanted to do was get on the Wing and ride. I didn't really care where or how far away it was; I was off for the backroads, back on my nonstop journey to nowhere, and I wanted to get as far away as humanly possible from this woman as fast as I could.

I plowed through the lobby like an ice-breaker, out the doors and over to the stairs that led up to the parking lot. A full moon was out; the whole world was dull silver and deep black -- which was exactly how I felt right then. The Wing was right where I'd left it, and not a Grizzly bear in sight anywhere. I was in luck! Off the menu!

And I could hear Jennie running up behind me, walking a couple of yards back, but she was there. I could hear her now, her breathing was hard and labored.

I unlocked my helmet and put it on, then found hers and handed it to her. I climbed aboard and rocked the bike off the center-stand, steadied my feet, looked ahead.

"Don't do this, Jim. Please. We have something here, you and I..."

"Had. We had something. Then you tried to twist me into something dark and perverted."

"No, Jim, that's not what I did."

I put the key in the ignition and started the engine. The Wing kicked over and rumbled for a moment, then settled into her low, gentle purr. I felt her hand on my arm; saw a tear in her eye.

"Good-bye, Jim."

"Right." I slipped the Wing into gear and rode through the lot, down a little curving drive between dormitories and over a little waterfall, then right onto the main road and took off down the valley. It was almost ten at night, maybe a couple hours to the first town with a hotel that wouldn't be full. I decided to ride until I got tired, but I had a hard time concentrating on anything but Jennie. I set the cruise control once I hit the highway at the bottom of the valley and sat numbly while the Wing rolled southward across miles of dark shadows; the moon high above was silent and not at all interested in my thoughts.

I found it hard to order my feelings about Jennie. Some instinct when I first saw her told me she was something well off the beaten path but also something well worth knowing, kind of like the roads I'd been moving along. Then there were the subtle intrusions that came along: the sadistic underpinnings and the almost psychopathic disregard for other people's feelings. How on earth, I wondered, could the woman possibly be a politician? Or was a certain callousness necessary to do the job well?

I could see contours of what the woman had been like once, before the assumed dominant had come along and reordered her tortured priorities. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered why her actions had caused such an intense reaction in me. Certainly, probably, not what she had expected, certainly not something from the realm of her experience? She'd had certain expectations based, I assumed, on her own history with this other man; namely, that I'd enjoy the experience or, failing that, at least be open to the experience and try to understand her in the light of that experience.

If that was the case, I'd certainly let her down on that front. And her observed inability to integrate other people's feelings had probably closed her down, prevented her from seeing anything other than what she wanted to see, and wanted to feel. The whole incident, in this world-view, had been driven by her needs and expectations; she'd wanted me to perform in her little drama, and I hadn't. I couldn't, really.

Or perhaps she wanted me to experience a part of myself that, for most people, remains buried by the conscious self. She wanted to open Pandora's box, give free reign to all those human impulses that had been relegated to the shadows by moralists and theologians for centuries. But...

Why? What impulse had driven her to make such drastic and unwarranted assumptions? Her personality seemed substantially intact; had, in fact, up until the events of that night.

What was in that Pandora's box, what held such fascination? What was so important on those backroads of the mind? What would I have found there if I'd let go? Would it truly have been so dangerous?

Like the road ahead, everything was a vast, twisting ribbon across a gray landscape. I couldn't see ahead or behind, only the pool of light cast just ahead by the headlight, the fading light of memory that held me now in a last embrace.

If my reaction to these impulses was, or had been instinctual, then perhaps my reaction was appropriate, even if it was somewhat disproportionate. Yet, if this kind of reaction in general -- outrage, moral posturing -- was nothing more than a socially conditioned response, a response dictated by the morally repressive culture I'd been born into, then I was off-base, my actions very, very wrong.

The Wing rolled into Browning and I gassed-up, then made for the Interstate and Great Falls. Even at this lower elevation and out of the mountains the night air was cold, and the moon -- now high in the night sky -- cast a silver glow on dry rolling plains of speckled grass. Deer grazed just off the side of the road, hundreds of them at times, so I rode along slowly, meditatively. There was no other traffic on this lonely road and the silver landscape was punctuated only by the white glare of the Wing's headlight on the pitted asphalt just ahead. I was well and truly alone out here. Alone again, I said to myself. What was that song? Alone Again - Naturally?