Joanie and the Junkyard
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2016 by Peter Duncan

True Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This story was told to me by Joanie who, with her sister Katie went looking for lust in the wrong place. Happening into a biker bar they get more than they bargained for. Kidnapped by the "Wrecking Crew" they become reluctant weekend "guests" of the gang, being initiated into the Wrecking Crew Auxiliary, a group of 100 plus girls that, over the years, underwent the rigorous initiation by Bull, Riff and their West Texas Hog Club. Joanie goes on to become an escort, working conventions

Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   mt/Fa   Coercion   Rape   Heterosexual   True Story  

It was the night before the writer’s symposium at Rutgers University in 1988. After an early dinner with one of my colleagues, walking back to the university we passed a bar by the name of Rocky’s Place. Looking through the window I was reminded of a place I frequented while working in the steel mill in the summers between college terms in northern Ohio. My memories of the Tremaine Club were sweet. It was a place where men, single and married, met women—usually married—who were trying to get what little excitement, satisfaction, or adventure they could from their unfulfilled lives. It was in the Tremaine Club where I met a woman of forty-five who not only took my virginity but throughout the summer showed me the many ways a man could satisfy a woman.

My colleague reluctantly agreed to go into Rocky’s with me. I didn’t mention that I was hoping to experience a bit of Deja vu, meeting a woman with whom I might be able to spend the night. We ordered a drink at the bar, and he went back to his motel room. I stayed, hoping a woman would come in with whom I might have a shot. Halfway through my second drink, I accepted that nothing would happen ... another disappointment in a strange town. Just as I was getting ready to pay my tab an attractive middle-aged woman walked in. It was 9:32.

She was dressed in tan Bermuda shorts and wore a sleeveless dark blue top. Standing about five-foot-six the woman with shoulder-length chestnut hair, gorgeous legs, and an imposing figure took a seat at the bar. I heard the bartender, “Good evening Joanie, more trouble at home Joanie?” She nodded, “The regular?”

Looking in the mirror I could see her nipples showed prominently in her top it was clear that she wore no bra. I gauged her breasts as being C-cups which bounced in a beguiling jiggle as she moved. Her hazel-colored eyes were remarkably clear’

She slugged down her whiskey and held her glass up to the bartender and said, “Make it a double.”

I sat close enough to see that she looked troubled and said, “You look like the weight of the world is on your shoulders.”

Looking sideways at me she rolled her eyes and said, “Just what I need, some jerk trying to pick me up.” Turning her head back to the mirror behind the bar she took a sip from her glass and quietly mouthed, “You son-of-a-bitch.”

Embarrassed, I thought I was in trouble and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She didn’t respond. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I remembered what my father always said: “faint heart never won fair lady.” I pressed on by saying, “I’m attending a writer’s conference at the university.”

Still drilling the mirror with angry eyes, she sipped again, ignoring what I said.

Having struck out I ordered another drink on the chance that I might be able to turn the tide the way I did from time to time at the Tremaine Club in Cleveland. When Ray brought the drink he rolled his eyes toward the woman, leaned across the bar, and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “She’s REALLY pissed this time.”

“At me?” I murmured back.

“Nah, at her husband. It happens a lot. She comes here to get away from him.”

With a sly smirk, he cocked his head and confided, “If I were you, pal I’d hang in there with her. Joanie’s worth it if you score. The poor kid needs a break from time to time.” He winked then moved down the bar, wiping its entire length then reorganized some bottles on the shelf behind the bar.

Nursing my drink, I was startled when the woman asked, “What kind of stuff do you write?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said you write, what kind of STUFF do you write?”

“I write poetry and short stories,” I said. “Currently I’m working on a novel. I’ve also written quite a few ... um ... erotic stories.” I have always been wary of sharing information with a stranger about the smut that I write. It’s not the kind of stuff everyone likes, particularly women.

Looking around as if she didn’t want the bartender to hear she said in a more hushed voice, “EROTIC stories?” With an ironic chuckle, she murmured, “Boy, have I got one for you.”

“A story?” She nodded “I’m always looking for new material.”

“Most people would think I was bullshitting if I told them. Because you write that kind of stuff it might appeal to you. It will be the kind of ‘material’ you are looking for.”

“I write the stuff pretty well. And I’m more open-minded than most people. Try me.”

“It’s not a very nice story,” she said. “I’ve never told to anybody before. It’s ugly. But I’ve read some of those “erotic” stories online and think there are people out there who might be interested in such a story as mine.” She studied my face for a reaction. I stared back nodding my head in agreement. “Do you think you would want to hear it?” I nodded my head. “Do you think you’ll have time? It will take quite a while. I don’t want to get started and have you getting bored and leaving.”

She had thrown down the gauntlet and she had me. No matter how long it takes I’m in. Maybe it will get me laid. “My name’s Peter. If you have the time to tell it I promise I’ll hear you out.”

“Joanie,” she said offering her hand. “Let’s go over to the table in the corner. I don’t want anybody else to hear.” To the bartender, she said, “We’re going over to that table Ray, we’ll take another round.”

When the drinks came, she held hers up, “Cheers,” After a long sip, she began:

“I was twenty-seven at the time ... had been married for seven years. I had three daughters by then: Judy was six, Jackie was five, and Kristina was three and a half.”

“I was a good Catholic girl, Peter, married to a real asshole. He’s even worse now. We were on the verge of divorce—not a good prospect for a good Catholic—when my mother suggested that I get away for a while ... go down to Texas for a couple of weeks and visit my sister Katie. She was twenty-five and single. I had a couple of weeks of vacation coming up so when Mom offered to take the kids for two weeks, I jumped at it.

Katie lived in New Braunfels at the time near San Antonio. She took me to see some of the sites in San Antonio. We went to the Alamo, did the typical tourist stuff and we went to a few bars. The prospects were nothing but wimps pretending to be studs. They reminded me of actors, playing cowboys.

Katie lived in a one-bedroom apartment. As kids, we shared a bed. But sharing a bed with my sister after being married wasn’t for me. She knew that I needed a warm, male body to snuggle up to. I was a virgin when I got married, a good Catholic girl always faithful to my husband. But the son-of-a-bitch treated me so badly for such a long time though that I was in the mood to try some casual sex.

Katie was serious with a guy in New Braunfels. She was having sex with him. The guy was a religious man. When I met him I thought he was a wimp. I couldn’t figure out why my sister was considering marrying the guy.”

We hit the road the next morning. Katie said there were several little towns in that part of Texas. She suggested that we drive for an hour or so and then stop in a town and cruise to some bars. I told her, “There’s got to be some horny guys out there, Sis, who would be willing to sacrifice themselves for your sanity. I’m getting pretty edgy myself and wouldn’t mind getting my horns clipped.”

“Frankly,” she said to me, “I liked the idea of having sex with someone besides my husband but can’t say I was serious about it. From my conservative Catholic upbringing, it was hard for me to hear my kid sister talking about “horny” guys and “clipping horns.”

“Katie drove a red Mustang with a white racing stripe painted down the middle. After driving for an hour or so we stopped in a town and hit a couple of western clothing stores. I bought a cowboy hat and a pair of boots. We had lunch in a little burg then hit the road again. At about 3:00 pm we saw a road sign that said Gushing Springs, population twelve hundred and fifty-two. There was a grocery store: a drug store, a gas station, a small hardware store, and a bar with a maroon sign that hung over the door in the shape of a Harley-Davidson with chopper handlebars —The Chopper.

“Let’s check it out,” Katie said. “If nothing happens, we’ll try the next town, maybe they’ll have a happy hour.”

It was 102 degrees outside, The sight of two extremely attractive women walking into the musty bar on the deserted main street of the little Texas town must have been like a TV commercial for Tony Lama or something. I had deep brown should-length hair at the time and wore tight-fitting Wrangler Jeans, my new black Stetson hat, and a sleeveless lime-colored pullover top that showed off my breasts in a sexy way. My husband said I had a pear-shaped ass which must have filled the tight seat of my Wranglers like they had been specifically tailored for me. They were tucked into my deep brown, lizard skin boots.” Laughing, “I thought I looked pretty hot.”

Katie, a little shorter than me wore Calvin Clines which highlighted her bottom just like mine did. They were tucked into plum-colored designer boots. A shaped straw cowboy hat was cocked on her head of long, dirty blonde hair. Her plum-colored western shirt with white pearl buttons was tied in a knot, showing her smooth, bare midriff. The three top buttons were undone, advertising the cleavage of her C-cup breasts. As we walked into the bar a bell over the doorway tinkled as the frigid air inside made our skin feel clammy.”

“Welcome ladies,” the bartender said, scanning our nice bodies in tight-fitting jeans and well-filled blouses. “It’s nice to see unfamiliar faces for a change.”

Katie asked, “Is it always this quiet on a Thursday afternoon?” She had been used to going to “Meat Markets” in San Antonio on Thursday nights, where men and women tried to hook up for the weekend.

“Friday’s better,” the bartender said with a strange leer in his eyes, “people knock off early on Friday. But it’s not night yet. I’m quite sure though that you’ll see a bunch of guys ambling in purty soon.” He cocked his head and laughed, “When women come into the bar those boys are like a spider when a fly lands in its web. You’ll be hearing the sound of their machines purty soon. Can I get y’all something to drink?”

“We’ll both have a Shiner,” Katie said. This was her territory, and she knew the popular beers.

As the bartender drew the beers I looked around at the memorabilia on the wall. There was a sign with a picture of a giant bulldog wearing a spiked collar. It wore a leather vest and was holding a sledgehammer. The letters at the top of the sign spelled The Wrecking Crew. But hanging off the bottom of the sign was a white tag board with black letters that spelled Wreckers. Just below the sign hung a large picture showing what looked to be about twenty-five guys, dressed in leathers and vests. In the middle of the front row were two tall men. One was extremely handsome; he had piercing eyes. The one next to him was even taller, 6’5” or 6’6”. He was handsome too but more rugged looking, kinda like Hulk Hogan—a bodybuilder. The whole gang, except one skinny guy, looked fit and muscular. None wore shirts beneath their vests—real beefcake.

Setting frosty pints of Shiners in front of us the bartender said, “Yep, those are the Wreckers all right, this is their place ... one’s in the middle are Riff on the left, and Bull on the right. They’re the leaders.”

Taking a closer look at the picture I studied the two men in the middle. As I scanned down the big one’s body my eye caught the triangular patch of denim beneath his leather pants. No picture could hide such a bulge. Must be a distortion, I thought. No man can be THAT big.

“That’s all we need Sis,” I said, “to be picked up in a biker bar.”

Getting cold feet Katie replied, “Maybe we should drink up and get out of here, what do you think?”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than I heard a distant rumble that was closing with great speed. The rumbling intensified as it got nearer until a gathering of motorcycles pulled in front of The Chopper. The racket-made bottles on the shelf rattle. In unison, the engines went silent, one backfired. A moment later as the door burst open, and the bell jangled, a tall skinny guy with a chestnut brown ponytail and acne scars covering his face came through it. From behind him, a voice yelled, “Hey, Needle Dick, when are ya gonna get the timing fixed on your machine?” Looking over his shoulder the skinny guy shouted back, “Whatsamatter asshole, don’t you like my punctuation?” Laughter came from a crowd coming through the door.”

“Needle Dick,” I said with a laugh. I was impressed with the way Joanie was telling the story.” “You’re good at this Joanie. You ought to be a writer.”

“People tell me that. But I’ve never told this story. Nobody I know would believe me. Anyway.”

“The bartender nodded to Katie and me and reminded us, “As I said. A spider.’” He clicked his mouth and winked.

When the thin guy (Needle dick) saw us sitting at the bar, he said, “Jesus!” Turning around he yelled, “Hey guys, strange cooze are in here ... real nice lookin’ too.”

Neither Katie nor I ever heard the word cooze before but there was no question that it had to do with women and their ‘special purpose.’ “Jesus Joanie,” Katie said under her breath, “Let’s get the hell out of here FAST.”

It happened too quickly. A tall, quite good-looking man came in. Both Katie and I recognized that he was the one in the picture that the bartender identified as “Riff.”

“Well, whaddya know,” he said with a leering grin, “we’re in the land of the walking wet,” to which all the bikers laughed and hooted.

The Riff guy came between Katie and me draping his arms over both our shoulders. Looking first at me then Katie he said over his shoulder to his cohorts, “I’m confused guys; I don’t know which one I would rather spend the night with. Maybe they would like to share me.” Once again hoots came from the gang.

I looked at Katie who was rolling her eyes and thought, what have we gotten ourselves INTO?

“Hold on,” said a guy with a soothing voice. He was about six feet tall and had deep brown hair and soft brown eyes. His hair was swept back in a neatly cut DA and had a pencil-thin mustache that made him look like Zorro. Walking to Riff’s side he put one arm over the big man’s shoulders while resting his around mine.

Looking first at Katie then at me he said, “These ladies are our guest’s boys, let’s not be scaring them.” Then to me, he said, “I’m Concho. This here’s Riff.” indicating the big picture over the bar with a jerk of his head. “We’re The Wreckers.” Back over his shoulder he scanned the room and admonished, “Let’s cool it, boys.” To Katie, he said, “What’s your name honey?”

“K-K-K Katie,” she stammered in a little girl’s voice, fiddling with her hands in her lap.

Turning his head to me he asked the same question, but only tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

“JOANIE,” I said in defiance.

“Joanie-J,” he quipped. Turning to Katie he mimicked, “and K-K-K-K-Katie, those will be your Wrecker’s names.”

Jutting my chin forward I spat, “I’m NOT a Wrecker.”

Picking up a pitcher of beer Riff sneered and said, “Not YET” filling his glass. “Once you realize what a great bunch of guys, you’re with you’ll be begging to join ... all the cooze do.” He filled my glass then Katie’s and lifted his in a proffered toast, “to Joanie-J and K-K-K- Katie.” The Wreckers, all seventeen of them, echoed the toast.

Concho was a soothing factor. He asked whose Mustang was outside. When Katie haltingly spoke up, he asked her where she lived. When she told him “New Braunfels,” he said his family was from San Antonio. He was surprised that I came from such a distance as New Jersey and that two beautiful women were in The Chopper at the same time. To me, he said, “Most women who come here are biker babes, durable types.”

As he talked I, either imagined or felt hot breaths wafting from Riff’s nostrils onto the back of my neck and took offense that Concho didn’t consider me “durable.” Turning my head, I looked up at him and spat out, “I can hold my own with ANY woman. And who’s the leader here?”

“I am,” Riff said, pushing his chest into my back. Unexplainably his closeness caused a thrill to surge throughout my body. It was the strangest thing, to be so frightened, yet so feisty.

“What about Bull?” I asked.

“Aha,” he said, looking around at the group, “Joanie-J here has been doing her homework.” Squeezing my shoulder, he pulled me closer. “I’m the Field General; Bull’s the chief. I don’t think you would suit him though little lady. The durable types are more his style.

Taking his comment as an affront I looked up at the picture and assessed the leader. Unable to take my eyes off the bulge in Bull’s pants I thought, maybe “durable” is the right word. Just the same I felt added wetness between my legs and thought, God, forbid that it should COME to that.

When the pitchers were empty the bartender drew another round. Katie had become a little looser; I felt a buzz. As the beer took effect the Wreckers seemed less threatening amid the laughter and loud talk. They could have been a softball team after a game. God knows they smelled like it. They had interesting names like Riff, Concho, Flapper, Curveball, Ski jump, Side Car, Roadkill, Lightning, and Turtleneck. Then there was Cruit, Cauliflower, Eyeballs, Skank, Fudge, One nut, Crip, and Needle Dick.

Needle Dick asked, “Have ya ever ridden a Harley before Joanie-J?”

“I’ve never ridden ANY motorcycle, much less a Harley. Have you Sis?”

Katie, who with the effect of the beer appeared much more at ease, shook her head, “no.”

“Then maybe you ladies would like to feel a hog between your legs.”

Feeling my alcohol, I turned to Katie and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I never would have thought I would have to be involved with pigs,” which brought forth a chorus of sarcastic hoots.

“Did ya hear that?” Needle Dick said to the group, “This girl could be a real pain in the ass.”

As if he were corralling his cows, Riff, put his arms over both our shoulders and said, “She must have been talking about YOU, Needle Dick.” The gang erupted in laughter, beating their glasses on the bar.

Needle Dick scowled and said, “She-yat!”

“So whattaya think, Joanie-J,” Riff asked, “Would you want to go for a ride on a REAL bike?”

“Like how far,” I asked tentatively, hoping they were all just teasing.

“Just a few miles so you can get the feel of it.”

I had always wondered what it would be like. “What do you think K-K-Katie,” would YOU like to go for a ride?”

“I-I’m not sure,” she said.

“It sounds like fun to me,” I retorted trying to act as if I were unphased, “Don’t be a weenie Sis.” The alcohol made me feel daring. Deep down though I knew I shouldn’t leave the safety of The Chopper if there were anything that could be considered safe amongst all these rowdy males.

When it came to mischief though, I always had a strong effect on my younger sister. Not giving her time to think I slid off her stool, hooked my arm through Riff’s, and grabbed Katie’s arm. “Let’s go, sweetie,” I urged in a sudden jolt of false bravado, “there’s no time like the present to have ourselves a thrill.” Through my haze, I had the feeling that if Katie and I tried to fit in with the gang we would be safer. We can fake our way out of this.

We all trooped outside into the reddening sun. Riff threw his leg over his dark red Harley and kick-started it as he patted the seat for me to get on behind him. Katie walked out with Concho, his arm around her waist. He mounted his pearlized, emerald, green Hog and started it. She climbed on behind. All seventeen bikes rumbled their patented Harley Davidson sound. Riff pulled out first, followed by Concho and the rest. Needle Dick was last in line.

As Riff twisted the accelerator my neck snapped back as I clutched anxiously at his waist, my feet coming partially off the footrests and then resetting. Feeling unsure of my stability it was scary, the road seemed so CLOSE. But as the wind rushed past my face, blowing my hair, I felt a tingle in my nipples. It was THRILLING. I had never experienced such a feeling of speed, never felt so vulnerable or accessible, and so dependent upon a man for my safety. The urge to wrap my legs around Riff’s waist and hump my pussy against his tight buns surprised me. It must have been the beer and the thrill of speed so close to the road. Good sense dictating my words I asked, “When are we going back?”

Riff turned his head and yelled back, “Eventually.” Slowing the bike, he turned right onto a narrow country lane. Twisting the accelerator, he was again doing sixty.

Looking behind I could see Katie’s light brown hair swept back by the wind. She had one arm around Concho the other hand holding her hat down. She wasn’t smiling. When our eyes finally met Katie’s were pleading. I just hoped they would turn around soon and go back to The Chopper.

After driving a couple of miles on the dirt road Riff slowed the bike and turned left into what looked like a driveway—there was a mailbox at the corner. About two hundred feet from the road was a large, old, and weathered two-story house with cracks showing in the gray paint. I could see that the entrance was set up like a ranch: two telephone poles on either side of the driveway with another lying across the top. As we neared it I read the sign that was hanging down, “The Wrecking Crew,” centered by two skulls.

“Why are we going here?” I asked.

“You have to meet Bull.”

“And then you’ll take us back?”

“Of course,” he chuckled.

“Why do we have to meet Bull?”

“It’s a Wrecker rule, Joanie-J. Any cooze we find at The Chopper has to meet with Bull’s approval.”

“But,” I said, “we just stopped in to see what was happening in the town.”

“Doesn’t matter Joanie-J, y’all are eligible so Bull has to approve.”

“Eligible for what?”

“To be members of the uh Wreckers Auxiliary,” he explained. “There are a hundred and fifty or so members in it now. It’s an honor ... going back to the fifties. But you can’t join unless Bull approves.”

“But we don’t WANT to be members,” I said, with a feeling of desperation.

“You don’t have a choice Joanie-J. Don’t worry though, you and your sister will like Bull; everybody does. And in the end, you’ll love being with the Wreckers.”

Like a line of ants, the gang rode into the Junkyard, the name they had given the clubhouse. Forming a tight group, they WERE ants that had found sweet crumbs. Like a drill team, Needle Dick bringing up the rear, their engines died at the same instant. Riff slid off to the right, taking my reluctant hand. “We shouldn’t keep the Bull waiting.”

Looking back at Katie definitely, a scared deer Concho helped her off his bike ... I wanted to talk with my kid sister but there was no way I could get close enough. Riff’s hand gripped me by the bicep; he wasn’t being rough, just purposeful. Concho was directing Katie in the same way.

The front room of the “Junkyard” was set up like a living room. There were two couches and two armchairs—all maroon leather, stained with years of hard use. In the middle was a large coffee table strewn with biker and girlie magazines, a porno magazine on top. Large tiffany lamps sat on four occasional tables at the end of the couches. As we walked into the next room Riff yelled “BULL, come see what we have brought you.” I was pissed that he referred to my sister and me as “something” rather than someone as if we were pieces of prime meat.

The next room was the original family dining room. It was larger than the living room and had been converted into a bar. Oak wainscot, about 36” high, encircled the room. Above the wainscot the walls were painted maroon; there were various biker decorations on the walls. Like so many of those old houses, the ceilings were high. Two ceiling fans hanging from the high ceiling waggling slowly.

At the end of the room, between a stairway on the left and a door to the right, was a beat-up oak bar. It came off the wall about six feet and was surrounded by eight oak swivel stools. Over the bar was the same Wrecking Crew sign that was at The Chopper. Another sign said, “Welcome to the Junkyard.” Under the sign was the same picture of the gang we had seen at The Chopper. On either side of the large picture was an 8x10 picture of Bull on the left and Riff on the right. The wall to the right of the bar was covered with framed, 8x12 pictures—over a hundred of them. The earliest ones (15 or so) were in black and white. The rest were in color. They were all headshots, mostly of attractive women. Some were kinda rough looking—the “durable types.” Judging by the hairstyles the pictures went back as far as the early fifties. A large black sign with pink script lettering read, Tits and Clits.

Through the door on the right came a giant of a man, in the 6’6,” range, so large that he darkened the room. He was buttoning the top button of his Levi’s. Bare-chested, his pecs were covered with a mat of hair that looked like breasts. Wearing boot socks, his rugged, handsome face sported a blonde walrus mustache. His damp blonde hair hanging in a ponytail evidenced his recent shower.

“Well, well, well” the big man chortled, “look what my boys have brought me.” In total scrutiny, his eyes ogled the two women. To me, he asked, “Sisters?”

With a shy smirk, I said, “Yes,” daring to return his gaze with a deep, resentful stare.

“Even better,” he mused. “By the way darlin, I respect your attitude.” Seeing the obvious fear on Katie’s face he said, “You and your sister have nothing to worry about here. We’re not like the Hells Angels; we’re not ANIMALS. We’re CIVILIZED Hogs. What’s your name, Hon?”

Before I could answer Riff cut me off, “This here’s Joanie-J. Her sister is K-K-K Katie.”

Holding up his hand Bull ignored Riff and looked kindly at me. “I apologize for my friend’s enthusiastic response honey. What’s your name?”

Ordinarily, I would have been irritated being called “honey” by a stranger. But so many men in Texas call women honey or sweetie or darlin that it wasn’t worth getting upset over. “I’m Joanie. This is my sister Katie.”

Spreading both arms Bull said, “Are these ladies prisoners or something?” Looking around the room he put his hands on his hips. “Let go of their arms for Christ’s sake. We’re supposed to be welcoming our guests, not TERRORIZING them.”

As Riff’s hand let go of my bicep I felt relieved. Bull, though such an imposing man, made me feel welcome. Though big and rough looking he seemed like a gentleman. The relief coupled with the strain I had been under since the Wreckers came into The Chopper caused me to shudder. I’m still embarrassed to tell you that I felt the warm coating of mucous lubricating the membrane between the lips of my vagina. but the sensation, instead of announcing pleasure seemed to be sounding an alarm.

Through a roguish smile, Bull said, “Welcome to the Junkyard ladies. Would y’all like a drink?”

My answer was automatic, “We were drinking Shiners at The Chopper.”

“We’ve got it on tap, Darlin” Bull said in a matter of fact, way as he walked behind the bar and opened the refrigerator taking out two frosted glasses. After drawing each one with a perfect head he set them on the bar then drew another for himself. With a smile he nodded at the glasses, indicating for Katie and me to pick them up. Lifting his own he toasted, “It’s such a pleasure to be in the presence of such beauty.” Holding his glass high for us to touch we clinked glasses. “The Wrecking Crew welcomes you.”

After sipping his beer, he set his glass on the bar (we held on to ours). Turning, he opened the fridge and took out enough glasses for everybody else, filling them just as perfect for each of the Wreckers, from Riff to Needle Dick, who each took their glass. When he finished he lifted his glass and said, “Thanks for taking diligent care of these ladies boys.” To us, he said, “I assume they treated you okay?” Shaking his head he said, “I don’t like physicality or crudeness,” to which there was a general rolling of eyes and leering smirks from the Wreckers who were all standing behind us.

With the beers and the toasts, I began thinking we were home free. But the ‘initiation’ was taking on a different life. Bull didn’t push anything. He just talked with us and asked about our lives, where we lived, where we grew up, and what our families were like. Did I have any children? Was I happily married? Did Katie have any prospects? It was like meeting a kind man in a bar. With the beers we had at The Chopper, coupled with the ones we just finished, Katie and I had become quite mellow. Bull pulled two more beers from the tap and handed them to us.

After drinking about a quarter of the beer in the glass I began feeling woozy. I heard Bull say, ‘Something wrong, sweetie?’

I remember shaking my head to clear my thoughts, telling him I didn’t think so, that I might have just had too many beers. Feeling dizzy I remember putting my hand hands flat on the bar to steady myself.

What he said next sounded like it was coming from far away. “Ya know what I think, Joanie-J? I think it’s because you had those powerful bikes between your legs, sitting behind these studs...” The last thing I remember was looking at Katie whose head was lying on her crossed arms on the bar.”

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