Chapter 1

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.