Chapter 2: lay Misty for me

All right, I bet you're not convinced. You're thinking maybe I have some kind of super-pheromone power -- or maybe Wendy was a closet sex-fiend all this time and I just happened to be in the right place at the right time -- but whatever it is, you're thinking that all this talk about Dick being in control is just a coping mechanism for guilt. Like "It's not me, it's Dick" is an excuse. You're thinking it's me, not Dick.

Au contraire. And I can prove it.
See, Dick is into stuff that I'm not into.
"But I thought it was you who wakes Dick up," you say. (Well, you'd say that if you were paying attention. I know I ramble a little, but try to stay with me. The next dirty story is just ahead.)
Yeah, Dick's sleeping until he gets a call from my libido, but once he's awake it doesn't take him long to get off in the bushes. Er, weeds. Whatever.

Anyway, he gets into some weird weeds. Places I'd never think about going.
Calm down, I'm not going there. Dick's not into dick either. You didn't see an "MM" story code at the top of this page, did you? (To those of you who are disappointed: get your own Dick.)

So. Weird weeds.

Well, there's Marge in Human Resources. Really nice lady. She's been there since they hired me. Knows all the ins and outs of sexual harassment and inappropriate conduct. And that was before we hooked up. But she's 54 years old and 300 pounds, so most of you don't want to hear her story. I don't really want to tell it. We're still friends, but... like I said, weird weeds.

But I've got another one.

Biker chick.

Woah, don't go, this isn't one of those scary old broads on the back of a hog.
I'm talking hot chick on the back of a hog.

What's the problem? you ask. Don't like leather?

Actually, no. I don't think a girl in leather is attractive at all. It's thick, it doesn't move well, it hides curves, it doesn't breathe... Okay, it smells nice when it's taken care of, and a black leather trenchcoat is just about the coolest ever -- I'm still saving up for mine -- and a piece or two can look good as outerwear, but the whole leather outfit thing, no thanks. I cried when I saw Halle Berry in X-Men -- she looked like a dude. Besides, you ever try to peel leather pants off a hot biker chick? But I'm getting ahead of myself...

So I'm not into the leather. But that's not the real problem with Misty. Misty -- the hot chick on the back of the hog.

This hot chick on the back of a hog came with the requisite scary boyfriend.
Big guy.
Named Tank.
Yeah, Tank. Normally you hear that and assume it's a nickname. Not this guy. His momma actually named him Tank. He grew into the name.
Even carried a big-ass gun. Desert Eagle fifty cal. You know, the one with the triangular barrel all the bad guys like to use in movies.
I know what it was because I got a real close look at it.
Well, that, and Tank told me "Desert Eagle fifty caliber" is what they'd write on my autopsy report if I kept staring at his ride.
I think he meant his girlfriend.
I dunno, he could have meant his motorcycle.
But I wasn't gonna take any chances.

Dick, on the other hand, is a gambler.

Because right after Tank said the thing about my autopsy, I found myself asking for clarification.

"When you say, 'stop staring at my ride, ' do you mean that fine piece of ass I'm about to take to the nearest motel and fuck silly, or the piece of shit motorized Huffy out front that I'm gonna take to get there?"