Thank you for ... finding me again ... Technology allows for lightning-fast trips back to the past and a certain nostalgia.

In your email, you talk about many things, among other things, and this is what stands out for me: our motorcycle rides.

Your question: do I remember our motorcycle rides? Yes, of course! How could I not?

I gather from your message that you have very fond memories of our outings!

I still get chills just thinking about your fingers sliding across my stomach.

Let’s put this in context: you were the young neighbor, your parents were friends! How could I have refused your mother’s offer to drop you off at school? My office was right across the street.

I did nothing but drop you off during that first year of middle school.

On Wednesdays, I would sometimes pick you up from the stables when your mother couldn’t come and get you.

To ask me this, your parents had invited me over for a drink and, of course, to introduce you. You already seemed like a young woman. I remember that evening with unsettling clarity. You were wearing a light summer dress that hinted at the slenderness of your shoulders and the gentle curve of your hips. Every time you bent down to reach for something, your neckline revealed the beginning of your cleavage, a promise of what your body concealed. Your gaze was no longer that of a child, but that of a young woman beginning to understand the power she held over men, and me, in particular.

Since you had never ridden a motorcycle, I offered to take your parents for a ride to get you used to the sensations and vibrations of motorcycling.

Once you were settled behind me on the motorcycle, I told you to hold on tight because the acceleration was so powerful. You were so light that I was afraid I might lose you along the way. You wrapped your arms tightly around my waist as soon as we picked up speed. I felt your body so close against my back, your warmth seeping into my leathers. The engine’s purr seemed to vibrate directly through you to me, a mechanical caress that united us. I felt your budding breasts press against me, your nipples hardening even through several layers of clothing. The wind rushed under your skirt, and I imagined your bare thighs brushing against each other, perhaps unconsciously tightening against me. Your warm, uneven breathing caressed the back of my neck, and I knew you weren’t cold. You were discovering another kind of warmth, the kind that rises from your belly and makes you shiver all the more as the speed increases. Every turn was an excuse for your body to press even closer to mine, a sensual dance on the asphalt where we were the only partners.

You loosen your grip, but only for a moment. Your small hands then have the audacity to grip not my belt, but the thin fabric of my shirt. I feel your fingers arch against the small of my back, searching for a hold. With each acceleration, your breasts press harder against me, and I imagine your nipples hardening through the layers of our clothing. The wind rushes under your skirt, and I imagine your bare thighs brushing against each other, perhaps unconsciously tightening against me. Your warm, uneven breathing caresses the back of my neck, and I know you aren’t cold. You’re discovering another kind of warmth, the kind that rises from your belly and makes you shiver all the more as the speed increases. Every turn is an excuse for your body to press closer to mine, a sensual dance on the asphalt where we are the only partners.

The test having been successful, the very next day I was your motorcycle taxi.

For the first few days, your hands remained tightly around my waist. As you got used to it, you preferred to hold onto my belt, and when the traffic was light, I felt your fingers brush against my skin, lightly touching the sensitive band just above my jeans, sending shivers down my spine with each contact.