press down on the gas

He picked me up at quarter to three, I knew he was coming and still I made him wait, obviously.
I had dressed up for the occasion, blue tights, a small white skirt, black jacket and no underwear.
He was a friend, an old friend with whom I used to have neo-liberal discussions when I thought make-up was for fascists.
He gave me a helmet and I put it on while I hugged him from behind. I had never done that before. I liked it.
I had been craving for a motorcycle ride, I guess, since my James Dean teenage fascination, and that night at three in the morning, was when that fantasy was to become a reality.
I hopped on. He stepped on the gas. And I understood. I Understood e-ve-ry-thing.
I rearranged myself and laughed, my driver, my friend, smiled with me. I couldn't believe it.
Motorcycles vibrate when you press down on the gas, so while you are riding all over, you are really traveling on top of a gigantic vibrator that nobody can see but you. It's like the sexual imaginary friend, sort of.
We rode, up and down and all around. ANd I kept laughing and making noises that my friend (thank god!) wasn't able to hear because of the wind. I saw the cars next to us, and I made sure to make them feel jealous for not being on a motorcylce while I enjoyed hugging them from behindç
I have no more to say. I have become a motorcylce junky. I can even ride it wile it is in a pause... so long I can press on the gas and make it purr (to make me purr).