I tugged the helmet on, wincing. “It’s a little tight,” I said. Then I shook my head. “Maybe not unpleasant, though. It’s sort of firm.”
“That’s how it should fit. First rule of motorcycles,” Milo said, his voice taking on that cute teaching tone he sometimes used on social media as he tilted my chin back and fastened my chin strap. “Respect the risk. Anyone who tells you riding isn’t dangerous is lying to you. But safety gear like helmets can help. And the jacket you picked has abrasion resistance and top-of-the-line armor.”“Plus, you look cute as a button in your purple helmet,” Xavier said, grinning. I considered telling them this wasn’t going to work, then remembered that I had a meeting on Monday about these damn rider feedback forms. This might be a time to push a little outside of my comfort zone. Milo, being Milo, went through a lecture on communication, including showing me how to use the radio in our helmets, and giving me signals to tap on his or Xavier’s body if I needed to slow down or stop. I looked up at him. “I trust you,” I said simply. Then I added, “Daddy.”
“Fuck, don’t be making his dick hard at a time like this,” Xavier groaned, adjusting his motorcycle pants in a way that made me suspect he rather enjoyed hearing me call Milo ‘Daddy.’
Milo was staring down at me, and something flickered in his eyes. “Let’s see if you still trust us after your first ride. X will take you first.”
“I got you, Junie,” Xavier said as he led me to his bike. “Won’t let anything happen to you.” There was a softness in his voice that made me think I meant something to him. He climbed onto his bike with the fluid grace he always had, and I slid onto the seat behind him, awkward as I tried to figure out how to position myself.
Milo walked over and coaxed me into a position tight against Xavier’s back. “Closer. Pretend you’re his backpack.”
“Oh! Now that makes sense,” I said.
I clutched Xavier’s waist, my fingers digging into the worn leather of his jacket, my thighs clamped around his hips like I was trying to fuse our bodies together. The helmet felt alien and heavy on my head, the chin strap too tight, the pads pressing strangely against my cheeks.
The visor was fogging my glasses a little, and I wondered if I should go get my contact lenses.
“Relax,” Xavier called over his shoulder as he guided the motorcycle out of my driveway, the engine rumbling between mylegs with a violence I hadn’t expected. “I’ve got you.” Easy for him to say. He knew what was about to happen.
We started slow, Xavier carefully navigating the residential streets, the bike purring rather than roaring.
I did what I always did when I felt anxious; I began cataloging sensations, then relating them back to the mechanics of the bike. I noted the vibration frequency, how it changed with throttle input, the way the machine responded to Xavier’s subtle weight shifts. I could feel the heat from the engine against my inner thighs, the constant micro-adjustments Xavier made to keep us balanced, the slight delay between his throttle twist and the surge of power. The way he worked the clutch and gear shifter in perfect sync, playing with the timing to get the speed and response he was looking for.
As we left the city behind, the roads opened up, curving their way into the mountains. Xavier leaned into a curve, and I instinctively leaned with him, my body pressed tight against his back. The intimacy of it struck me—different from sex, but just as visceral. I could feel his breathing, the flex of his muscles as he controlled the machine, the subtle communications his body was sending that mine was learning to read. At this speed, everything was loud, but it wasn’t unpleasant: white noise, not overstimulation.
“Okay?” he called back during a straightaway.
“Yes!” I shouted, surprised to realize it was true. The initial terror had faded into something else—a potent cocktail ofadrenaline, physics in motion, and the sheer thrill of moving through space with such immediacy.
The mountain road unwound before us like a ribbon, each curve revealing new vistas—rocky cliffs, pine forests, flashes of sky so blue it hurt to look at. Milo rode ahead, his bike taking the turns with a flowing grace that made it look like he was dancing with the machine. Xavier rode differently—more aggressive, more precise, like he was challenging the laws of physics with each lean.
When we finally stopped at a scenic overlook, I was trembling—not with fear, but with a kind of exhilaration I’d never experienced before. My legs felt wobbly as I dismounted, removing the helmet with some effort.
“Why is it so tight?” I gasped as I finally got it off of my head.
Milo laughed. “It’s new. It’ll break in a little, but you want it snug. Don’t want it to wobble around while you’re riding. How did you like it?”
“It was... I mean, holy shit. That was incredible.”
Xavier’s mouth quirked up in that almost-smile. “Different from what you expected?”
“Completely.” I pushed my glasses up my nose, knowing my face was flushed, my hair a disaster from the helmet. “It’s so... immediate. So connected to the road. I had no idea.”
“That’s what we were trying to tell you,” Milo said, coming over to drape an arm around my shoulders. “A motorcycle isn’t just transportation. It’s an experience. It’s therapy. It’s meditation.”
“I wonder if the electric bike lacks the visceral feedback loop. The vibration, the sound, the way the power delivery communicates with your body.”
Xavier exchanged a look with Milo. “Engineer brain never stops, does it?”
I grinned. “Brain never stops in general.”
“Want to try my bike for the next stretch?” Milo asked. “It handles differently than X’s bike. Might give you more perspective.”
I nodded eagerly, still buzzing with adrenaline and new insights. Milo’s Honda felt different immediately—the seating position more upright, the engine’s vibration a different frequency. Where Xavier rode like he was challenging death, Milo moved with the road, flowing around curves with a grace that made me feel safer, more connected to the experience rather than just holding on for dear life.
We’d been riding for about forty minutes when Xavier signaled a turn into a small roadside rest area. Three other motorcycles were already parked there, their riders lounging beside them. I felt a flicker of anxiety as we pulled in—social situations with strangers were never my strong suit, and I was acutely aware ofmy status as an engineering geek. This was not a crowd I’d fit in with, not by any stretch of the imagination.
“Look who decided to grace us with their presence,” called one of the riders as we parked—a lean man with tattoos snaking up his forearms. “And they brought a friend.”
