Rain. Riding into it there is no way to keep it out. It gets in. In through your gloves, into your boots, trousers damp and sticking to your knees. I can feel twin rivulets of rain trickling over my chest, finding a circuitous rout down and around past the swell of my breasts, puddling in my knickers, a cold finger of water teasing me towards thoughts of sex. He will be getting wet, my pillion. He will be cursing the nature of a motorcycle when he could be warm and dry inside a car.
I have a fantasy that one day my pillion will slip their fingers around my hips and settle them in my groin. I will not be able to remove their hands because I am busy with the serious business of steering, but I can adjust my hips a little to ensure that the fingers are finding their mark as I rub up against them.
His hands are on my hips. The warmth of his fingers burn in contrast to the chill of the rain. Riding my motorcycle is all about sex and despite the fact that I am still irritated with him, I feel his legs rub against mine on every bump. I imagine his hands sliding forward and I am ready for this possibility if it happens.
I am still quite cranky at him but I find that now I want him anyway. It must be pheromones. I remember the nice clean smell of him over drinks, the musky body heat. Some people are just like that, sweating out their sexuality like a wild animal on heat. I know that if we stopped now I could turn around and taste him, lapping sweat and rain from his skin. I know the wetness isn't just from the rain pooling in my lap. I so rarely become damp with desire, but I am damp. I feel the little flutter low in my groin. The rain, the vibrations from the engine, the open road, and the smell of him.
At some point I realise we are lost.
We took the wrong exit off the freeway. We have ended up amongst the shopping centres and the run down fish and chip shops. I smell burning fat and damp and rubber. He slips off the bike and he is wet, but grinning.
"I was so nervous when we started out" he says, "but then it got better."
"It is wet," I tell him, "Wet and cold."
He nods, sniffs as if testing for the smell of rain, "Ah well, we are almost there."
But are we? We ask at a service station but the directions are complex and I leave without being certain as to which direction I should take.
"No, I'll remember them" he says.
"OK, but tap me when we need to turn. Tap me on the right side to turn right and the left to go left."
It seems simple enough, but there are taps to both shoulders simultaneously. There are taps to the centre of my back. He yells directions at my helmet as if I could actually hear what he is saying. When we leave a side road and rattle up a horror of wet grass and loose gravel I am cranky with him yet again. I do not care how good he smells and how my body wants to roll him into the mud and nuzzle into his flesh. My anger is more true and clear than my sexual urges for once. I leave him to struggle out of his helmet and his gloves. I drag my soaking clothing up to the front door and I knock.