Preview: Riding Heavy

 I did it on a whim. When he approached, shadow looming over me, I admit that my thirst corrupted my judgement. He was at least seven feet tall, fat as the Goodyear blimp, and smelled of gasoline. His skin was bronze, and tanned from the time he spend under the sun on the back of his motorcycle. He rode the machine with such power and authority, that it felt like he could control it by his thoughts and posture alone. That if he willed it, it would soar into the sky, and the world would simply conform to meet his wishes. I wasn’t in love, but I was definitely in lust. This dark skinned god of the road had asked me to join his riders - not a gang, he stressed - out on the open road. Said he knew I would fit in. At the time, even though I agreed, I was as clueless to what he meant by that as you might expect.

 Tungsten. That was his name. It wasn’t the name his parents gave him, but he considered it a truer reflection of who he was. He didn’t explain exactly how he got it, or who gave it to him, but I could tell that by the way he explained its significance to me that it was important to him.

 It was also a fun coincidence that “Tung,” in Swedish, roughly translated into “heavy.” He liked that, and so most people called him Tung informally.

 Tung wasn’t quite what someone would think of aesthetically when the word “biker” came to mind. He wore plenty of leather, black... shiny pleather, specifically - Tung had a surprisingly strong stance on not supporting the leather industry, which I found a bit contrary against his love of loud bikes and the fossil fuels that powered them. His gleaming black leather outfit, pleather even, amounted to a pair of skin-tight shorts redolent of a Roman gladiator's subligar. A thick belt, with a thicker white-silver buckle. Leg and arm straps which wrapped around his beastly thick thighs and biceps, spiked and deadly... and a harness. 

 Oh, god. The harness. It was basically a few brave strips of black material which came down from his shoulders, mounting his spiked shoulder pads. A short strap laid across the shelf of his chest before plunging down through his cleavage, and connected to a metal ring over his belly that led to another two straps coming around his love-handles from his back. He had such full moobs, or maybe pecs? They were wide, plentiful, and he was clearly proud of them; but they also looked resilient, tough, like if someone threw a punch at them the attacker would either break their knuckle on impact, or their fist would bounce off. I don’t know why that’s what I thought of as an example, but I had to distract myself from the overwhelming urge to fantasise about riding that moon-bounce of a barrel chest.

 "Like what you see?"