Smoke blown, here.

Bitch Seat

The lovely and talented Joanna called to see if we could go for a putt around the bay; her offer to buy the gumbo was an unnecessary enticement, but where I come from it’s a sin to turn down hospitality.  I mounted the big yella bike and was OTB (over the bridge) and at her door in short order.

How the lady had grown into the full flower of womanhood without having been exposed to bikes is anyone’s guess, but she was surely hooked after her first ride.  And she didn’t just want to be a passenger; she wanted to be a good passenger and that meant learning about every aspect of motorcycling.

Jo put her stuff in the saddlebag (“A girl needs her stuff.”) then grinned up at me and asked, “So, did you Armor All® the bitch seat, again?”

“I don’t have a bitch seat”, sez I.

She’s not the first woman I’ve ever known so it was no shock that she wouldn’t accept a mere fact as an answer.
“Well, Clarke told me the back seat is called a bitch seat and when you ride there you ride bitch.”

Clarke’s a RUB, a nice guy, but a RUB; that is, after his new Geezer Glide’s second oil change, Clarke still doesn’t know which side of the engine the drain plugs are on.

“Clarke’s a RUB,” I told her, “he probably doesn’t mean to speak like ghetto trash (putting it delicately), but he’s a product of a pop culture that marginalizes women.  Back in the day, we referred to riding two-up (as it’s called) as packing”.

“So, what did you call the, uh, passenger seat?”

I looked her in the eye and replied, “The snatch pad”.

After a couple of minutes she had regained some of her composure, dried her eyes, and asked for a description of said pad. Without going into detail, just let me say that her reaction cost us another couple of minutes.
(Yeah, some called it a “P pad” but I always figured it was probably a non-functional
accessory for anyone who couldn’t say “pussy”.)

“Since motorcycling has become more of a genteel sport, or lifestyle”, I told her, “ I usually just use the term, pillion, as they do in the British Isles.  The word is Irish, as am I, and can mean either passenger seat or passenger ”.

This talk of passengers and their seats brought me back to my purpose for being there.  I backed the bike out onto the parking lot and signaled Jo to mount up.
“So, you have a snatch pad, not a bitch seat; I can’t be a biker bitch, so does that mean…”
I lifted an eyebrow.
You got to love a gal who has the capacity to blush.

Next:  Jo renames my snatch pad “the coochie couch”.

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