CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - No Sex.

Highway 17 through southeast Georgia reminds me of times gone past. Remnants of old gas stations and houses in deep neglect. The Interstate, with it's hoards of bodies rushing in or out of Florida at breakneck speeds is within earshot every few miles, our general direction being the same until the Florida border.

We hurry past Brunswick, always belching toxic fumes from its paper mills. A late start out of Savannah put us going through the swampy bogs near St. Simons Island past noon. Unwilling to stop in the stench, we ride on til just before the Florida state line at a roadside diner with a few picnic benches out front, weathered and splitting off shards of wooden splinters. South Georgia bar-b-que just doesn't inspire much in the way of complimentary things to say.

Two miles further, our helmets safely tucked deep in the bikes' bags, we take the obligatory picture in front of the Welcome sign for the Sunshine State. My loose schedule has us over three weeks in Florida before we cross out of the panhandle into Alabama. There'll be no need for helmets for a while.

Lance took the lead, closing in on familiar territory for him, as we leaned the bikes over onto Hwy 200 into Fernandina Beach in search of yet another of my riding companion's lady friends.

Near Egans Creek Park, precisely as far north as one can go in Florida on A1A, and in the shadow of the Amelia Island Lighthouse, our bikes pull to a sandy stop in front of a low white bungalow, typical of Florida beach homes. Half expecting some young tart skipping down the front stone path in greeting, I was struck with the quiet as we both switched off our ignitions.

"No welcoming committee?"

"Hehehe, not this time", Lance grinned, "We likely need to go wake her up!"

Before I had time to let that sink in and come up with a reply, he was one-foot hopping off his bike, and strolled confidently up the walk, hopped up onto the low porch, and disappeared into the house without a knock. Within seconds I hear a loud, high pitched squeal, much like that of a dying woman. I hasten my own approach and follow in the door right behind him.

"Lance? …" is all I got out before I see him in the arms of a rather smallish old woman. She is nearly lost in his bear-hug, yellow slip-on shoes dangling half off her veiny feet, flopping around 6 inches off the ground, held in his grasp around her waist.

He drops her back on her feet, but hangs on with one arm, turns to face me staring dumbfounded from the doorway.

"Momma Jo", he points in my direction, "this is Muthuh. You be nice to him and feed him well - you can tell by the size of him that he's missed quite a few meals."

The old woman gave Lance another squeeze and wheezes out, barely audible, "I may not have enough food in the whole house to feed both you boys, but I sure do have an appetite, too. What say we go down to Front Street and have an early Dinner?"

It was barely past 3pm and the BBQ sandwich an hour past still grumbling viciously in my stomach, but all I could do is smile and say something along the lines of it being a good idea. Lance gave me a wink and straightened up, putting a few inches between him and this woman.

"Momma Jo is my aunt - mom's sister. She raised me as a boy and I haven't seen her since Trisha died 3 years ago." He gave her another hug, held it a long time and backed away. "Told ya I'd come see ya Momma Jo. We got some things to talk about."

She furrowed up her brow and placed her hand on his left cheek very gently. Looked like it was gonna be a family moment, and I had no idea if she knew of his condition. I excused myself on the way back out the door and began to fumble with the bags, pretending to be all engaged in rearranging stuff, when I was really just giving them some time to talk alone. Eventually, I just threw down a bag on the crabgrass, checked for sand spurs, and lay down with my head on the bag, staring up into the cloudless sky.

An hour passed and it was apparent Lance and Momma Jo were in the midst of their lil' crisis and our promised dinner was forgotten.

There was complete silence in the house, and whatever weeping and wailing was going on out of my earshot, I was content with staying out of it. Before whatever was happening spilled out into the yard, requiring some degree of compassion and consolation, I opted to hop on Ol' Huck and explore a little, hoping to find a lil beachside saloon to spend the day at. Ten minutes later, I was southbound on AIA along the beach.

Not far south I looked right, across from the city-provided picnic shelter gazebos overlooking the ocean, I see a couple of bikes parked out in front of a place called Hammerheads. Bingo! Lance had my cell phone if he needed me, I had my barstool for the rest of the day. Life is good. It was good to get a little of my own space back for a while. Lance and I had been companions throughout the short beginnings of the trip, but truth is, I am a solo kinda rider and I found it pleasant to pull in alone, walk in and pull up a stool at the bar. I found out the barmaids name before I knew what I wanted to drink. Gayle was a strawberry blonde, beach tanned and a huge tease. It was plain this was going to be a fun night, even if nothing else happens than the banter coming from across the bartop.

Gayle, smiled at me as I was coming in, and had her elbows on the other side of the bartop waiting for me as I plopped down on my side. Big smile, perfect teeth, small tits framing the view down her short blouse all the way to her navel, sunlight visible at the other end. It's a wonder I noticed the teeth.

"Whatcha havin'?" More teeth, more sunlight.

"Pick out yer darkest beer and gimme a menu, Darlin'". I know asking for anything prissy in a bike bar ain't cool… and I wasn't sure if dark beer was classified as prissy or not here in Florida, but I was beyond caring what most fellow drinkers in any bar was thinking of my selection of liquids. One good thing about getting older, is ya just don't fret about the same shit you used to.

Before she had a chance to push off the bartop, denying further views of her navel, I asked, "And what's yer name?" She settled back down on her elbows, and looked at me for maybe 2 seconds longer than what would be considered normal, and screwed up her lips into a sideways pout, as if in thought.

"Why? You writin' a book?" Before I thought of some witty reply, she pushed off, spun on her heel and slower than what also would be considered normal, swayed her hips exaggeratingly away from me in search of my beer.

This one was gonna be a fun bar to pass some time in. I make a note of this kinda stuff. What does a bar owner need to do in order to attract and keep customers? It's all in the barmaid, I'm telling' ya. She should be paid near as much as the owner. I also made a note of the notion to write a book. Wouldn't that be fun… ride around the country and write about it? This stuff gets filed away for later thought with the approach of the yet-to-be-identified seductress serving up beer. The frosty mug, filled with dark brown still foaming Guinness Stout, is set down with a thud that marked her return. As if I didn't notice.

"My name's Gayle", she thrust her wet right hand out over the beer, "What's yours?"

"They call me Muthuh". I never have gotten used to calling myself Muthuh. It's something other people call me. "But only my friends call me that." I left it there - no smile, no implied invite for her to call me that… just the statement of fact.

"Well, Muthuh, you just let me know if there's anything else I can getcha." Pushed off again, turned on her heel again and swayed off to the other end of the bar, again before I came back with a reply. This girl makes a lot of tips, I told myself - pretty confident I was right.

I spent a few minutes looking the bar over. Myriad oddities adorned the walls and ceilings. Lit only by a couple of windows overlooking the ocean, I easily read the menu Gayle laid in front of me. "You have to go get it yourself, though - the restaurant is across the patio." She nodded in the general direction of the front door. "They don't allow us to serve food in here because we allow smoking, but you can always bring it back in yourself."

Ain't that just typical of the government. Fucking up a perfectly good drinking spot by refusing to allow eating at the same place. Ya gotta wonder what finger was up their ass when they came up with that one… or whose. I tossed the menu on the bar disinterested in eating if I had to leave to do it.

For a Saturday afternoon, it was pretty quiet. The other five bikers had already taken off on their shiny new V-Rods and late model Softails. T-Shirts were emblazoned with this year's bike rally and new leathers worn proudly by all. We exchanged nods and mutual 'Hey"s, but I've found a group of noobs were better off left alone to amuse each other. Conversations with them inevitably evolved into a pissin match between who went on the longest ride and been to which rallies and had the newest bike. Future plans tended to be a dream wish of what rally to go to, ending up with where can we find a trailer to fit 'x' number of bikes on it.

I didn't join them. In this particular case, it was more a desire to stay away from the rest of the paltry number of patrons, in hopes of cornering Gayle into another view of her belly ring. I have no clue what she was looking at or why, but she managed to stay in my vicinity throughout the next few hours, exchanging snips of conversation and one-liners when not serving up someone's beer. I thought things were going well - a pleasant day… on my own for a while… pretty woman seemingly choosing my company over the other choices at the bar… life is good.

A lot of women, well - wives actually, don't understand the banter and teasing that goes on at a good bar, and why it's no big deal. Ya hear about guys who have to deal with the wife who gets all pissy when they look at a pretty woman. From the innocent admiration of the barmaid all the way to ogling at a titty bar. What's the big deal? It's just eye candy and a pleasant visual. Get over it. The way I look at it, if Kim wants to go to a Chippendale show and gawk at some stud grabbing his crotch cause she likes the visual, fer'chrissakes go have fun. Same with my admiring the Hooter's girls - it's all visual stimulation, ain't it?

Well, Gayle was not only visually stimulating, but opened up the two-way connection between us as well, with some fun bullshittin' all afternoon. I had no preconceived plan hatching in my head to make this go anywhere beyond a fun day at the bar, but damned if this wouldn't be a great opportunity. Gayle, I found out, was workin at the bar while she was trying to find work as a Oracle Database Programmer. OK…so that was a pretty narrow skillset, but probably well paying if you DO get employed doing it. Between bartending and cutting hair on the side, and often right there on the back deck of Hammerheads, she was doing just fine, and enjoying life a little.

It was apparent she at least enjoyed the conversation. We had a lot of laughs, felt the same about the weekend bikers - which before you think I am too snobby, isn't all that bad. It's a necessary stage in the evolutionary process. Eventually, ya get to a point where the traffic and sameness and Armor-all just isn't where you wanna be, and the adventure of the road trip takes priority. I'm all for just steering clear of the love-fest, get my pin and T-Shirts for the kids and get outta town. Gayle and I sensed the chemistry, but I thought it was all bar-talk.

Somewhere between my fourth and fifth Guinness, I lose sight of Gayle behind the bar and sense someone sitting next to me on the stool to my right.

She brought her own drink with her on my side of the bar, claimed the stool next to me and with two words, made it clear enough for my pea-brain that she was hangin' with me for the rest of the day.

"I'm off". That was all she said - and said it rather seductively. Regardless of whether I interpreted her signals correctly or not, I tend to group everything into sexual terms and responded with my own two-word reply.

"Not yet".

I, too, kept my gaze forward, intent on not looking too guy-typical. Still, I have great peripheral vision and tried to pick up on any confirming signals. I got it with what can only be described as a low guttural purring barely audible over the bar chatter.

Now the situation changed gears. Before, there was an unspoken barrier between us - the bartop. Teasing and innuendos and come-ons were part of the game of barmaid/drinker. It's in the rule book someplace… guys always try to strike up a conversation with the pretty barmaid and hope she hangs out with him a while. It's all written down and we all know the rules.

The rules get a little fuzzy in this situation. Too many variables now. We both kinda do a slow head turn in each other's direction and do a soft giggle under our breaths simultaneously. She got the joke, she gave a subtle tease back with the purring, and it was all out in the open now. Man, that sure saved hours of trying to appear charming and intellectual, and amusing. A little time invested on my side of the bar and now that she's out here with me, it was all just a matter of 'How much time do we spend here drinkin'?

Now… you all know me by now that this ain't gonna play out like that. There had to be some reality brought into this situation real fast. With a deep breath and heavy sigh, I brought my elbow up to the bar, raised my left hand, and thumbed my wedding ring - to which she responded by doing a pretty good imitation of the same thing. With a slight nodding of her head, she fisted the beer she had in her right hand and let out a heavy sigh of her own, saying simply, "Yeah."

Here's where the Guy Manual really came in handy - somewhere in there we're taught to try to salvage whatever we can out of a rapidly dwindling chance of getting any. I couldn't help it, I've written part of this fucking guy-manual over the years and it was second-nature.

"I'm in town for one night. Been riding past Fernandina Beach for dozens of years, and likely won't be back for as many more, if ever." I spoke as if talking to my mug of beer. "I'm not lookin' for a one-nighter … but would really like someone to hang with if you can get by without getting laid tonight."

I turned my head to look at her. It was really more of a question to her and she picked up on it. Wordlessly, Gayle turned back to look at the beer in her hand as well. Seemed like 20 seconds went by before she said. "Couldn't have said it any better myself."

With the whole, "Where's this leading to?' question settled early on, we stayed at Hammerheads and watched the crowds increase. The barstools filled up, the new barmaid, Karen, served our drinks without a second glance - she gets no tip - and we explored each others lives with the usual getting-to-know-you questions. She was married, no kids, working at Hammerheads to make ends meet, husband in the Florida National Guard and off in training, days away from Fernandina Beach. An ordinarily perfect setting for most guys off on a bike trip with the flexibility to stay or leave at will.

I think it was the whole scenario of availability and desire that made the friendship so exciting. We touched lightly on each of our wishes not to turn it sexual, and with the burden lifted of fending off advances on each other; the result was a more powerful attraction. And we both knew it.

The inevitable turning point came when Gayle turned slowly and asked, "Would you join me for dinner at my place?"

"Without a doubt", quickly popped out of my mouth and we left. Two twenties under the empty beer mug the only evidence of my passing. I followed her blue ragtop mustang into her driveway, a crushed seashell two-rut path into a deepening palm and bamboo thicket, opening onto a small beach house overlooking the small dunes leading to the Atlantic Ocean. It was difficult to stare at the scenic beauty of this setting and keep the bike on two wheels as I rode slowly over the loose driveway. This was perfect - secluded, romantic, quiet.

"Wait here", she said as I flipped the engine off and dismounted the bike. She bounced up the step leading to her front porch and disappeared into the house. I pulled the cell phone out of the tourpak and called Lance. He was still dealing with consoling his Aunt after telling her this was likely his last visit, and yeah it was maybe best if I gave him some time. I knew he had my cell number so just said to keep in touch, and 'I got someplace to stay tonight - see ya tomorrow' tacked onto the end to make sure the phone didn't ring tonight.

Gayle, changed into a pair of jean cut-offs and nearly buttoned blouse, much like Daisy Dukes, swung open the door invitingly and smiled, "Come in, Muthuh."

I imagined she was tossing dirty clothes in the hamper, straightening out the bed and throwing dirty dishes in the trash can to be retrieved later. The result was not much better than if she had just let it be, but then again, who cares? She had a second floor balcony that overlooked the dunes, not high enough to see the ocean, but we could hear it. The setting sun lit up the remaining clouds at sea with an orange glow, streaked with blue and faded into the indistinct horizon beyond the dune, shrouded in a mist of salt-spray and dusk.

The weather was still and almost neutral in temperature. Not warm, not cool… just not a factor. Our chaise lounges pulled next to each other, but head-to foot, so we could look at each other as we talked. I looked north, she south, each with our own view of the beach to either side. I couldn't tell you who was on the beach, or how many houses lined it in my direction. I was struck with the understanding that Gayle was a passing ship in the night, and I was eager to experience what was happening between us.

She had set things up just as I would have. Low music in the background - a combination of light jazz and classic rock. Candles on the balcony that slowly took on prominence as the light faded. Wine in the nearby refrigerator kept seemingly full in my glass, and Daisy Dukes within smell shot of me 10 feet in the air on a balcony overlooking the beach. It didn't escape me the fact that this would ordinarily signal a very good evening. It still did.

As the pauses between conversations increased, the night grew darker, windier and colder. As one such pause grew into a full minute of silence, Gayle reached out, put her hand in mine and said, "No sex, right?"

That was my fantasy. Not the kinda thing a bike dude would ordinarily admit to, but Kim and me was doing real good, and I just didn't wanna break in a new wife because of something stupid I did, so I was pretty confident I wasn't gonna screw around on her. It had nothing to do with being afraid of her or the consequences. It was more, well - outta respect for the woman I'm gonna spend my life with. I can adhere to this one lil thing. It didn't escape me that what I had already been doing up to this point with Gayle is way over the line for many marriages.

Our marriage had been going strong for so long that there was no longer a primary concern for "losing' one another - we were both pretty confident that at the end of the dance, we'd be going home with each other. But the dance could prove interesting. We were still in the dance here on her balcony, although I'll admit it could take a few days for the music to finish.

"I didn't say 'No sex', I said I wasn't looking to get laid. There's a big difference."

I figure I can commit to the fidelity thing - she has my word on it - but allow me the pleasure to take it real close to the line as a compromise!

She just smiled and cocked her head so slightly to one side, as if relieved, and added, "A BIG difference." Apparently she enjoyed stretching the line a little as well.

Our hands held for a moment and she gave mine a squeeze twice, released it and stood up - held out her other hand to mine and said … nothing.

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