By Madame Amber

Dear Edgar:

Why didn't you tell me that you have a Honda Shadow motorcycle? Last week when I saw you ride past me, it was all I could do to keep myself from blowing through the red light to chase your throbbing red taillight. What a sexy muchacho you are on that bike, Edgar, and I want to ride bitch with you. Let me wrap my arms around you, and then we can hit the open road toward your desert hideaway.

I've been a biker bitch before, so I know what to do. I'll squeeze your paunch tight when I want to go faster. I'll tweak your manboobs when I have to go pee. And I'll tickle your exposed buttcrack when it's time to stop for ice cream. I even have the correct leather apparel, all the way down to the chaps. They're the same leather chaps I wear for all my special men, with nothing underneath them. I'd call them my assless chaps, but aren't all chaps assless? The spurs are optional. So is the bullwhip, if you like to take it like a flagellant.

If it's speed you're after, I can help quench that thirst. Your motorcycle might be fast, but I am faster. Have you ever been with a fast woman, Edgar? An 80mph wind might ruffle your ample chest hair, but I can split public hairs by merely walking by. If you don't believe me, ask Mark Johnson or Dee Sarton. Trust me when I say that I can take you places Evel Knievel only dreamed of going. Together, with me on the back of your bike, we can solve homelessness, feed children, and disarm North Korea, all while making furious Honda love every night.

Let me be your biker bitch, Edgar. Imagine the news we could make together. You on your crotch rocket, revving the engine as a sign of your undeniable manliness, and me behind you, spurring you onward, encouraging you to explore my fallopian highways. Without you, a Honda is just a Honda; with you, a Honda is a well lubricated sex machine, and I intend to ride that machine with a smile.

Love,
Madame Amber