#rusty james

Motorcycle Boy was aloof; he disappeared on that old bike, sailing off into the sunset while leaving everything behind. Rusty-James thought fondly of you, but he disliked how you took his brother's attention off him, so you just had to guess at when Motorcycle Boy returned. Not that he told Rusty-James anything either.

You and him went way back to high school. He was the quiet boy who never did his work, but boy was he smart. That’s why everyone followed him, you reckoned—everyone liked him. Sometimes it seemed like he could tell you everything, like the world was his and everyone else was just living in it. You had been quiet too, but not quiet like him.

When you got together, it was nearly heaven. He was with you a lot, always feeling you up, making out gently. But it all changed; he got into fights because he kept stealing people’s bikes. Guess that’s where he got the name, he loved motorcycles almost as much as people. Maybe more.

He saw the world grim; his colorblindness made the world harsh, and his hearing loss from motorcycle accidents tore him apart, the shell of a rebellion, where he was disconnected from everything. 

One thing that stayed constant was you. He knew that he could come home and have his way, pinning you down with gruff kisses and gentle sex. Motorcycle Boy liked to take sex gently, unlike some kids in his neighborhood. He wanted to enjoy it all, though sometimes you got irritated when he took too much time going slow. He’d drop some insightful line that made you groan in complaint. 

Now he was leaving again. You had rushed over to see him after a day in community college. He hated you going there, always said, “Waste your time on the real stuff that’ll turn you into something respectable.” You would shake your head. “I can’t afford the ‘real stuff’; you know it,” you’d reply with a frown. 

As he put on his riding jacket, you followed him from room to room like a puppy. “Motorcycle Boy, why do you gotta leave? I can’t be alone, I need you!” You insist, trying to get his attention. He doesn’t reply, it’s like he can’t see you, like you're talking to a wall. “Please, what about Rusty-James? Think about it, we both need you! What would possibly be so important in California that we don’t have?” you spit out quickly, grabbing his jacket, making him stop in his tracks.

Motorcycle boy looks at you, running a hand through his hair. “You know I don’t stay in one place. The only reason I keep coming back is because of you and Rusty-James,” he replied, his tone cool and light. You scowl at him. “You know what I mean. Someone needs to guide Rusty-James, and I need you too. Need someone to be here when things are hard, or when I need something…” Dirty talk was a long shot, but you tried. 

“Look, I love you both, but I…” he fell short of an excuse, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. He pulled you in by the hips and hugged you. “I feel like I’m just a hook-up and not your girlfriend,” you said, making him tense. He hated to hear that—he wasn’t the type to sleep around. He was loyal despite his aloof behaviors. 

He shook his head, pressing a small kiss on your forehead. “You know that’s not true,” Motorcycle Boy replied, his voice calm per usual. You looked up at him, eyes big and needy. “Just let me convince you to stay!” you begged, sinking to your knees and starting to undo his belt rapidly. You tugged his jeans down to his mid-thigh, but he stopped you.

He looked down at you, stroking your hair while he shook his head. “That’s never worked before, as good at that as you are,” he mumbled. You groaned, burying your face into his leg, his underwear leaving a thin layer between you both. He was straining in them, but he refused to leave like that. 

Have sex and then disappear. Left a bad taste in his mouth. He shook his head, tugging his jeans back up, redoing the belt. No sex would change his mind; he was leaving for a while. “Get up, you shouldn’t be on your knees for anyone,” Motorcycle Boy said, his tone flat and unreadable, letting the vulnerability slip away, putting up that familiar mask again. You knew he was unswayable. 

He gave you a kiss, sorrow in the way he pressed his lips to yours—allowing a little slip of the tongue. When Motorcycle Boy pulled away, he gave a small smile. It said, ‘I’ll be back,’ and you just sighed.

You stood on the porch as you watched him ride off on that old, battered motorcycle. Taming Motorcycle Boy was nearly impossible; he was born to be free and drive up the coasts of America. 

When the sputter of his motor faded in the distance, you went inside, arms crossed as you thought about how close you’d been to getting your mouth around him.