Free Softail Curves II by D. H. Cameron Page B

behind her. Dutch and I sat next to one another on a flat rock facing the couple. We all enjoyed a few beers as we let the sun warm us.
    “And?” I finally asked wanting to hear about Sheila and the female cop.
    “She didn’t actually arrest me. It was at Mardi Gras a couple of years back. I was drunk and flashing my tits at anyone and everyone. She happened by and I flashed her too. She wasn’t happy at first, but Locke talked her down and we even got her to pose for a picture with us. She was cool,” Sheila explained. Not as lurid as I was thinking, but still pretty funny.
    “We’ll show you the picture sometime . When Dutch snapped the picture, Sheila flashed her tits. I’m not sure if the cop knew or not, but it was funny,” Locke added.
    “You three are corrupting me,” I said jokingly.
    “Fun, isn’t it?” Locke asked. I nodded. It was fun. Even now, sitting around by the lake still nude, was fun. It was liberating and exciting. It felt like we were breaking the rules, and I guess we were. It was refreshing not having to worry about what everyone thought and doing whatever felt good.
    “I wouldn’t trade all of this for the w orld. I have to work with a bunch of so-called normal people,” Sheila began. “If they aren’t looking down their nose at me, they’re whispering how much they want to be like me. I always tell them, just go do it. Whatever it is, start living your dream. They always smile and tell me they can’t or offer excuses,” she finished. Dutch and Locke nodded.
    That was a common theme when we got together. All of us had our stories about how we found this life. None of us was born a free-spirited biker. We all found our way to the lifestyle after finding ourselves dissatisfied with our lives for one reason or another. Sheila was raised devoutly Catholic and rebelled as a young adult. Locke’s dad was a businessman that spent more time at work that he did with his wife and kids. Dutch, well, I knew something drove him to live as he did but I hadn’t managed to find out what. We talked but never about that.
    As the newest convert, I had my own story and Dutch, Lock e and Sheila were a big part of it. Dutch claimed he knew I was different from the other women, especially my friend Becky, the night he came on to me. He wasn’t subtle, even a little demeaning when he told me to call him daddy. Nevertheless, he was right. I was different and after I began dating him, I found that out. Becky lectured me and when I didn’t come around to her way of thinking, she simply cut ties with me.
    A lot of the other’s I called friends did too. Like some high school clique, they all followed Becky’s lead and suddenly, I was persona non grata, so to speak. Some of those people hadn’t talked to me since. Those that do acknowledge my existence ask me worriedly what went wrong and if my boyfriend was treating me well, as if being a biker automatically made you some kind of violent thug. I didn’t hang out at the coffeehouse anymore, preferring the company of Dutch and his friends.
    With them, I wasn’t judged or expected to live up to their standards. Sure, the biker community was cliquey too, but it wasn’t the same. They shunned those that sought to make them conform, those that didn’t accept them for what they were or those that simply played a biker on the weekends. They had a style and culture all their own but as long as you treated them with respect they generally left you alone. No one was snickering if you’re old jeans weren’t the right brand or you didn’t ride the right kind of bike. Of course, people like Becky were everywhere, even amongst bikers. However, Dutch, Locke and Sheila, as well many of the others, just ignored them.
    As the afternoon wore on, it got cooler and pretty soon we all were forced back into our clothes . Soon after, we left the small, rocky beach as the sun disappeared. However, we had more trouble to get into later that night. We all wound up at a