Show Him Your Tits!
Danny, Larry and I camped in two tiny pup tents with no sleeping bags at an official Bike Week campground. During the day, Danny did his own thing. He’d wake up and disappear, and we did, too.
Larry spent much of Bike Week wandering around and looking at motorcycles while I compared myself to other biker chicks.
Unlike me, many biker chicks were dressed in whole-body costumes. Some were head-to-toe in leather and chains, complete with a studded collar. Some were pierced in places I didn’t even know could be pierced – and every last piercing was visible because of their lack of clothing. Some were tattooed on every inch of bare skin, making it hard to tell where their original skin might be, wearing only a thong and pasties to “cover” themselves. Others were literally chained to the old man, being dragged around like a dog. Still others had their own bikes: sparkly purple Sportsters or pastel pink dressers with shag-covered seats, the women wearing glittery chaps and a sleeveless leather vest.
Somehow in the midst of these women, who for all intents and purposes were dressed like prostitutes, a biker with a gray beard aimed his disposable camera at me. Then he just stood there staring at me and smiling.
Larry noticed. “Show him your tits!” he said.
“What?”
“He wants to see your tits!”
Dumbfounded, I lifted my shirt revealing two small breasts; I never wore a bra. The guy snapped a picture, gave me a thumbs-up, and walked away.
Another guy saw this exchange and rushed over with his camera, too.
I looked at Larry for verification. He nodded. I lifted my shirt again.
I have never been particularly proud of my body, nor did I ever consider my breasts interesting, so I found the “tit shot” phenomenon to be an amusing pastime. As I was wholly detached from my own emotions, I had no idea that it should concern or humiliate me. I mentally categorized these frequent shirt-lifts as representing freedom from social constructs.
The only part of Bike Week that bothered me was Florida’s ridiculous open container law. We weren’t allowed to drink beer while we walked around gazing at motorcycles.
So, after a few hours of hearing about the legendary Boot Hill Saloon, we went for a visit.
The Boot Hill Saloon was my favorite part of Bike Week. We went inside (air conditioned!) and Larry ordered a couple of Miller Lites. We never left. We drank and chatted with the other bikers. We explored the walls, which formed a giant collage of junk: old photos, magazine clippings, license plates, graffiti. We played pool and danced with a guy wearing a Budweiser box on his head.
For hours and hours and hours, the jukebox played CCR’s Lookin’ Out My Back Door. Sometimes people groaned, “Not this song again!” and walked out. It never occurred to me to leave. I decided that Lookin’ Out My Back Door was my new favorite song. I adored the guy wearing the beer box on his head. And I decided that I would never again drink somewhere without a pool table.
None of these resolutions lasted beyond Bike Week.
Missing daylight in Florida made me happy, so much so that Larry and I hung out at the same dark bar all day every day during the time we were in Florida.
And by the end of Bike Week, I could give a side-style tit shot while holding a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, smiling for the camera in the dark.
I’d become an expert.