Four thousand and seven hundred dollars. It seemed like a lot, but it was all she had been able to scramble together slinging pussy and dealing eight-balls on the sly. She did her normal duties as a good ol’ lady should but would sneak an extra handy off the clock, pinch a bit off the pile not going in her pipe to sell here and there, risking the ire of her old man discovering her “theft” and thinking that maybe she was holding out and getting ready to bolt on him. Nearly a year of James Bond like work put in, and Stella still had only four thousand and seven hundred dollars, with Christmas coming down the pike.
She hung her head on the front board of the clubhouse’s backroom flop of a bed and held back the torrent of tears that would make her pain known to anybody in earshot. Keeping your cool when everything has gone to shit is more than just window dressing; it’s survival of the fittest, where the big cats show no pain, no matter how hard the screws are turning.
Stella was the top bitch of the pig with the biggest nuts in the club. She rode hard on the rest of the pass-arounds and lessor old ladies in this crash pad and anyone else beyond the doors, but still in the grasp of the club. They weren’t the biggest M/C in the state or even county, but they had their props given due to their work and rep, even with their lack of numbers and the rattiest clubhouse on the left coast.
They didn’t have a big compound or even business like front as other more established M/Cs did. They had an old ranch house surrounded by a few trailers, steel containers and a big, flimsy tin shed of a shop that rocked in the winds; all of it setting on several acres in the middle of virtual nowhere, but it was home with the name of her old man on the door: Stan “The Man” Borkowski.
“The Man” of course was his club name used in reverence, and he put it up on his front door with pride. He was anything but “the man” as used in common slang referring to the holders of political power over the masses; he was quite on the opposite end of the law and order spectrum but still the same to his own little fiefdom. On the marriage license, Stella’s last name may have been Borkowski, which she still held with the same kind of pride that squares felt, but when it came down to it, she was The Man’s top bitch, and nobody in the club better forget that.
Stella squared her shit away and put on her game face. Pulling herself up from the bed, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw the predatory animal staring back at her. She forced a toothy smile through the gloom. The crazy season of Christmas was fast approaching, and she was still shy of her goal to get her old man’s gift. With such limited time on the horizon, there weren’t enough Johns to jack on the side or nips off the stash to make up the difference in funds she needed to get him a gift for a man of his stature. A year of hard fought work and only $4700.00 was in the kitty for her surprise gift for the warrior she worshiped and owned her, body and soul, more than any chattel slave bound in shackles.
Huge bay windows faced the main street from the pawn shop. The circus mirror like glass, shined up every day by the homeless paid in cheap malt liquor, shown the imprisoned treasure of random folks gone the way of the ghetto money lenders and bottom feeders. Sitting on top of the only piece of worthy collateral she owned, a 1959 Harley-Davidson Sportster XLH rebuilt and customized by her late father, Stella looked at her and her bike in the reflection of the aquarium like window, as the reflection stared back like an impressionist dream shimmying in the wind.
Observing the only broken memories of her past she still held with some sense of reverence and wonder, she felt a stark chill come down her entire body from head to toe and gave the reflection a thousand yard stare back at it.
Both Stella and Stan had only one material thing they each took pride in, their bikes. Stan’s ride was a custom built 60s style chopper with an old, rebuilt Knucklehead from the later 1940s, bored out and slapped into it. Stella had her father’s labor of 1960s love between her legs. Both of their rides were the kind of bikes that ended up on the covers of chopper magazines with some model in period clothes spilled out over them in highly sexual and suggestive poses. These were the kind of bikes that wound up in movies with soon to be stars riding atop them in giant panorama screenshots in between their hippy expostulations of weak and empty rebellion, the bikes still taking center stage in the mind’s eyes of the viewers.
In front of the pawnshop’s mirror like windows, Stella looked at herself on the nearly ancient yet still pristine bike as it seemed to fly on the streets while standing still. She admired the hard yet elegant lines of the motorcycle set against her own soft curves for a final time in some errant movie reel in her mind.
She finally peeled herself off the one thing that gave her a sense of freedom. Standing back from it, she admired its sleek, mechanical beauty for one last time. She turned and made her way into the pawn shop.
Looking up to the signs on the window and over the door that said, “MAGIC PAWN: WE TURN GOLD, GUNS, MUSICAL EQUIPMENT AND ANYTHING USED FOR FUN INTO COLD HARD CASH,” she walked in a bit more quickly than her usual stroll. Stella made her way to the counter to the two lops running the joint, one gristly, old geezer with a nametag that said “Houdini” and his younger female assistant, and said, “You guys pawn motorcycles, right?”
The older gentleman shot back, “Yeah, we’ll pawn your bike. It’s the one sitting out front?”
She nodded and followed them out to the street to look at it.
After looking at it from all angles, he said, “We can do eight thousand for a straight sale or two grand on a pawn.”
“Eight and two? I’ve been offered twenty thousand cash for this bike before!” she shot back before agreeing to the lower pawn price with hopes of getting her bike back as soon as she could hustle up the cash again. The gift was only six grand, and she would be 700 dollars closer to paying back the bottom feeders and their high interest on the juice that immediately started running the moment she signed the paperwork.
Cash in hand, she happily hailed a cab and headed across town to meet up with the doctor who would give (read: sell) her the gift she had been scrimping, pimping and saving for.
She arrived at the plastic surgery clinic an hour early and anxiously awaited her time under the knife; looking through the various magazines, she was too distracted to even read. Everything had been arranged. Stan thought she was visiting her sister up North, and he himself had some business that took him away from the club for a week. Her thoughts focused on how she loved her man so much, but his one downside was the lack of girth in his manhood. He surely had a long one, but it was too thin to give her the straight sex pleasure she had always wanted to experience with him and maybe cut down on the backdoor action a bit. The doctor, using lasers and other surgical implements, was in under two hours going to give her back the vagina of her youth that was long gone by the time she had hooked up with Stan.
The procedure was over with before she knew it, and still with the haze of the narcotics flowing through her veins, Stella was sitting in a cheap hotel outside of town, wrapped in a diaper of gauze and giddy when she had to change her dressing, spread eagle in front of the large vanity mirror looking at the excellent work the sawbones had performed.
It was like magic. He had taken away the ravages of the years of use and even abuse that had left a ragged, flaccid canyon in their wake and in its place sculpted what she laughingly thought looked like a tiny cut over a prize fighter’s eye.
“Stan’s going to be pissed about my bike being in the pawn shop,” she said while looking at her rejuvenated money maker. “So, I better just push his face down south and ride him like I’m demon possessed, so he can see what I got him with the money.”
After a couple of days in the hotel, when she didn’t have to wear a ridiculously large dressing anymore, she caught another cab back to the clubhouse and preceded to do light duties for the time her old man was gone until Christmas Eve.
When the day had arrived, she waited impatiently for him to come bursting up the drive with the full throttle roar of his hog ringing out in the valley. Going commando, she could feel her renewed and so far unused girly parts nearly dancing in the cool breeze under the tight leather skirt in anticipation. She heard a vehicle coming up the dirt road, but it wasn’t a Harley. It was Stan’s old work truck. He pulled it around the back to where he would normally park his bike next to hers. She wasn’t a particularly religious woman given to prayer, but she let one slip: “Jesus, don’t let him kick my ass for pawning my bike.”
She made her way to the bedroom and decided that he should just see it first thing. Hopping up on the bed, she hiked her skirt and spread her legs as wide as she could. He opened the door and just stood there for a second looking at her. He was always so serious, especially for guy who had barely broke thirty. He had all the responsibility of running an M/C and working his regular day job at the shop as well.
He just stood in the doorway looking at her somewhat mystified, like a caveman transfixed by fire. Stan kept staring at her now Barbie Doll like groin but not breaking out in song like she had hoped. He was neither happy, sad, angry or any other reaction she was ready for; he looked slightly confused, but there was something else there that she couldn’t pin down, and it started to cause a bit of fright in her.
She put two fingers down below, and pulled her reduced and trimmed labia apart to show him that the entire area hadn’t been completely sealed up and covered over with some kind of skin graft.
“Stop worrying stud,” she said trying to mock being sexy. “I didn’t have it removed. I had it rejuvenated and got back the teenage pussy I used to have, just for you. I wanted to give you the best Christmas present I could think of. Now, I had to pawn my bike to do it, but I’ll be able to get it back. Well, don’t just stand there staring at it. Come over here daddy and say Merry Christmas to it with your big ol’ dick.”
“You put your bike in pawn, so you could tighten up your pussy for me,” he asked while still seeming to try to grasp how one or more of the concepts worked individually or together.
“Yeah, baby, but I didn’t sell it, just pawned it,” Stella said. “But look what I got for it in return. This is the next best thing to busting my cherry.”
Stan stepped over to the widow, peeled back the aluminum foil to look at the spot she normally parked her bike.
“You really pawned your bike to get your pussy tightened up?” he asked as if the previous discussion hadn’t even taken place.
“It’s sitting in the back of the pawn shop,” she said. “I didn’t sell it. I’ll get it back. It’ll just take a few months of hustling. It’ll go by before you know it. I almost had all of the money made myself, but I was short, and I wanted to get this done before today. Now come on over here and enjoy your Christmas present.”
Stan seemed to somewhat snap out of it and walked toward her. He bent down gave her a kiss and sat down on the bed in front of her legs still staring at the doctor’s, skilled handiwork. Stan mulled over her transformation, and for some reason, he thought of when he was kid watching a street magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and while everyone else was distracted, he noticed the pickpocket working with the magician lifting the wallets of the distracted audience members.
Stan stood up from the bed and had Stella look down towards his own denim covered crotch for her to see the precipitous bulge she had not noticed before.
“Stella, you know I love you more than any other bitch out there,” he said while looking at her eyes that were now fixated elsewhere. “I didn’t want you change one bit for me. I just want the most down bitch in the fuckin’ world by my side. And when you see what I got waiting for you behind those buttons, you’ll see why I was a bit freaked out just now.”
Almost stumbling with her quick fingers tripping over themselves like the illusion of the novice she was hoping to bring out in her through the miracles of modern plastic surgery, she got his jeans undone and pulled them down past his knees. She gasped and pulled back away to get a better view.
Hanging, but with a near obscene thickness, was the previous pencil thin crank she had seen and felt thousands of times before. She came closer to it, expecting it to suddenly rear up and bite her head. She felt the weight and thickness and mentally compared it to a votive candle. She now had her doubts about being able to even handle it inside her. A week ago, with a little work it would have been a dream come true, but now it was questionable, and there was no more of him playing in the mud-hole; that was completely off the menu. She even doubted she could get it in her mouth as it came up to full mast.
Pushing him back onto the bed, she tried to get him inside of her, but the pain was too much. “Maybe it’s too soon after surgery,” she said while rubbing the monstrous phallus against the nearly invisible dot of pink between her legs.
She stood up and said, “You just need to get me all wet by taking me for a ride. I haven’t felt a bike between my legs in a week.”
Stan laughed to where he almost sounded on the verge of tears while staring at his new, improved, implement throbbing and seemingly useless.
“Let’s just go get your scooter and take a long ride in the desert and maybe go fuck on some rock in the middle of nowhere under the moon like animals,” she said as if it was the only logical thing to do. “You know I love riding bitch with you.”
Still laughing, he pulled himself up until he was sitting with his back against the headboard looking around the massive tool to see his flustered wife. “I’d love to take you for a ride, but my bike is sitting in the back of that pawn shop too. I pawned it to get the cash to get my enlargement surgery. That’s where I was all week, and now we’re both bikers without a bike between us and our junk is too jacked up to fuck. I got a bottle of tequila in my backpack. Why don’t you cut us up a few rails and see if we can work this thing out one way or another, baby.”
Stella dutifully obeyed, and after a few snorts and shots, holding back the tears, she gave the love of her life a handy like he was just another John in the champagne room, while he rolled through the mental Rolodex of his sidepieces that would be the first to experience the abundant fruits of his love for Stella. Through the magic of modern medicine and compound interest, they both sought to sacrifice of themselves during the “season of giving,” forgetting that not only was Jesus seen as a healer of the sick, and champion of the poor, but also as Christ the Magician, “DIA CHRSTOU O GOISTAIS,” and by whose miracles and resurrection became a distraction for the greater pick pockets of the world.