320

Queenie

Barry loved making a big fat production of backing his big black Harley into a curbside parking spot, slapping down the kickstand with a booted heel, and easing out of the saddle in the über-manly slow-mo manner of the Marlboro Man. He was sure all eyes were on him (where else would they be?), and that he was making bosoms swell with desire and dicks shrivel with envy.

Only, today—today just wasn’t going to be Barry’s day for Marlboro Manly display.

The backing to the curb had gone without a hitch. The slapping of the kickstand had kicked ass per usual. But the dismount did not come off as planned. The spur on Barry’s boot got caught on a fringed-leather saddle bag as he was swinging his right leg rearward, causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground, pulling the motorcycle down with him.

“Help!” Barry shrieked, as the engine’s hot exhaust pipe instantly began searing his groin.

Much to Barry’s good fortune, Queenie, a woman of uncommon strength and unhesitating action, happened to be strolling toward the scene of his distress on her way home from the corner bodega. Dropping her sack to the sidewalk, she sprinted the twenty or so yards to the writhing victim of his own excess and yanked the Harley upright as though it were a Huffy.

Barry rolled over and crawled to the curb, sucking air through his teeth against the pulsing pain radiating from his scorched scrotum. “Omigod—it HURTS!” he squealed.

“Serves you right for wearin’ spurs on a goddamn motorcycle, fool!” Queenie scolded. “I saw what happened—and who you tryin’ to be anyhow, the fuckin’ Marlboro Man?”

Barry, feeling sheepish for the first time literally ever, just sucked more air and cupped his crotch with both hands.

“And look here, bitch” Queenie continued, “you owe me twenty-three sixty-five, ‘cause now some asshole’s gone and stole my fuckin’ groceries!”

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