directed by Reverend Phil
The contours treat the mind to paroxysms of deepest pleasure with each caress. The anticipation mounts as fingers gently stroke the chain; quivering slightly, they move to the fork and then reach the down tube. They pause to remove a shirt. They continue to free the wearer of the burden of unnecessary clothing which obstructs the pleasure of raw skin on cool metal.
Yes, there is a terrible accident where succulent bruises afflict the honey ass of a lovely lass cruising at speeds unnatural and perverse. Many delicious photographs display the wounds with coarse purity and stringent delight. We imagine her buttocks skidding on the cruel pavement, or perhaps being blistered by the machine itself. We amuse ourselves in this codified world where bicycles meet and greet and perform tenderest acts upon each other’s frames and appendages. They massage the secret g-spot somewhere near the lug and moan lightly through the mesmeric whizzing of their spokes. It is passion derived exclusively from raw, plastic need. and all the frames engage in ballets of seismic glory as the wheels continue to spin on their own accord. The bikes have reached the heights of sensual bliss and have come pulsatingly to life without suffering the blind purpose of mere consciousness. They respond only to the body’s raging effervescence and spend their days entangled in the poetry of degradation and exposure.
Glistening flesh defines the road, vibrating in time to the thrill of being seen by entire families on an innocent drive through pristine country. The jiggling bits so free and decisive must give little Suzie Snotnose quite a treat. Imagine her bucktooth delirium as the riders approach and she gets her first real glimpse of a man. With terror and confusion she observes as the cyclists race by her father’s decrepit brown station wagon with side paneling and a sheen of futility stuck in traffic again.
The girl rides as the saddle creeps inside. She is ascending, moaning, breathing heavily as she receives the tyranny of the hard plastic deep inside the darkness. The camera focuses lovingly on this transaction as the participants move in and out of a rhythmic as the mercurial female continues to climb. She appears to be heading to work in an office but suddenly she’s ready to drop to her knees and relax her throat muscles. Such is the splendid scene of the hardened lass pumping that action with her tender thighs.
Bikes are mangled, stripped entirely of personality, deranged beyond recognition in the street where they live. Owners rescue them from more battery and gently replace the abused parts. They enter the woods and discard burdensome clothing and soon the manchild is perched so high above clean earth and racing toward infinity while the girl clamors behind. It is freedom expressed in a simple series of gestures and movements. He is released from the hell of commonality and the cold embrace of necessity. He is reaching toward a new reckoning as others take their jousting wands and knock each other off their high positions. The same high bikes, beyond reason and the accessibility of mere mortals, crash as rogue bicycles are want to do. The tearing of their flesh–broken mirrors, torn tassels-- creates in them a furiously orgasmic clarity that presses on with each driving push. They lean in and demand the pure indulgence of total war. But the drivers steer clear at the last moment and frustration sinks deeply into the cassettes and the warriors sink into the knowledge of another chance lost.
Overall, there are no victims in this brand of pornography. Only allies. Or alloy, depending on your bent. What is known is that when a happy couple introduces their filthy little machines to one another there is an exchange of ribald urgency that will be actualized at the most pressing opportunity. It is important to affix a wayward eye upon them otherwise they will engage in happy, healthy nastiness as soon as you turn your back. Also, their infinite pleasure as you mount them, pressing your flesh onto their hard contours, cannot be underestimated. They moan excitedly as you grind and push, they shriek in delight as you grip the handlebars with certitude and cold, brutal mastery. You become one with their flesh in a glorious union that can be repeated simply and elegant each time you force your will upon their sturdy, exquisitely crafted frame.
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