I have written a series of short stories. This particular one I could see as an HBO film. It's April 2004 and I just finished serving jury duty. I was down the hall from the Tyco trial and how ironic since Tyco is mentioned in this story. "Chopping the Street" is where black leather meets white collar and the story explores what society deems criminal and ends with a laugh at the gossip industry. My stories have not been published yet. I edited out the sex which was extremely important to the story (I couldn't find a body double -- just joking) because unlike male authors -- well...it is geo-sexual political --we still ain't equal. This story is for mature audiences. THIS IS FICTION!!!!!!!!!!!!! Not real. I have never even kissed a motorcycle bad boy. March 02, 2006 Update: last year, I kissed a motorcycle bad boy.. on mothers day. August 21, 2003 +This is a purely fictional tale and any similarities to anyone or group, club etc. is purely coincidental. Chopping the Street: One megamillion at time... an unconventional motorcycle outlaw love story... about transformations of all kinds including taking an international motorcycle club and making it over into a global investment service firm on wheels Sept. 11 had forced even the most isolated New Yorker out of their apartments and life had changed dramatically. Some began talking to neighbors they never bothered to say hi to on the street and some began to notice neighbors they never had seen. Two years later Ally Walker hardly recognized herself in the mirror...the most terrible experience of her life and the aftermath corresponded with what felt like an on going mid-life crisis...yes, she was 40 and she wished 20 was her mid-life crisis. She couldn’t imagine making it to 41. She had done every kind of job possible in New York City except for waiting tables and prostitution and prostitution was beginning to look at lot more appealing then waiting tables. Actually, Ally was so /////// passionate about /// she couldn’t ever imagine taking money for it but dam if she could she would be very rich. She was in her ////// prime. That wouldn’t be a big deal if she didn’t live in lower Manhattan where the majorities of single men her age were gay and she didn’t mess with married men. Her single childless 40 year old body had slimmed down from all the stress, ripped from years of martial arts and along with a sex drive in overdrive, her body felt like an alien from another planet. Ally was shocked by the intense //////// she felt when she focused in on any expression of male virility and the lusty returns from guys she was receiving for the first time. She was always a great athlete but during college she became a chunky aka invisible but maintained her athleticism and stunning long muscular and sexy legs. Her boobs were real and they were her largest endowment. Actually her sexual enthusiasm was even bigger than her D cups and right now her sexual sonar was focused in on big nordic biker guy, 6 ft 4 with long blond and gray hair and beard to match that had just walked in to check out the new coffee house in the neighborhood. In the city men and women were as muscular as possible; a visual message that said “don’t //// with me!” Muscles are urban jewelry and baby this nordic god has beautifully ripped jewels at least what she could sex, I mean see. Dam, if only she had x-ray vision, sex-ray vision to go with her sexual sonar. The longer you lived in New York City the more you resembled a turrets sufferer--no filters, and sometimes that is a good thing. The stud was with his buddies, equally ripped and busily tattooed but all she could see was him. Eye lock... Her puss got wet and her long pointy tongue popped out of her mouth down to her chin and she arched her back and rolled her eyes. He walked over and she stood up on her tiptoes and rolling her tongue across his lips licking him up to his ear and whispered the bathroom is right behind me. He nodded and followed her into the hallway into the bathroom. Ally turned on him, skirt hiked up and leaped on to his body rapping her legs around his waist, tongue wrestling his gorgeous mouth like it was her last moment on earth. He was perfectly proportioned. She could feel ///// ////// and it was dam big just like the rest of him...He loosened his pants and her hands went around his muscular hard ass. He said, “watch your head!” He hoisted her up on his shoulders and she bent her neck so she wouldn’t hit her head on the high ceiling of the bathroom. Her ultimate fantasy, a muscular, virile, tattooed guy, strong enough to lift her up on his shoulders. He /////////////////////////////////arm to muffle her screams of delight. She shook with bliss. He put her down and ///////////////////////////////////////////// /////////////////////////////condom//////////////////////////////. //////////////////// /////////////////////////////////////////. /////////// is shoulder unaware that she was biting into him and clawing his ass and back... He groaned happily in her ear and cleared his throat. “My guys and I are leaving on a trip today, now actually, after we get coffee. We will be back the beginning of next month. Stop by. ” He gave her his address and she followed him out of the bathroom. She saw blood on the back of his shirt from her scratch marks and the person waiting for the can rolling his eyes...but looking envious. His guys smiled with pride and she thought to herself, if I dropped dead today this was a fucking highlight, literally. Dam, he must live near to me. Why had I never noticed him before? That was New York. But even if she had noticed him, pre-sexual overdrive, pre-shed pounds and a new blonde streak , she wouldn’t have been given the time of day. Later, she walked by the address and she realized it was the house of a motorcycle club called “The Lethals”, an international biker club. She had noticed the house but it had never really registered for the last twenty years living here accept a realtor had once told her this street and the street the police precinct was on were the two safest streets in the neighborhood. In the month he was gone she read everything she could on “The Lethals” but first she read every newspaper published in New York plus “The Financial Times”. She had enormous contact with wall street temping all these years and “The Wall St. Journal” and “The FT” were more entertaining than any soap opera on tv. The more she read on the motorcycle club and rival clubs, the more freaked out she became and then she realized they were a lot like most businesses especially in the early 1900’s before all the checks, balances and income tax were established...and she laughed bitterly to herself. The books on the clubs only went up into the 1980’s and then the stopped completely. Had they gone more mainstream or just smarter about existing below the radar? What was breathtaking were the bikes and what they represented -- freedom, rebellion and all the “f//k yous” most of us dreamed of saying but didn’t. The bikes were stripped down to the bare minimum and they were reconstructed and painted to express the maximum. Sex, fierceness and beauty welded with rebellion. The more she read the more she understood they were a subculture force that greatly influenced culture world wide...a culture they rejected and rejected them and consumed them. The more politically correct, repressed and desexed society and the workplace became the more appealing outlaw biker culture. Motorcycle sales continue to rise and so do more accidents, mostly by posers and wannabes. Even “Lictoria’s Secret” was using the biker theme to sell their underwear. She thought of him. The nordic god bad boy and the incredible great sex they had. Her body was in heat and all she could really think about was the heat he and she radiated. She never had driven a motorcycle but she fantasized about being on his holding onto him...pressing her face into his back trying not to drool with happiness from her mouth...both mouths. Basically she goes back when he gets back. He is unattached super stud, bad boy, and President of the club pushing the big 50. He pops a viagra before their major f/ck fest is scheduled to begin at his place...the motorcycle club house. In the middle of their major sexual olympics he literally dies of a heart attack. The doorbell rings and it is the Feds literally at the door to arrest him but they can’t because he dead. In the meantime, the guys are greiving hard and also freaking because they have to make a big financial decision in the midst of death and chaos and they blurt out their worries in front of Ally...the chunky invisible woman...the story of her past life. However she has read every financial reporting for the last 2 decades and been a fly on the wall of more temps jobs then one would want to imagine and she guides them to make a decision that makes them a windfall. She also concluded that they should invest in cel phones in technologically evolving countries where they have Clubs and she makes even bigger bucks for them. She expands to investments abroad in satellites dishes to state of the art entertainment devices that are portable and also cel phones. Needless to say they make her president...although it hush hush because they are sexist pigs and she doesn’t even drive a motorcycle but money talks, so does brains and even more money. She transforms them into a global investment services firm on wheels so powerful that even the most prestigious wall street banks around the world have to sit down with her and the club. She enjoys this because there is a thin line between the phony political correct, arrogant world of white collars workers and the outlaw motorcycle club and forcing the elitist snobs to see the line is thin delights her. Was the false veneer of political armor, decorum and operations dissolving? No. People see what they want to see or vice versa. Ally was confident she was doing some unconventional consciousness raising on both sides of “the street” and making everybody megamillions so she was seeing best behavior at both sides of the table but she saw little difference between the white collars and the black leather. They would give to the same charities. She just knew after closing the newest big mega money making deal, they would have a Bacchanal adventure on bikes out in the wilderness and the white collars envied their freedom as they had their quieter, or not so quiet parties with servants of all kinds. The mega-wealth was above the law and they knew how to look and behave to get way with “activities” below the radar...I mean above the radar but even they got busted occasionally. Today’s “New York Post” reported corporate corruption cost New Yorkers 13 billion plus. They sited Enron, Adelphia, Tyco, Global Crossing and World Com. This was the criminal activity the Feds successfully or not so successfully prosecuted. Ally marries a younger biker with magnificent tattooed arms and yes, she gets her own Harley Davidson, actually a classic -- a 1936 knucklehead restored; like studying Wall Street, she studies motorcycles. Now she can take a bike apart and put it back together and make it better. Her preferred form of motorcycle transportation is her husband driving them on his wildly painted made over 1977 FXS Low Rider Harley Davidson because globally financial dealings in the megabillions can be taxing. She loves resting her cheek against his muscular back, her eyes closed, arms wrapped around him in a passionate hug. She tries not to drool on his leather vest. Here is to happy endings of all kinds. post script: rumors... 1) rumor...she was jumped by a lethal club member and his girlfriend. They are no longer part of the club due to permanent health issues. The martial arts studies paid off. 2) there are rumors she is an international arms dealer 3) there are rumors the Feds came to her for advice on international dealings 4) she is pregnant with twins -- true and they will be biker babies. copyrighted by Suzannah B. Troy © 2003 I wrote The Going last year too. It is a short story. Here is the poem I wrote that accompanies it. The poem is a passionate unconditional love letter to New York City with all it's intense diversity from people to the architecture to the most amazing details and richness and sorrow one can witness just walking down the street. I can't imagine life without NYC. The Going you can long for death, life can be so excruciating, painful and without hope, so much suffering but when it is time for the going even if it is going with the sweetest compassionate of souls, the tears do come, you know you know everyone is going to die and now is fine, no more suffering but all of the sudden there is a realization of how much missing i miss you miss it is not just people it is the neighborhood the trees the New York City idiosyncrasies copyrighted by Suzannah B. Troy © 2003
They died together. They can't accept they have died so they haunt the East Village where she lived and he worked.
As she suffers thru the process of coming to terms with her death she relives "winning the sexual lottery" --
incrediable loving hot sex with a younger man and when she if finally ready -- the Detective -- a tribute to the Detectives at the makeshift morgue
by NYU Medical Center after 9-11 -- the Detective with the spanish name that means "to go" comes to guide her to her heavenly descent to Eternal Peace.
Suzannah B. Troy
Return to Homepage