Page 162 - Chasing Danny Boy: Powerful Stories of Celtic Eros

152 Lawrence W. Cloake

control over throttle or clutch, over pud or pucker. Riding the
runaway. The control not his. The Beast possessed. Fear rises
up in him, hardens him. Terror is his only turn-on. Suddenly
he is more frightened and more erotic than he has ever been
in his short life. Thrilled.
The headstrong Beast transports Sean up to the dirt track
rutted where spinning tires claw for traction in the mud and
rock. Sean guides the bucking machine, coaxing its knowing
cyborg eye along the treacherous headland. The Beast, surg-
ing alive beneath him, takes away his breath, his mind, his
will, and delivers him roaring up at the site where the bike
boys wait.
A bonfire blazes tall on a fire mound at the center of a
ring of two-wheeled machines sitting silent and dark, their
riders’ heads bowed in ritual reverence. One space stands
open, vacant, expectant, waiting in the fire ring of steel and
leather and flesh.
Acknowledging the ancient ring of men circled on ma-
chines, Sean pulls into the space opened by the composite be-
ings for whom instinct does the work of reason. He settles his
buttocks down on his vibrating saddle, eyes adjusting, when
he sees, on the ancient mound, close to the brilliant blaze, a
huge machine, the Big MacCool of all bikes, gleaming in the
light of the fire. Its brilliant headlight searches outward, turn-
ing like a beacon, lighting instant bright the fire-red faces of
the acolytes. Its frame so shuddering with power that Sean
feels his own boner growing to a piston, answering a lust that
has no control.
Feeling a hand grip his shoulder, Sean turns in his saddle
and faces Finn.
“Welcome to the Fianna.” Finn’s easy grin shines red in
the firelight. “Come on. Time for you to worship.” His palm
moves from shoulder to face, reassuring Sean who quickly
licks Finn’s hands, safe hands, for luck.
Dismounting the Beast that shudders with anticipation,
Sean follows Finn into the circle.
Stopping before the Big MacCool bike, Finn says, “Strip
and prostrate yerself.”
Peeling his leathers, Sean eases himself, face down, har-
don, to the cool ground. His buttocks, mooning up, quiver under
the burning eyes reflecting fire in the dark faces of the ring.
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