A tale of motorcycles and gold sequinned G-strings
In honour of the fact that Mr Wub Boo and myself completely forgot it was our anniversary yesterday, I decided to write about how we met.
Once upon a time I was a fairly attractive, adrenaline junkie working as a Paramedic in notorious South Auckland. In my spare time I enjoyed a number of adventurous activities including riding my motorbike and being a minor celebrity in the biking world on a popular New Zealand motorcycle forum. With the upgrading to a full motorcycle licence, my little Honda Rebel 250 cruiser became redundant as I craved something bigger between my thighs.
Cue entry of future Mr Wub Boo, a motorcycle salesman with slightly higher celebrity status on the motorcycle forum. Despite being 650km away, he was the most helpful of all salesmen I had dealt with and I decided to buy my brand new Suzuki SV650S from him. He kindly arranged for me to stay at his ex-wife’s place (we can all laugh about that now) and I set off for the long ride down to Wellington on my little cruiser.
Nine hours in the saddle, and with a serious case of helmet hair, I was still gorgeous enough to catch his attention. Combine that with my inner beauty and modesty and he was hooked. After returning to Auckland the texts, private messages and phone calls started. He was funny and I was definitly warming to him, but I really wasn’t sure about getting into a relationship with a man with an ex wife and two young children.
After a month of him “stalking” me, his plan to come up to Auckland for a date was cut short by his discovery that wheelies and Wellington winds don’t mix. As a woman, and therefore having an instinct for these things, I would have thought that was pretty obvious.
So there I was working on a Friday night, and wondering what I was going to do on my rare weekend off, when I received a text from him that was so sweet and lovely that I got all bubbly in the gusset. So bubbly in fact, that when my shift ended at 6am I hopped on my bike and rode all the way down to Wellington, on the proviso that he had a spare bed made up for me.
In the company of his friends and a generous helping of our good mate Jack Daniels, we proceeded to get better acquainted. He was doing swimmingly well too, when he did something that sealed the deal.
With much giggling preceding him he suddenly appeared, in front of everyone, wearing just his boxers with a gold sequinned g-string over the top. Any man who’s secure enough in himself to show off his skinny little chicken legs before he’s even kissed the girl gets my vote.
Seven years and two children later he’s still doing stupid stuff that makes me laugh.
So did I sleep in the spare bed? Well after working a 12 hour shift, then riding 650km, getting drunk, having a great time and being awake for 36 hours, I actually didn’t care where I slept, as long as sleeping was what I was doing.