You know what you want. You KNOW you do. You want the hydrocarbon stink of my Harley pulling up to your apartment at two a.m. You want me to spank the dirt off my leather jacket, wash my mouth out with Jack Daniels, and spit on your front lawn. You want me to bang on your front door, shouting your name, and when you answer the door, confused and nervous in your bathrobe, you want me to glare over my Ray-Bans and say, “On the back of the hog, bitch. Now.” You want to go tooling with me, eighty miles an hour, slicing the tight Presidio curves like butter, only punching the brakes at the parking lot overlooking the Sutro Baths. You want me to admire the alien azure moon with you. But I may or may not do this. Despite the fact that you are wearing only a light jacket, and you are freezing your ass off, you want to say that you are having a lovely time. You want me to grunt in response. You want to drop to your knees in the parking lot and pleasure me with first-class, twenty-four karat fellatio, the moon glowing radioactive blue, the seals howling over the waves. You want me to have an orgasm, at the time of my choosing. You want me to make noises when I have this orgasm. But I may or may not do this. Afterwards, you want to be grateful. You want me to bolt the remainder of the Jack Daniels and rocket you back to your pad, eighty miles an hour. You want to be suffering from first-degree frostbite by the time we get there. You want me to come in, make instant coffee for me, get me to sleep in your bed. Hold you, touch you, make you warm. Drop the mask of maladjusted masculinity for an honest night of forever love. Talk in the morning. But I don?t have the time for that crap, you dumb bitch. Not tonight. You want to hug your bathrobe around yourself in your doorway, your red-rimmed eyes hopeful and dreamy, as my cut-out muffler rattles the neighborhood windows, and I burn tire tracks into your driveway. Yeah, you know what you want. Baby… you want ME.