The Art of Erotica

J.M. Parrot’s ‘Two Wheel Tryst’ Takes Readers on a Wild Ride

AGWDM two wheel tryst cover“Put something exciting between your legs… ride a motorcycle!”

I smiled to myself as I read the bumper sticker affixed to the rear of the Toyota 4 x 4 ahead of me. As I pulled to the left to pass, I glanced at the muddy off-road bike securely strapped into the truck’s bed. The driver, a girl of no more than 20, drove confidently, a tanned arm propped negligently against the windowsill.

You think you know where this story is going, but I assure you that it isn’t half of the set-up and foreshadowing of Parrot’s (J.M. Parrot to readers) first Kindle book, Two Wheel Tryst.

Of course I’m saying great things about this book. I have a very close relationship with the author. But I do have to say this: I fell in love with this story and a lot of Parrot’s other stories before I even met him.

So instead of me gushing over this book, I’m going to let Parrot tell the story behind the story before a share a bit of the good stuff with you.

When did Two Wheel Tryst first appear?

“I wrote this story a number of years ago and released it as a serial. This was actually before the web as we know it today—I posted the installments to Usenet, which is a huge collection of discussion groups. I posted it in five installments of about 1,000 words each. I went on a week’s vacation before posting the last installment and returned to a full inbox. People were upset that I had left them hanging. I had no idea so many people were reading it.”

A lot of the eroticism in this story has nothing to do with two bodies fucking. Explain what you think what you put into this story that makes it so hot.

“A lot of what passes for “erotica” these days is really just descriptions of people having sex. There comes a point when writing nothing but sex scenes becomes boring—there are only so many ways to do that. What makes any story interesting and involving is the same as for any fiction—characters and conflict. Tryst initially came out of my own intense desire to own the kind of motorcycle shown in the story, then developed into a relationship between the two main characters.

“From a dramatic perspective, horses and motorcycles have always carried strong sexual symbolism. I made the BMW a character in the story—sort of like a Greek chorus, in a way, observing the action, but, unlike the traditional chorus, being a participant as well.

“Although the involvement between the narrator and Inge, the saleswoman, is the stuff of any guy’s fantasy, there is an emotional component to the story as well. This makes it very different from typical stroke fiction, where you have improbable, unmotivated sex, and any story arc is just a setup for a sex scene, then the story ends. Tryst involves a bit more, with a twist in the middle.

“We are all looking for love as well as sex. A story about that search is much more likely to involve the reader and make the time spent reading it a worthwhile investment. And when the reader feels as though the world of the story mirrors the real world, the experience of entering it for that short time becomes a rewarding and fulfilling one.”

Now put on your helmets and hold on tight. Take a test ride of Two Wheel Tryst

“Put something exciting between your legs…ride a motorcycle!”

I smiled to myself as I read the bumper sticker affixed to the rear of the Toyota 4 x 4 ahead of me. As I pulled to the left to pass, I glanced at the muddy off-road bike securely strapped intothe truck’s bed. The driver, a girl of no more than 20, drove confidently, a tanned arm propped negligently against the windowsill. Her hair was cut very short, and she wore a half smile as though remembering how she had covered the bike with mud.

I remembered my own biking days, driving a Triumph 500 through three sloppy Rhode Island winters. It was the most unreliable piece of machinery ever created, but it eventually managed to get me where I wanted to go, with a lot of noise, leaking oil and making enough racket to collect a couple of tickets each month. I always ignored them.

It was cheap transportation, and was disreputable enough to collect girls like a noisy butterfly net. I began to think of the balmy summer days, days much like today.

Suddenly I realized that I had pulled into the parking lot of a motorcycle dealership. An ornate sign over the store front announced that this was the home of


In front of the plate glass window, standing as though at attention, were twenty new BMWs, gleaming proudly in the July sun.

What the hell, I thought to myself; it won’t hurt to take a look.

I parked the car and got out, sauntering nonchalantly towards the row of bikes. It was immediately evident that things had changed in the twenty years since I had ridden motorcycles. I caught my breath as I approached the first in line: a pearlescent gray K100RS. Four cylinders, horizontally opposed and water cooled. Each part of the machine was obviously designed for a purpose, to work in harmony with every other part. The fairing, with its oversized rectangular headlight, seemed to be shaped by the wind itself, and the handlebars and fuel tank invited a laid-out riding position.

I walked around the machine, not daring to touch it. I knew that once I had my hands on it, I would have a hard time letting go. As I inspected the German machine, I began to feel the familiar tingle in my crotch, the slightly horny feeling I always used to get around motorcycles. Gently I laid a hand on the aluminum fuel tank. It was warm to the touch. I brushed my fingers across the seat, then traced the outline of the alloy wheels with my fingers. It was all coming back to me now. I was crouching next to the bike, fondling and caressing the machine as a lover would, oblivious to the world around me. I could feel the beginning of an erection.

“You seem to appreciate the German equipment.” I jumped, startled by the interruption. I looked up at the source of the voice, feeling my face redden slightly.

From my crouching vantage point she seemed to tower over me, and her breasts seemed so large as to block out the sun. I stood up, conscious of the slight bulge in my pants.

She was tall, nearly my height, and wore her long blonde hairpulled back severely. Her hips and shoulders were rather broad, implying physical strength. Her left hand rested familiarly on the

left handgrip, her right on her hip. She wore a t-shirt with the blue and white BMW logo and the name of the dealership just above the waistband of her tight, faded jeans. The logo on her shirt was rather badly distorted by her large breasts, and her nipples poked prominently through the material of the shirt, one at each side of the circular design.

“Actually, I was just looking to see how far bikes have come since I rode,” I offered, lamely. I tore my eyes reluctantly away from her breasts to meet her steady gaze. She looked back at me confidently.

“My name is Inge,” she said, proffering her hand. I took it, surprised at the strength of her grip.

“Would you like to take a test ride?” I released her hand reluctantly and she rested it on the saddle of the motorcycle, inches from mine. She had moved almost imperceptibly closer to me and I found that my eyes kept wandering to her breasts.

“I’d like that,” I said, “but it has been quite a while since I did any serious riding.” She was absently stroking the bike’s saddle with the backs of her fingernails as she looked steadily at me. I could smell the soap she bathed with this morning. I had a quick mental picture of this statuesque woman in the shower, her

perfect breasts slick with lather…again I felt a stirring in my groin. I swallowed, trying to control my thoughts.

“I would be happy to ride with you,” she said, and for the first time I was conscious of a slight accent, her W’s tending toward V’s and a hint of a guttural roll to her R’s. I nodded, not quite trusting my voice. She swung her leg expertly over the saddle and started the bike.

BMWs have always appealed to me, and as she started the motor, I remembered why. The German bike’s four cylinders sang a seductive mechanical song, with a slight whirr of cam chains. My pulse rate increased slightly at the sound. She pushed the bike off the center stand, toed the transmission into gear, and twisted the

throttle slightly as she pulled the big machine out of line into the clear area of the parking lot.

“I’ll drive first,” she suggested, “and then I’ll give you a chance at it.” (Read more)