Whatever Happened to Bicycle Mary? (And Other Horror Stories)

I was at the Prairie the other day talking with a fellow outdoor sex enthusiast. Let’s call him Kyle. We were busy sharing stories about our recent sexual conquests, as well as insights into some of the various Prairie regulars. We were in the middle of discussing a certain foot fetishist when a familiar silhouette appeared on the hills’ horizon. It was a man I have privately dubbed Bicycle Mary.

There has yet to be an occasion when I have been at the Prairie and not spied Bicycle Mary pedaling his way along the various dirt trails. Bicycle Mary is at least 65 years old (and perhaps even older). He is rail thin, with weathered, tan skin, and a mop of wispy grey-white hair that falls like trails of smoke just short of his shoulders. I think he’s short, but I am not a good judge of this, because I have never seen him when he was not riding his bike or standing astride of it. He’s an odd little character, dressed in age-inappropriate, revealing running shorts that are too, too short and frequently minus a shirt, when a shirt really is quite warranted. Sagging man boobs are not pretty, especially when attached to a leathery skeleton of a man. As I have watched him wind his way through the maze of trails throughout the summer, I’ve found myself wondering what it is he gets out of being here. He is forever poking around in the shadowed corners of the field; the areas where most people go when cruising for or engaging in sexual activity. Yet, I’ve never seen anyone approach him; in fact, just the opposite seems be the case. When he draws near, guys tend to leave the area rather quickly.

Kyle physically shuddered at the sight of Bicycle Mary. “I just don’t get… that.”

I laughed and agreed that Bicycle Mary is quite a character.

After a few more snide observations had been spat out, I sighed and said, “Well, there for the grace of God. Someday we’ll all be… there.”

And by ‘there’, I meant one day we will all be elderly, unwanted, and the objects of potential cruel comments. Kyle seemed to pick up on this right away. So I asked, “What will become of us when we’re that age?”

People who spend a great deal of their free time pursuing sexual exploits are naturally concerned about and aware of the condition of their body and how it is ageing. Neither Kyle nor I are spring chickens. I think we both look good for our age. Me, due to a disciplined workout regimen, a practice of abstaining from excessive alcohol and a firm grasp of what constitutes good nutrition and good hygiene. In part, the opposite is true of Kyle. He drinks heavily and smokes. I can personally attest to the fact that his personal hygiene is good, but I have no idea what his diet might consist of, other than a steady stream of semen. Kyle is also blessed with a handsome mug, a winning smile, a masculine voice and very good social skills, none of which I believe I possess.

As Bicycle Mary disappeared into the nether regions of the field, Kyle and I paused to consider our own futures.

Kyle was the first to speak. “That’ll never be me. I’ll shoot myself first.”

And so the questions of the day are: What does a cocksucker do with the rest of their life when there are no longer willing cocks to be sucked? What happens when our holes no longer intrigue, but instead, disgust? And will my inner troll know when it’s time to retire from under the bridge?

Kyle was certain he wouldn’t be hanging out at the Prairie trolling for dick the rest of his life, but failed to offer up any concrete insight into what he might be doing instead.

I told him I thought I’d take up badminton or some such activity. Truth be told, I hate team sports and most group activities and haven’t really given the matter all that much thought.

We’re only young for so long. Gravity wins and when it does I doubt anyone will find yours truly attractive. At least, not anyone I might find attractive. I don’t want to be the object of someone’s old man fetish. The idea of that sort of relationship creeps me out. I’d rather read a book. And bottom line – that is what I hope happens to me. I hope I simply lose interest in sex. I’d rather it be gradual than sudden, so I don’t really notice it. I also hope it happens out of a natural lack of interest rather than an inability to participate or perform. Like the end of a great film I would just like my sex life to fade to black.

I shared this with Kyle. Kyle added that he thought we’d both have partners by then and be old married guys.

Not likely. I suggested getting a roommate, with privileges, but then nixed that idea because I like being and living alone. If I had a fuck buddy they would have to live somewhere else.

I’m just so glad the whole “If I’m not married by the time I’m such and such an age, you can be my back up,” came up, because I don’t see my friendship with Kyle lasting past the fall. He loves going to bars and clubs. I do not. The only thing we have in common is a love of dick – in our mouths and up our butts. So in the end (no pun intended), we would just be competition for one another. Besides, such arrangements are the stuff of bad rom-coms and stale sitcoms.

Still… the question haunts. What will become of me? Who’s gonna need me? Who’s gonna feed me? When I’m sixty-four? Seventy-four? One hundred and four?

I don’t want to be someone who is delusional, still living in their glory days – days whose passing escaped their notice. That seems as sad as it is clichéd.

I don’t want to turn into ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane’ or ‘Whatever Happened to Bicycle Mary?’ for that matter.

But I’m also not quite ready to retire my balls and leave the field. I still have a few good years left.

When that time comes, I hope I recognize it. I hope I accept it with dignity. I hope I have something better to do. I hope I don’t even notice.

Until then, I plan on continuing in my role as the lead in Little Whore on the Prairie, Laura Ingalls Wilder be damned.