Ten years ago or so I convinced a super-cute waitress in Utah to jump in a van with me, four BMXers, a vegan magazine editor and a videographer from The Big Apple. For three days and two nights this brave girl titillated our crew in the only outfit I allowed her to wear: women's gym shorts, knee socks and a boy's medium t-shirt. When it was time to sleep, our Mormon on a mission was given her choice of the van, the floor, or the bed of any boy of her choice. On the first night she cuddled up with a sweet street rider from The Motor City. Mike was too sensitive to ravage this tart, so on night two our whipping girl bedded down with the most promiscuous player on the SNAFU team, a bold and brash dirt jumper from Boston.
If stuntboy #2 got any work done with our trollop, he didn't say so after we returned her unsullied carcass to her apartment. The tab for three days of sexual frustration and non-stop babble was three hundred dollars, plus the cost of the roller disco ensemble. I've paid more for a girl's company, but few women I've met have impressed me more with their gutsiness than this bird. Thanks for the good time, Sushi Girl.
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