This Week’s Letter to Men, from the Bicycle Seat

Hey guys…I’m gonna get right to the point. I’ve kept my mouth shut for long enough - it’s time for me to take a stand. If I hear another one of you smug, grass-is-always-greener pricks make the ridiculous suggestion that you wish you were me, I’m absolutely going to lose it. You know what I’m talking about. You see a nice looking lady ride by on a bike, eyeballs nearly popping out of your frickin’ head, you elbow your buddy and say “Oh what I wouldn’t give to be that chick’s bicycle seat!” Your equally asinine cohort then invariably responds with another brilliant sentiment like “Yeah, buddy!” or “You can say that again!” The two of you then giggle like you just smoked a dime bag and read the latest Marmaduke. It’s at this point that I spend the next several minutes trying to control my blood pressure while trying to talk myself out of the salvage yard. Now, I’m going to try to spell this out for you as clearly as possible. I mean, I’m sure you never really expected to get a letter from a bicycle seat – and let’s be clear – this will likely be the last, so I’ll be very unambiguous with my thoughts.

First and foremost, ask yourself this: Do you know how erotic it really is to be a bicycle seat? Don’t rack yourself; I’ll answer it for you. Not very fucking erotic at all! To be totally straight with you, there really amounts to about a split second where I get a nice, up close and personal view of a lady’s tail. From there, not only does the pleasant view completely yield to pitch darkness, but even the tiniest of hind-parts absolutely engulfs me. Now, this may sound hot to you, but when something sexual begins to suffocate you, while exponentially outweighing you, pulling your meat out of your pants is about the last thing on your mind (more on that later). Further, while I’m on the topic, I’ve overheard a lot of these same blundering pricks who supposedly want to be me, making comments to and about other women – some even to their wives or girlfriends – that they want them to sit on their face. Yeah, you may feel like a sexual pioneer making such lewd remarks, but have any of you a-holes actually done it? Have you ever had a full-grown adult sit on your grill? Walk a mile in those shoes and then see how quick you are to comment, pal. Not even those demented bastards who tie scarves around their necks during sex can possibly derive pleasure from such an event. Take my word for it. Then again, don’t. Suffocate yourself for all I care.

Now suppose I can put all that behind me and actually get myself worked up about a gorgeous woman sitting on top of me. Let’s just say Fergie camps her sweet little rump right on me and I find it within myself to focus on the silver lining of the whole event. What the hell am I going to do? You’ve heard of impotence, I’m sure…not to mention the mentally disabling effects the disease has on a man? Well, let me be the first to tell you, it’s pretty fucking difficult to achieve and maintain a healthy erection when you have no dick! I’M A BICYCLE SEAT, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I may sound as smooth as Barry White, but don’t let the silky tongue fool you – I don’t exactly know my way around a woman – I mean aside from her buttocks. I tell you what – the next time you find yourself bitching to your buddy about how tough it is to get laid, think about where I’m coming from. Not so bad now, is it? Now quit your whining.

Lastly, I would like you to do me a final favor and consider my clientele. Do you know how few bikes are ridden by one person over the course of their lives? And of that very small faction, how many solo riders are even remotely attractive? I happen to be lucky enough to be a woman’s seat, but believe me, that’s no picnic either. My second owner, God rest her soul, had the wild hair up her ass – and subsequently me, too – that she was going to ride out her twilight years on a 12-speed. I’m not a seat that wishes harm on others, but I’ll be honest when I say I didn’t shed too many tears when they closed the lid on the pine box containing her old wrinkly, weathered rump. And how about those that are even less lucky? My cousin Amos studied abroad in Paris for a summer; next thing you know, he’s got some uppity French prick training for the Tour de France on top of him. Believe me…he’s never been the same since. Thousands of dollars of therapy couldn’t make the nightmares stop. Poor bastard. Though, I will say, he was able to debunk the myth that French dudes don’t have balls. He may have been hung like a church pencil, but I guess I don’t have too much ground to stand on with that topic.
Listen, I’m big enough to admit it – I’ve joined a support group. I’ve found a nice group to hang out with and share stories with. They get me…and I really like that. And by the way, my friends The Toilet Seat and G-String Underwear wanted me to tell you to blow it out your ass, too. Their lives are no picnic, either – but at least we’ve got each other to talk to. Anyway, I hope I’ve been succinct and put it all on the table for you. I can never really make you understand what it’s like to be me, but if nothing else, maybe you’ll have a little compassion in the future…and if nothing else, maybe you can appreciate your own life a little more.