Photo by Paco CT
Summertime, and the living is, well, strange.
Beirut goes through a cotton shortage in the summer, and our poor, underprivileged women have to walk the street with hardly a scrap of clothing to cover their, um, honor. Fret not ladies, for every one of your exposed strolls I guarantee there are half a dozen warm-blooded men in deep consideration, trying to find a solution to your plight.
I of course hardly notice any of that anymore (I swear honey!), and as I was driving by yet another playboy parade on the marina the other day I saw, well, I saw them.
‘Them’ here refers to about 20 or so 40-somethings on Harley Davidsons driving up (and down, then up, and down again) the marina. I suppose they were hunting for women, but then they could always have been out on a philosophical quest for enlightenment involving loud engines, sunsets and asphalt. No wait, they were definitely hunting for women.
And we were hunting for a place to eat our sandwiches.
The leader of the pack (I restrain myself while writing this) raised his hand in a fist, and the entire procession came to a halt. He dismounted (more restraint) his hog and walked towards the best-endowed playboy princess.
We were parked, hungry and just out of earshot to catch his pickup line, but I’m creative, and I figured it went something like this: ‘Can I offer you a ride on my hog?’
No hang on, he couldn’t have been that crass. He was at least in his mid-40s, and someone that age would’ve certainly developed more skill: ‘You, me, on the bike, now!’
That couldn’t have been it either; a line like that would’ve made a woman weak in the knees. And her knees looked just fine to me (they were right in my sandwich’s line of sight!)
‘What’s a fine babe like you doing on a bland strip like this? Wouldn’t you much rather wrap your arms around me and let the wind play with your hair as 19 other men stare at your ass?’
Actually, I think that last one may not be that far off; whatever it was, his object of aging desire was laughing so hard she choked on her super-sized cola; we quickly closed in to try and listen.
And just as I’d given up on him, he had a stroke of inspiration: ‘All I’m saying is, would you like to take a picture with our bikes? You could ride mine and the guys would make a fantastic background.’
I’ll never get why women love cameras, but whatever smugness I’d felt at his misfortune quickly dwindled into shame as the women mingled with the bikers; the man was a genius.
And we need some company motorcycles.
All Rights sold to Time Out Beirut
You You You are getting married!! Mabrouk 
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Yalla wasleen. Didn’t the US just donate 20+ Harleys to our lovely police force?
…or was this actually about them?
Oh yeah:
“These motorcycles will enable the ISF to perform its law enforcement, safety and traffic management functions,” the State Department said in a press release.
By law enforcement functions they no doubt meant cruising along the highway and lazing in the sun; but no, this is about one of our local summer-time bike-gangs.