Best Biker Bar St. Louis 2003 - Woodstock Lounge
She was sitting at the end of the bar, looking drunk, forlorn and blond (although the lights were so dim her hair hue was a matter of interpretation). It was an hour before closing, time enough for a few Bud longnecks and Rumplemintz shots before straddling the trusty Honda for the trip home. Most everyone here rides a Hog, but they're open-minded. Was she really looking this way? No, just wishful thinking. In a place like this, you never know. One innocent "Can I buy you a drink?" might land you face-first on the sidewalk courtesy of a tattooed behemoth named Tiny who's back at the soft-tip dartboard and nearly invisible until someone moves on his old lady. But damn, she did look available. No, just keep cool and try not to stare. Buy the bartender shots and hope she's as friendly as the one on duty a few months back who flashed at least three times per hour and let a favored customer lick Hot Damn from her bare breasts for an extra-big tip. Not in a sexual way, mind you. Just innocent fun to the tunes of Head East, Steppenwolf and Bob Seger. Last call. Time to go. Wait. She's walking over. "C'mon, let's go," she growls as she grabs your hand and hauls you toward the door. The bike is warming up and you're pulling on the gloves when she finally introduces herself. Her name is Ginger, and in this light she looks just as good as Mary Ann. She doesn't care that your bike purrs instead of throbs with that familiar "potato-potato-potato" sound. You're scheming your next move when she shatters all illusions. "I wanna go to the clubhouse," she declares. The clubhouse? No good can come of that. Still, dumping her here would be bad form, so you ask directions and let her climb on, trying to ignore her thighs squeezing your hips and her hands clasped firmly around your belly. The escape hatch arrives in the form of a gas station, which, thank God, is temporarily closed for a shift change. "Gotta get some smokes," you lie as you pull off the road. "Let's go to the clubhouse," she says. "Just wait a minute," you tell her, "while I walk around back and take a squirt." "I wanna go now!" she whines as you head off. She's gone, no telling where, when you return from nature's call. But you'll soon be back to Woodstock, where every visit can lead to adventure.