But wait, why not let the bike be on top? I liked the idea of being dominated by my companion—payback for all the tough stuff I’d put it through: parking it on strange corners at all hours of the night and riding through slush and muck.

We used a condom for lube and cleanliness—those handlebars have been all over town—but no helmet. I pulled off my pants, flipped the bike upside down, leaned back and guided the handlebar right inside of me.

It entered easily—no pain and more pleasure than I had anticipated. Humping was much better than with an anonymous dildo; the brake lever never grazed my inner thigh, and the rubber handlebar made the ride gentle. Still, it was tricky to keep the bike balanced. When the handlebar slipped out, I steadied it on the seat, nestled my right foot in the triangle of the frame and kept ringing my proverbial bell.

Postcoitus, we held one another in a tender embrace. It even let me rub my nipples on the underside of its crossbar.

I worried I might be embarrassed for having sexed an inanimate object. But once the lube wore off, it was just like old times. We swerved around cabs, raced against traffic lights and darted through intersections. My heart was pounding, my legs were pumping, and the bike was carrying me home, just like it always had. This time, though, I didn’t feel the need to invite it upstairs.

*Writer’s name has been changed to protect them from their mother.