The Masturbational

I have a favorite bike trail, not for the scenery or the workout, but for the privacy. There's one specific section, a long, straight path carved through dense woods, where the trees form a perfect canopy. If you stop and listen, you can hear other cyclists coming from half a mile away. That's my spot. I'll ride there, feigning exhaustion as I lean my bike against a tree. As soon as the path is empty in both directions, my shorts are down. The thrill isn't just the act itself; it's the sound of a distant chain whirring, the sudden scramble to pull up my pants and look nonchalant as some spandex-clad athlete pedals past, oblivious to the fact that seconds earlier, I was using their peaceful nature trail as my personal peep show.