My friend Jennifer was still in her sweatpants and sweatshirt when I jumped into her car. As she changed, I drove to the show, which was the finale to a weekend-long biker rally called the Laughlin River Run. We had to look hot: We were both in love with the lead singer of Little Caesar and wanted him to notice us.
But the show blew my mind, almost as much as the audience did. We were surrounded by chrome, ink, and facial hair. Everyone we met opened their beer coolers to us, offered us rides on the back of their bikes, and unsuccessfully tried to talk us into smoking their foul crank.
Afterward, some bikers invited us to an after-party at The Rabbit Hole, the most respected tattoo parlor in north Las Vegas. There were Hell's Angels, Satan's Disciples, and Outlaws, not to mention the guys from Little Caesar. And for some reason, I wasn't scared, though I probably should have been. I didn't talk much, as usual. I just watched, and noticed how all these psychotic guys called their girlfriends "old ladies" and treated them like farm animals. I promised myself that I would never allow a man to take me for granted like that. Sadly, that promise didn't last very long.