A desperate cry for help

We've all seen those articles about Internet porn junkies. Ya start lookin' at durty pictures of purty girls and next thing ya know, you're walkin' around the mall in a trench coat. Or you're goin' to hell. Or your Visa card is maxed out with charges from your favorite midget/bondage site. Or you're the mayor. Or you're lookin' up pictures of Betty Boop on a bicycle. Or you move to Vietnam and the shit hits the fan.

There are all those so-called experts studying what happens to you if you're a "normal" pervert who sees more laptops than lap dances, but none of them give a hoot about the rest of us—the poor twisted souls who spend our late nights looking at naked bikes, reading blogs and checking out alloy nipples.

Ours is a world full of confusion and trauma. Eager with anticipation, we gently stroke our keypads, awaiting the wondrous pleasures to come, but one careless click of the mouse on the wrong hyperlink and ecstasy becomes agony. One minute we're panting and sweating over something beautiful, and the next we're writhing on the floor scratching our eyes out because we've stumbled across vile creatures we wish we'd never seen.

If we're lucky, we manage to spend some time away from our computers and actually engage in carnal relations using the lessons we've learned from our true love. Such knowledge may prove most valuable if we're lucky enough to pair up with another cyclist. Otherwise, communication gaps occur: A lover tells you to pick up some lube on the way home, so you eagerly do so. Then a chill settles over the house and you spend up spending the night in the garage working on your bikes. Alone. How were you to know that a bottle of lube was supposed to be a bottle of luuuuube? Such misunderstandings are why cyclists who marry should always have a solid pre-nup. Otherwise, they should at least negotiate a post-nuptial agreement.

Whatever it takes.

Just get it in writing.