The Girlfriend’s Guide to Dating a Biker
Why You Should Never Google “What To Do When A Hot Biker Moves In Next Door”
Okay, first? The internet is completely fucking useless when it comes to this situation.
Like, seriously. I just spent two hours scrolling through advice that ranged from “call the police immediately” to “bake them welcome cookies.” Neither of which seems particularly helpful when the guy who just moved in next door looks like he could carry a Harley while simultaneously being photographed for a leather jacket ad campaign.
Side note: I actually googled “how much does a Harley weigh” to make sure my comparison was accurate.
If Google can be believed, it depends on the model, but they weigh a LOT.
I feel like I might need to do further research to verify the exact number.
I spent twenty minutes watching him move furniture, and yes, can confirm he could definitely carry a motorcycle.
I might have also googled “average bicep circumference,” but we’re not talking about that.
I texted my bestie, Megan, about it:
Me
SOS. Hot biker moving in next door. Send advice.
Megan
On a scale of 1-10?
Me
Gladiator but make it modern menace.
Megan
Pics or it didn’t happen.
Me
I’m not taking creeper photos!
Also m e: accidentally opened camera sixteen times while pretending to check my mail
So now, instead of spending my Saturday debugging the nightmare code that Johnson, a senior dev on my team who still somehow thinks I’m his assistant, dumped on my desk yesterday afternoon (special place in hell for that guy, seriously), I’m sitting here questioning everything I thought I knew about my nice, quiet apartment building.
You know, the kind of building where the most exciting thing to have happened in the past year was when Mrs Primrose from Unit 4B tried to start a book club that turned into a wine club that turned into a “let’s gossip about everyone under forty” club.
(Last week’s hot topic: why the guy in Unit 5A vacuums at 2:30 a.m. The consensus: serial killer clean-up.)
But back to my new neighbour.
Things I know so far:
He owns a Harley
He has approximately 849 tattoos (I counted during Operation: Get Coffee, though my math might be slightly compromised by bicep distraction)
He’s approximately six foot four, has dark hair, tanned skin, the perfect amount of beard, and muscles that should be available to book for study sessions (science research, naturally)
He says exactly three words or less at a time. Examples:
“Need help, sweetheart?” (When I dropped my keys)
“Take your time.” (When I fumbled picking them up)
“Later, sweetheart.” (And just WALKED AWAY like that’s a normal way to end a conversation with a stranger)
I may have practiced dropping my keys fifteen times after that, but the universe clearly hates me because he didn’t show up again. However, Mrs Primrose did catch me, and now thinks I have an inner ear condition. She’s been sending me links to vertigo support groups.
Things I don’t know:
His name
Why he picked THIS building
Why I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me—like he could see straight through my “I totally meant to drop my keys” act to the “holy shit you’re hot” panic underneath
How to explain to Megan that “but his ARMS, Megs” is a perfectly valid reason to forget how to human
Why I’m starting this blog
Actually, scratch that last one. I know exactly why I’m starting this blog. Because if I don’t write this somewhere, my brain might explode. It’s like it can’t process his level of hotness without external storage.
And I can’t tell Megan because she’s still dating that psychology grad student who’ll try to analyse what my “attraction to alternative lifestyle choices” says about my relationship with my father.
(Spoiler alert, Brad: Nothing. It says NOTHING.
Although he’d probably have a field day with the fact that I’ve already planned our wedding in my head.
The bikes would make excellent photo props, right? NO. STOP IT EDEN.)
I also can’t tell anyone at work because I’ve spent two years building my reputation as the most serious female coder in a sea of bros who still think “that’s what she said” jokes are peak humour.
Pretty sure admitting I’m lowkey stalking the hot biker next door would undo all of that faster than hitting delete on a production database.
Plus, Karen from Accounting would make a spreadsheet analysing my “bad boy attraction vectors” or something equally terrifying.
So here we are. Me, this blog, and the sound of a Harley starting up at 11 p.m. on a Saturday night.
Okay, I just got up and looked out my window. That’s definitely a club patch on his leather jacket.
Google search #2 of the night : “What do motorcycle club patches mean”
Google search #3 : “How to tell if you’re having a crisis or just really need a hobby”
Google search #4 : “Do bikers like girls who code”
Google search #5 : “How to delete your Google search history permanently”
Send help. Or wine. Or both. Preferably both.
Actually, send whatever deity is in charge of arm genetics to explain why forearms like my neighbour’s should even be allowed to exist.
UPDATE (11:59 p.m.): Just got a text from Megan asking if I’ve “done something stupid yet.” The fact that she knows me this well is concerning.
P.S. My algorithm now thinks I have a biker forearm fetish. Honestly, it’s not wrong.
P.P.S. Before you panic, this isn’t going on my public blog.
I’m not trying to get murdered or sued, thanks.
I’ve set this journal to private, password-protected, and off the cloud.
Think of it as a chaos dump for Future Therapy Me.
If I ever make it public, I’ll be redacting names, affiliations, and any detail that could get me yeeted into a ditch.
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