I’m a simple girl. I wouldn’t say I normally enjoy fast moving objects hitting my body. But this experience with a cyclist is making me rethink everything I thought I knew about my sexuality. 

As I stood in front of the Jacobs Center, waiting to cross the street with post-Abbot nasal drip, I certainly wasn’t expecting my life to change. When I took that step to cross into the bike lane, I had no way of predicting the life altering moment that was to come. 

When the bike wheel rammed into my legs, I fell sideways into the ground, slamming skin on cement. I screamed, as you might expect, dear reader, but not for pain. Of course, the pain was there—but I liked it. My scream was also one of pleasure, attempting to convey to the cyclist that they should do it again. 

The treads ground up my ribs like an intensive massage. No man had ever been able to provide such a sensual experience. Looking at the scratches on my face and hands, I thought to myself that they needed to be bigger to truly satisfy me. 

So, if you happen to see a woman lying tits up in the Evanston bike lane, please—do not move her. She’s just waiting for the next hit, the next rush, the next high, that comes with a biker crashing into her body with their two-wheeled steed. The collision is the only way she can ever feel something on her south campus.