By Sukie de la Croix

I’ve just read on news.bbc.co.uk about a fetishist named Robert Stewart, 51, who’s been arrested in Ayr, Scotland, for “sexually aggravated breach of the peace by conducting himself in a disorderly manner and simulating sex.”

Stewart, who was living in a hostel, was caught by cleaners naked from the waist down and locked in an intimate sexual embrace with his bicycle. Prosecutor Gail Davidson told the Ayr Sheriff Court: "The accused was holding the bike and moving his hips back and forth as if to simulate sex."

Sheriff Colin Miller added: “In almost four decades in the law I thought I had come across every perversion known to mankind, but this is a new one on me. I have never heard of a ‘cycle-sexualist.’”

Where has this Miller idiot been? The love between a bicycle and its owner is a recognized fetish and has been for years. I’ve been a cycle-sexualist since my teens. In fact, my most memorable sexual encounters have all been with bicycles. Not only that but I like my bicycles young, very young indeed. In fact, I’m coming out of the closet right here and now as a peddle-phile: if it’s got a firm saddle, fresh paint, unscratched decals and pumped-up tires, I’ll mount it and ride on it all day. If it’s soft in the saddle, has an old lady basket on the front and the tires are bald I’m not interested.

I lost my virginity to a bicycle when I was 14-years-old. I was riding downhill and I hit a series of deep cracks in the road, causing the saddle to give my ass a workout I didn’t forget in a hurry. That night we ended up rolling around in bed together—you haven’t lived until you’ve done a 69 with a complicated metal contraption designed solely to perambulate a human being from point A to point B, albeit in a desperate wibbly-wobbly manner.

I shouldn’t boast but if rimming a bicycle chain is an art then I’m the Leonardo da Vinci in that field. And if you’re looking for someone to bring your bicycle bell to new heights of orgasmic ecstasy, I’m your man.

It’s a shame that Scotland has chosen to outlaw the love between a man and his bicycle. What next…women who love teapots, men who have grown accustomed to their lawnmowers? It’s a slippery slope.

Cycle-sexualism has been around since the beginning of time, when God gave monkeys tire puncture kits and said, “Thou shalt not leave the cycle path unless thou wants to be pancaked by a truck.” The Greeks considered it “a noble love” and the Romans gave offerings to the goddess Schwin and had bicycle brothels where you could rent one by the hour and go cycle-fucking around Rome.

Women also enjoy the love of the bicycle. In fact, Mother Theresa, Queen Victoria and Rose Kennedy were all buried sitting on their bicycles. And it’s said that Louisa May Alcott, the author of “Little Women,” would lift her skirts at parties and amuse friends and family by showing them how to play hide the bicycle saddle with her vagina.

Next week I’ll tell you about the time I had a threesome with a tandem, why the Tour de France is like 3,500 miles of pornography to me, give you some safe-sex bike tips and I’ll tell you about these new pills the doctor gave me for schizophrenia—I’m taking them six at a time but I don’t think they’re working.

Email Sukie de la Croix at delacroix@chicagofreepress.com.