Fuck Off Socks

The motorcyclist pulled up next to my car and tapped on my window. I rolled it down. Leaning back onto the bike, he swung his leg up, propping his heel on the handlebar. Then he held eye contact with me, wordlessly, as he pulled his road jeans up slowly, inch by inch, until the sock’s FUCK OFF! message was revealed. I nodded, and satisfied, he sat back, revved his loud machine, and farted away.