Our MC’s clubhouse was on the first floor of a three-story building that Baker’s LLC owned. The bars, restaurants, and swanky lofts surrounding us acted as a camouflage, making it appear to outsiders that we were nothing more than a bunch of tattooed businessmen who enjoyed riding motorcycles together.

Unlike most motorcycle clubs, we didn’t wear leather vests, jackets, or other articles of clothing that identified us as a group. Our MC’s colors were tattooed on our backs.

During our meetings, we didn’t sit around a table and listen while Baker pounded a gavel into a wooden block to maintain our attention. We sat on a couch, drank beers and ate snacks, and discussed what matters needed attention at that particular point in time.

Our club was unconventional, we were unconventional, and our clubhouse was equally unconventional.

Baker’s business office was on the third floor, and he lived on the second floor. Somewhat of a loner – and cautious about who he exposed himself to – he rarely left the building. Although I often wished the arrangement was different, it wasn’t, and I knew it would never change.

The entire MC – less Baker – sat on the ultra-comfortable sofa and waited for the meeting to start. While I picked the pretzels out of my handful of Chex Mix, he loomed over me. At the instant that I tossed them back into the bag, he cleared his throat.

“How many times have I told you not to do that?” he asked.

“They’re fucking gross.” I passed the bag to Goose. “They should make this shit without ‘em in it. Sell a pretzel-free version and give a man the option of choosing whichever he wants.”

“Well, they don’t.” He glared at me. “And, nobody wants to eat those things after you’ve been finger fucking them. It’s anyone’s guess where your hands have been.”

I raised my cupped hand to my face and shook half the mix into my mouth. “My hands are just as clean as anyone else’s.”

“Throw the little fuckers in the trash if you don’t want to eat them.” He motioned toward the bag, which was now in Ghost’s hands. “I’m gonna quit buying that shit if you can’t eat it right.”

“Jesus, Bake.” I shot him a glare. “There ain’t a right way and wrong way to eat fuckin’ Chex Mix.”

“There’s a right way and a wrong way to do everything on earth,” he insisted. “Throw ‘em in the trash or that’ll be the last bag of that shit I ever buy.”

The world Baker lived in was black and white. In many respects, having him as the President of the MC was a good thing, as the rest of us were a bunch of miscreant misfits who liked nothing better than to drink, ride hard, and fuck women.

His ‘my way or the highway’ manner of running the club left us no alternative other than following his rules. In the end, it was all good, but I didn’t make it easy for him. Bucking his rules and regulations was my way of keeping him on his toes.

I glanced at Ghost, who had already handed the bag to Tito. “Do you like the pretzels?”

He chewed what was in his mouth, and then washed it down with a drink of beer. “Don’t care for ‘em, no. I eat ‘em because they’re in there.”

My eyes shifted to Tito. “What about you?”

“I’ll eat them, but they’re not my favorite.”

I looked at Reno and raised my eyebrows. “Brother Reno?”

“I don’t fuck with pretzels,” he said. “They taste like dirt.”

I gestured toward his snack-filled hand. “What do you do with ‘em?”

“I’m sneakier than you. I leave ‘em in the bag, but I don’t get caught.”

My eyes thinned. “Nobody’s sneakier than me.”

He opened his palm. It contained nothing but the brown pieces of toast, little bread sticks, and Chex. He glanced at his hand and then met my gaze. “See any pretzels?”

I took another look at the contents of his hand. Miraculously, it was pretzel-free. “Nope.”

He carefully picked out one piece of the Chex and popped it into his mouth. “When I get a handful, I feel around, find the pretzels, and then drop ‘em back in the bag before I pull my hand out. Baker never sees me tossing ‘em in the bag because I never take ‘em out.”

I looked at his hand. It seemed no different than mine in appearance. Nonetheless, it had to be wrapped in a far more delicate skin if he could discern the difference between a pretzel and a miniature piece of Melba toast without looking at it.

I gestured toward his delicate digits. “Your fingers are more sensitive than mine if you can feel the difference between a pretzel and a piece of Chex mix without looking at it. I’ve got to get ‘em out and have a look just to make sure what they are.”

“Who the fuck can’t tell the difference between a checkerboard pretzel and a piece of fuckign Chex mix?” He coughed out a laugh. “Maybe it’s because I don’t spend all day whacking my junk. Your fingers are worn the fuck out from stroking your Johnson all the time. They’re like the fingers of an eighty-year-old man.”

“Oh shit.” I jumped up and turned to face the men. “I almost forgot. I’ve got an announcement. Listen up, everybody.”

I devoured my Chex Mix and brushed my palms against the thighs of my jeans. “I haven’t whacked off since Saturday night,” I announced. I glanced at each of the men. “Not once.”

Everyone’s attention shot to me.

“Bullshit,” Goose snapped back.

Baker chuckled. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

Normally, I masturbated at least once a day. Sometimes, I did it two or three times a day. It wasn’t uncommon for us to be on a fifteen-hundred-mile ride, and when we stopped for gas, I’d be whacking off in the bathroom of a roadside gas station.

When I was a kid – upon realizing my dick got hard – I began to experiment with it. Soon, I learned that masturbation brought sexual satisfaction, immediate relief, and provided mind-clearing benefits I couldn’t obtain elsewhere.

After I jerked off, I felt no differently than if I’d taken a two-hour long nap. In short, whacking my junk kept me alert, intelligent, and quick-witted.

“I’m dead serious.” I puffed my chest pridefully. “Haven’t touched it since Saturday.”

“Got sores on it or something?” Goose asked. “Puss-filled pockets or something?”

“No, it ain’t got any fucking sores on it.” I shot him a glare. “I haven’t felt like it. Well, that, and I’m saving up my splooge. Hoping to build up a pint of it. Maybe more.”

“Sperm is created every twenty-four hours,” Tito said matter-of-factly. “Refraining from masturbation, however, doesn’t allow sperm to build up indefinitely. Sperm forms in the testicles, and they’re stored in the epididymis. Abstinence won’t cause the volume of the vessel to become enlarged. It’s a common misconception.”

Tito was a walking search engine. There was very little that he didn’t know, which made arguing with him impossible. He had the IQ of a genius, and he made sure each of us realized it.

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“I’m saying that after twenty-four hours, you have as much sperm as you’re going to have. Three or four days of waiting won’t create any more.”

My eyes thinned. “Are you sure?”

He folded his arms over his chest and gave a reassuring nod. “Positive.”

“What the fuck you saving it for?” Reno asked. “You gonna sell it?”

“No, I ain’t fuckin’ selling it,” I snapped back. “When I left Goose’s barbeque, this chick ran out in front of me, waving her arms and screaming. She starts hollering and pointing up toward her house, and this dip-shit is standing there staring at me like I broke up his little party.”

“Which house?” he asked.

“Little white one with all the flowers in the yard,” I said. “Two from the corner.”

“On the right side?”

I shrugged. “Depends if you’re coming or going.”

“Motherfucker,” he snarled. “You were leaving, right?”

“Yep.”

“Was it on your right or on your left?”

“On my right.”

“That’s one badass bitch,” Goose interrupted. “See her out in the yard watering the flowers all the time. She’s got dark hair and tits the size of cantaloupes.”

“Yep,” I said with a smile. “That’s her.”

“So, what happened?” Reno asked.

“Her husband was trying to rape her. So, I beat his ass. Then, she asked me out on a date. So, on Saturday night, we went out. While we were eating our tacos, she gave me some speech about how good she sucked cocks. After our date, I whacked off a couple of times thinking about it. That was the last time.”

“Wait a minute,” Reno said. “Her husband was trying to rape her? A woman can’t be raped by your husband. When she signs the marriage documents, she gives it up for life.”

“No means no,” Baker argued. “Husband or not.”

“According to you,” Reno said.

“According to the law,” Baker responded.

Reno looked at Tito and raised his brows.

“Baker’s right,” Tito said. “No means no. Husband, or not. If she said ‘no’, and he proceeded, the law says he can be charged with rape.”

“I’ll be damned,” Reno said. He shifted his eyes to meet mine. “So, you whacked off after your date, and haven’t done it since? Why not?”

“You didn’t let me finish my story,” I said.

He leaned against the back cushion of the couch and crossed his arms over his chest. “Proceed.”

“Ends up the guy was her ex-husband,” I said. “And, after all of her blowjob talk on Saturday, she invited me over for dinner on Sunday night. After dinner, I’m getting ready to leave, and I look over, and she’s on her knees giving me bedroom eyes.”

“On her knees where?” he asked.

My eyes thinned in response to his foolish question. “On the fucking floor, you idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot,” he barked. “Bedroom? Bathroom? Garage? Living room?”

“What the fuck’s it matter?” I asked.

“I need to get a mental picture and I want it to be accurate.”

“Breakfast nook,” I said. “Between the table and the sink.”

His eyes thinned. “She just got on her knees, right there in the kitchen? After dinner?”

“Yep.”

“And, she’s a big-tittied hottie?”

“Yep.”

He looked at Goose.

Goose nodded. “She’s smokin’ hot. Older, but smokin’hot.”

“Older?” He shifted his eyes to me. “How old?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” I said, even though I knew exactly what her age was.

“So, what happened?”

“I been trying to tell you for an hour,” I complained. “If you’d quit asking questions, I’ll let you know what happened.”

“I’m done. Go ahead.”

“Okay. Now, I’m not one to argue with a bitch if she wants to suck my cock, so I unzipped my pants and flopped the fucker out.”

I paused, and scanned the men’s faces. Wide-eyed, they sipped their beers, ate their Chex Mix, and stared back at me.

“She looked at it, looked up at me, and popped her neck from side to side like she was preparing to wrestle a fuckin’ Alligator. Then, she popped her knuckles, got ahold of it, and guided the tip into her mouth, real slow. Then, get this, fellas. She fuckin’ winks at me.”

Reno gave me a puzzled look. “That’s it? That’s your story?”

“No, motherfucker,” I complained. “Just like I said a minute ago. Keep your yap shut, and I’ll tell you what happened.”

He gave me a shitty look. “Well, you keep stopping.”

“I’m pausing for effect.”

“You’ve got everyone’s attention. Quit stopping, and tell your fucking story.”

“And, hurry the fuck up with it,” Baker said. “We need to get this meeting underway.”

I let out a deep sigh and then looked the men over. “Okay. So, she’s got the tip of my dick in her mouth, and she winks at me. I’m looking down at her, wondering what she’s got planned. You know, wondering what that wink is all about. Then, all of a sudden, she just swallows it. All the way to my nuts.”

“No practice strokes or nothing?” Reno asked.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

He swallowed hard. “Damn.”

“Damn’s right.” I took a step back and lowered my hands to my waist. “So, I’ve got her head in my hands, and I’m fucking her throat like it’s a pussy. I’m pounding my stiffy in and out of her mouth and watching my nuts slap against her bottom lip. This bitch never coughs, gags, or says one fucking word. Just takes it like it’s her job. Next thing I know, I’m getting ready to bust a nut, and I asked her where she wants it. I’m thinking she’s gonna want me to blow it on those big titties, but that’s not what she said.”

“What’d she tell you to do with it?” Reno asked excitedly. “Did she take it on the face?”

“She wanted it down her throat,” I said. “So, I fucked her mouth for another fifteen minutes or so, and then I busted a nut down her throat. After that, we had a glass of wine, and she said I could stop by any time I wanted for another blowjob.”

He gestured toward my pocket. “Show me a picture of her.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I didn’t take her fucking picture, you perv. Is that how you do it in Texas? Snapping pics of chicks with dicks in their mouths?”

“Why not? I keep pictures of all the chicks I bang. Like trophies.”

“Well, I’m not from Texas.” I tapped the tip of my finger against my temple. “My trophies are right up here.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you haven’t whacked off since Saturday,” Goose said.

“Well, I was saving up my cum for the next time I stopped by her place for a little deep throat action. I was going to plaster her pretty face with it. But now that Tito says that isn’t possible, I guess I’ll just whack off in the bathroom after the meeting.”

“Whack off at home,” Baker said flatly.

I let out a laugh. “I whack off in there every Wednesday.”

“Since when?” he asked.

“Since forever.”

“God damn it,” Ghost said. “I wash my hands in there.”

“I don’t spray the shit all over the bathroom,” I said defensively. “I come in the toilet. The sink’s clean.”

“You stroke your dick with your hand, and then you touch the faucet with the same hand,” he said. “Just as well be touching the handles with your dick. I don’t like the thought of having another dude’s dick matter on my hands.”

“You touch your dick with your hand when you piss, and then you touch the faucet. I’m not complaining about that, am I? There’s dick matter all over the place.”

“I sit to piss,” he said. “My hand never comes in contact with my dick. It’s a much cleaner operation, all around. Keeps all the dick butter from being spread all over the place.”

I stared at him in disbelief. If he were anyone else, I would have called him a pussy. Instead, I merely challenged his claim.

“Are you serious?” I howled, wondering why no one else had burst into laughter. “You sit down to piss?”

“Dead serious. I have since I was a kid, It’s cleaner.”

“I do, too,” Baker said. “Unless I’m outside or in a bar.”

I turned to face him. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“I’m not. It doesn’t splatter. Just like Ghost said, it’s cleaner.”

“Same here,” Tito said.

Reno chuckled. “I stand, like I’m supposed to. God gave us a dick so we could stand and piss. Twats were built for sitting.”

I looked at Goose.

“I sit at home. In public, it’s a different story. I won’t sit on a public toilet. I don’t even drop a deuce in public.”

I fell into my spot on the couch, wondering if I was more masculine than the rest of the men, or if I was simply less concerned with hygiene. Whatever it was, I wasn’t sitting down to piss, that much I was sure of.

“Well,” I stand to piss, and that’ s that,” I said.

“With that, I’ll call this meeting to order,” Baker said with a clap of his hands.

All eyes shifted to Baker.

“A guy in Encino was charged with possession of 200 kilos of heroin, and he beat the charges,” he said, scanning the men as he spoke. “The news showed him leaving court with his girlfriend in a Ferrari Enzo. The car’s worth two-and-a-half-million. I say we need to do a little research and see what we can get out of this guy.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ghost said. “If the fucker was trying to peddle 450 pounds of horse, he deserves everything he gets.”

“Happen to know his address?” Tito asked.

“I was hoping you could help us out,” Baker said. “I have his tag number and his name.”

Tito was much more than a walking library. He was an expert on hacking computers and did so without leaving a trace of his existence. Capable of even prying his way into the most secure government computers, he was the club’s hacker, alarm expert, and guru on the manipulation of electronic funds.

“It’ll just take a minute,” Tito responded.

“After we get his address, we’ll need to a little reconnaissance,” Baker said. “If we can determine what his schedules are – and figure out what he’s got for an alarm system – then we can plan on hitting this prick and hitting him hard. If he’s driving a two-and-a-half-million-dollar car and in possession of forty-million worth of heroin, he’s got to have money. My guess is that he doesn’t keep it in the bank.”

“If this asshole’s selling 400 pounds of heroin in SoCal, I say ‘fuck this prick’. He’d kill at least a dozen or more by overdose,” I said.

“Statistically speaking,” Tito chimed. “He’d kill--”

“I don’t give a fuck about statistics,” I said. “The guy’s an asshole. I vote we take him down.”

“Second.” Ghost said.

Baker looked at Goose.

“Agreed,” Goose said.

“Same,” Tito said.

Reno gave a nod. “No argument here.”

Our club was made up of six men who were as close as brothers. Each one had their specialty, and the club relied on them to perform their task throughout the course of the robberies we committed.

Reno was the explosives expert, Ghost was the mechanic and getaway driver, Tito was in charge of alarms, computer hacking, and irritating the fuck out of me. Goose was the weapons expert and resident cook. I was the muscle, and Baker was the brains of the operation.

As far as outsiders were concerned, we all worked for Baker, who owned several car washes. He filtered as much of our stolen funds through the carwashes as he could, returning the laundered money to us partially in cash, and partially in legitimate wages.

We normally robbed the underbelly of the city, focusing on the shit hats, drug dealers, and those who presented a problem to the city’s inhabitants who yearned for nothing more than to live each day free of worry.

We did, however, infrequently rob those who had no more common sense than to put their money where it was easy to access. Federally insured investments were always a target, and we viewed the victim not as the target, but as the government.

Planning a robbery required a unanimous vote. Now that we had one, our next step would be meticulously organizing the robbery of his home, office, or anywhere else that he kept his funds.

“Any new business we need to discuss?” Baker asked.

“I say we make a rule about whacking your junk in the bathroom. If a club brother can’t wait to stroke his stiffy until he gets home, he needs to go see a doctor or a shrink,” Goose said.

“Sounds like he’s on the wagon,” Ghost said. “As long as he’s pounding this chick’s throat.”

Reno barked out a laugh. “It won’t last longer than a fart in a whirlwind. Never does with him.”

Baker looked at me and shook his head. “Do I need to make a rule, or are you preoccupied enough with this chick that we don’t need to worry about it?”

I was torn. At present, my thoughts didn’t drift far from her gorgeous face, ability to cook, or her oral skills. Statistically speaking, as Tito often said, I’d be somewhere else doing something else to someone else within a week.

I knew me well enough to know she’d eventually be where every other woman ended up.

On my bad side.

My best advice to myself would be to stay away from her. I liked her enough that I knew I didn’t want to hurt her. Sooner or later, I’d do just that. Hurt her.

I looked at Baker. “You better make that rule.”

He looked me over. “A blowjob like that, and you’re telling me you’re done? You’re back to beating off in the bathroom?”

I gazed at the toes of my boots and gave his question some serious thought. I enjoyed my time with Kimberly, but when she sucked my cock, she took possession of me. I didn’t want to stop seeing her but being owned by a woman wasn’t something I could make sense of. It left me feeling weak, and incapable of walking away. If I went back for more, I’d only become weaker.

Then, if I continued, I’d eventually become dependent upon her. No woman was going to make me weak for her, no matter how good she sucked a dick. The answer I needed to give was evident.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m done.”