Listen up, you broke-dick bastards, it’s your ol’ pal Gut-Buster Gallagher with the dumbest, horniest, most chaotic night I ever had between two legs and a bad decision.It was a scorcher in Reno, Nevada—heat so thick you could chew it. My ’82 Harley-Davidson Road King was sweatin’ chrome, I’d been ridin’ hard from Salt Lake with a boner that could crack walnuts, and the only relief in sight was the Mustang Ranch knockoff called “Desert Rose Ranch” on the outskirts.

Sign out front read “All You Can Eat Special – $200” in peeling neon. Sounded like heaven to a man who’d been jerkin’ it to truck-stop calendars for three states.I park the hog, swagger in like I own the joint—leather vest open, belly hangin’ like a trophy, beard full of road dust. Place smells like cheap perfume, cigarette smoke, and broken dreams. Madam greets me: big-haired, big-titted, eyes like a hawk sizin’ up my wallet.

“What’ll it be, big fella?” she purrs.I point to the lineup—five girls in lingerie that left nothin’ to imagination. Pick the one called “Cherry Bomb”—red hair, freckles everywhere, ass that could stop traffic on I-80. She leads me to a room with a heart-shaped bed, mirrors on the ceiling, and a vibe that says “we’ve seen worse.”Clothes hit the floor faster than a drunk at last call. She’s ridin’ me reverse cowgirl, bouncin’ like a jackhammer on Red Bull, screamin’ “Giddyup, cowboy!” I’m hollerin’ back, sweatin’ rivers, gut slappin’ her back like applause.

We’re goin’ at it so hard the bedframe starts screamin’ louder than we are—wood crackin’, springs poppin’. Peak hits like a freight train: I roar, she squeals, and the whole damn room shakes. Then the fun stops.She hops off, lights a smoke, and holds out her hand. “Two-fifty, sugar. Cash only—no cards, no IOUs.”I pat my vest. Empty. Check my chaps pockets. Nothin’ but lint and a condom wrapper from last week. Wallet? Left it on the damn dresser back at the motel because “who needs money when you’re gettin’ laid?”

Apparently me, you idiot.Cherry Bomb’s smile vanishes. “You shittin’ me?” She storms out butt-naked, yellin’ for the bouncer. Two minutes later, I’m surrounded: Madam, Cherry, a 300-pound Samoan security guy named Tiny (who ain’t), and three other working girls in various states of undress, all glarin’ like I just pissed in their Cheerios.Madam gets in my face. “You think you can fuck my girls for free, tubby? Pay up or Tiny’s gonna rearrange that pretty beard with his fists.”I try reasonin’.

“Ladies, ladies—I’m good for it! My wallet’s ten minutes away. Let me ride out, grab it, come right back. Hell, I’ll throw in an extra hundred for the trouble! “Tiny cracks his knuckles. Sounds like gunshots. Cherry crosses her arms under her tits. “You came, you came hard, now you pay or we take it outta your hide.”Desperate times. I drop to one knee—gut hittin’ the floor like a sack of wet flour—and start beggin’.

“Look, I’m a legend on the road! Gut-Buster Gallagher! I got stories that’ll make your pussies tingle for weeks!”Madam ain’t buyin’. “Start suckin’ dick for free then, legend.”That’s when all hell really breaks loose.Tiny grabs me by the vest. I swing—miss—hit a lamp instead. It crashes, sparks fly. Cherry shrieks, dives for cover. One girl throws a high heel—nails me in the forehead. Blood trickles. I roar, charge Tiny like a pissed-off buffalo. We crash through the door into the hallway, knockin’ over a fake palm tree and a tray of condoms.

Girls scatter screamin’. Someone hits the fire alarm—sprinklers kick on, soakin’ everybody.I’m slippin’ and slidin’ in wet tile, naked except for boots, belly floppin’ like a beached whale. Tiny’s chasin’, Madam’s screamin’ about lawsuits, Cherry’s yellin’ “Get his fat ass!” I make it to the lobby, grab my vest off the floor, bolt outside buck-naked into the Nevada night.Fire trucks pull up. Cops show.

I’m standin’ there, drippin’ water, blood, and shame, tryin’ to explain to a female trooper why I’m nude in a brothel parking lot with a half-chub and a knot on my head. They let me ride out after I promise to return with cash the next day (Tiny escorted me to the motel—ride of silence you could cut with a knife). Paid up triple the next mornin’, left a tip in the form of a signed photo of me and the hog, and never went back. Moral of the story? Always bring your wallet to the whorehouse, ’cause nothin’ kills a boner faster than a naked sprint through sprinklers with a 300-pound bouncer on your tail. Now buy me a round, ya cheap pricks—Gut-Buster’s still payin’ off that tab.

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