Gather ‘round, you horn-dog heathens—it’s Gut-Buster Gallagher, still sportin’ a scar on my ass from the last time I had to run for my life with my dick swingin’ like a busted pendulum. This one happened outside Sturgis during the rally a couple years back, when the beer was cold, the nights were hot, and common sense was on permanent vacation.I’d been eyeballin’ this firecracker named Jolene all week.

Long black hair, tattoos crawlin’ up her arms like ivy on a biker bar, and a laugh that could wake the dead. Problem? She was ridin’ bitch on the back of a mean-lookin’ dude named Razor—six-foot-five, patched-up 1%er with a face like a chewed-up boot and knuckles scarred from more bar fights than I’ve had hangovers. Everyone knew she was his old lady. Everyone except my dick, apparently.Friday night, Razor’s crew heads out for a late run to Deadwood. Jolene stays behind, says she’s “tired.” Yeah, right.

She finds me at my campfire, straddlin’ my lap before the embers even die down. “Gut-Buster,” she purrs, grindin’ slow, “I’ve been wonderin’ if that gut’s just for show or if you got somethin’ real under there.” Next thing I know we’re stumblin’ into her and Razor’s pop-up camper like drunks chasin’ last call.Clothes fly. She’s on top, ridin’ me like she’s tryin’ to qualify for the drag strip.

Tits bouncin’, nails rakin’ my chest, screamin’ my name loud enough to scare the coyotes. I’m gruntin’, sweatin’, belly slappin’ her thighs—classic Gallagher rhythm. We’re hittin’ that sweet spot where the world disappears and it’s just wet heat and bad decisions.Then the camper door rips open like the gates of hell.Razor stands there, silhouetted against the moonlight, still in his cut, eyes burnin’ redder than brake lights.

Behind him, half his crew, beers in hand, jaws on the floor. Jolene freezes mid-bounce. I freeze mid-thrust. Time stops. Then Razor roars, “You fat fuck!”I don’t think. I just react. Shove Jolene off—sorry, darlin’—roll sideways, hit the floor naked as the day I was born. My boots are by the door, jeans halfway across the camper, vest tangled in the sheets.

Razor lunges. I dodge, grab what I can (nothin’ but my dignity and a half-chub), and bolt straight out the door.Naked. Buck-ass naked. Belly floppin’, balls swingin’, beard flappin’ in the wind as I sprint across the campground like a greased pig at the county fair. Gravel bitin’ my soles, moonlight bouncin’ off my pale ass, campground lights flickin’ on one by one. Bikers pokin’ heads outta tents, laughin’, whistlin’, filmin’. Someone yells, “Run, Gut-Buster, run!” Another hollers, “That’s the fastest I ever seen a fat man move!”Razor’s right behind me, boots poundin’, cussin’ loud enough to wake South Dakota.

“I’m gonna skin you and use your gut for a saddlebag!” His boys are chasin’ too, half-drunk and lovin’ every second of the show.I make it to my Shovelhead—thank Christ I left the keys in the ignition—jump on bare-assed, fire her up, and peel out in a cloud of dust and dignity. No helmet, no clothes, just me, the hog, and a hard-on that won’t quit even when death’s on my tail. Wind hittin’ every inch, balls freezin’, ass cheeks clappin’ against the leather seat like applause.I rode twenty miles down a backroad before I stopped, hid the bike behind some scrub, and sat there shiverin’ under the stars, laughin’ so hard I almost pissed myself. Eventually flagged down a sympathetic prospect who loaned me a spare pair of sweats and a hoodie.

Looked like a damn circus clown, but at least I wasn’t swingin’ free anymore.Never did get my clothes back. Heard Razor burned ‘em in a bonfire while toasting to “the fat fuck who fucked the wrong old lady.” Jolene texted me a week later: “Worth it. Call me when Razor’s on a run again.”Moral? Pussy’s powerful, but an angry 1%er with a crowbar is more powerful. And nothin’—and I mean nothin’—makes you feel more alive than runnin’ naked through a biker rally with your junk bouncin’ and death on your heels.Now pass the whiskey, ya bastards. Gut-Buster’s still got scars to prove it.

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