Page 133 of Devil’s Disciples

“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.”