Page 54 of Misadventures of a Biker

I stepped into the coffee shop, wearing a prideful smile. There was no doubt Devin was opening my eyes to accepting changes, many of which were in complete contrast to my mundane past. Nevertheless, I had not one single regret.

I hoped that didn’t change anytime soon.

Chapter Seventeen

Devin

Midway through his meatloaf dinner, Herb paused to listen to the newscast playing in the adjoining room. When the segment finished, he shifted his eyes from the television to me.

“Some lady cop posing as a masseuse offered him a hand job. Then she arrested him when he tried to pay her.” He waved his fork toward the television. “Did you see that?”

I’d seen the report several times prior. The man, a rich celebrity of sorts, had driven from a wealthy neighborhood in Palm Beach to a seedy massage parlor in a neighboring city.

“Somebody with that much money wouldn’t drive from Palm Beach to Jupiter to get a massage unless he wasn’t looking for a little something extra,” I replied. “I’m guessing he didn’t stumble in there by chance.”

He pressed the tines of his fork through the corner of his meatloaf and paused. “Man’s a billionaire, isn’t he?”

“I think so.”

“What’s a billionaire doing getting hand jobs at a shitty massage parlor, anyway?” he asked.

“That’s exactly what I was wondering.”

He poked at his food. “What’s a hand job cost at a place like that?”

I’d never had a hand job. Considering all the available options for arousal to the point of ejaculation, a hand job was the clear loser in my opinion.

“Hell, I don’t know,” I replied. “Twenty bucks?”

“I paid three bucks for one in Da Nang in nineteen sixty-nine,” he said. “She yanked on that fucker like she was trying to start a goddamned lawn mower. Each time she tugged on it, I came up off the bed about six inches. I finally told her to stop. Gave her another three bucks for a blowjob. She wanted five, but I talked her down. Felt like I’d cheated her afterward, so I gave her a five-dollar tip. Considering that was fifty years ago in Vietnam, I’m thinking a hand job will go for fifty, here in the States. Maybe more.”

“Fifty?” I stared in complete disbelief. “Who’d give fifty bucks for a hand job?”

He nodded toward the living room. “People like him.”

“A hand job’s worth fifteen bucks and five for the tip,” I said. “Twenty total.”

He considered my reasoning. He shook his head in opposition. “I bet twenty bucks would buy about three strokes.”

“Three strokes?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s seven bucks a stroke. Applying that math, the fifty-buck hand job you’re talking about would buy seven strokes. A girl would have to be pretty talented to finish a guy off in seven strokes.”

“Bet that gal you’re seeing could get it done in seven strokes, can’t she?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “She’s never given me a hand job.”

His fork fell from his grasp and hit his plate with a clank! “What?” He seemed appalled. “Why in the hell not?”

“Who wants a hand job?”

He reached for the fallen utensil. “Who doesn’t?”

I shrugged and commenced eating my dinner. “I don’t.”

His wrinkled brow furrowed even more. “Why not?”

“They’re dumb,” I said over a mouthful of food. “I’ve got a hell of a lot of options to relieve myself. A hand job is my last choice.”

He leaned forward, hovering over his plate, his brows raised in wonder. “Does she give blowjobs?”