Everything You （Don’t） Want to Know About Motorcycle Clubs （Or How I Wasted My Entire Sunday）
So, I may have fallen down an internet rabbit hole.
You know those Google spirals where you start reading about cute otters and somehow end up learning about medieval torture devices?
Yeah, this was worse. Though I did learn some interesting facts about otters that I’ll never be able to use in normal conversation.
(Did you know they hold hands while sleeping so they don’t drift apart? Unlike my last three relationships.)
Things I’ve learned about MCs (that’s motorcycle clubs for those of you who, like me until approximately twenty-eight hours ago, thought MC only stood for Master of Ceremonies):
Me
They’re not a gang! It’s a club!
Megan
Honey, that’s what every criminal organisation says.
Me
Did you just compare my hot neighbour to the mob?
Megan
If the leather jacket fits...
Me
I hate you.
Megan
No, you don’t. You need me to talk you out of bad decisions.
Me
Bold of you to assume I haven’t already made several.
2. There’s a whole HIERARCHY. Like, actual ranks and everything.
Which means Hot Neighbour isn’t just a guy with a bike—he’s somebody.
I heard someone call him “Savage” when I was taking out my rubbish and.
..seriously? SAVAGE? The guy I watched help old Mrs Primrose with her groceries this morning?
The one who drinks almond milk? (Yes, I noticed the carton when he was unlocking his door.
No, I’m not proud of how much I noticed.)
Me
HIS NAME IS SAVAGE.
Megan
That’s not a name. That’s a cologne brand.
Me
HE DRINKS ALMOND MILK.
Megan
Only serial killers drink almond milk.
Me
Not helping!!!
UPDATE : Just spent forty-five minutes trying to “casually” check my mail when I heard his bike.
He wasn’t even there. But Mrs Primrose definitely saw me loitering and now probably thinks I’m dealing drugs.
At this rate, she’ll add me to her famous building gossip bingo.
The one where she and her Wine evidence against: almond milk, helping old ladies, having actual dimples. And yes, I’ve created a spreadsheet. Don’t judge me.)
3. Why my heart does that stupid flutter thing every time I hear a motorcycle (Megan suggests therapy, I suggest more stalking)
4. How many more times I can pretend to get my mail before the postman stages an intervention (current count: 32)
Current status : Trying to convince myself that my sudden interest in leather jacket care is purely academic. (I know so many things I never needed to know. I could write a thesis on leather maintenance. My browser history looks like I’m planning to open a motorcycle detailing business.)
P.S. In case anyone else is also awake at 1 a.m. googling “1%er MC culture explained” and “what does it mean when a biker calls you darlin’,” please know you’re not alone. We should start a support group. Meeting times TBA, bring snacks and your dignity (if you have any left).
P.P.S. If anyone sees my browser history with my desperate deep dives into “what does a motorcycle club biker actually do,” followed by an embarrassing number of variations of “signs he’s flirting vs just being nice: biker edition,” I’m moving to Tasmania.
And changing my name. And becoming a shepherd.
P.P.P.S. For anyone wondering, that white T-shirt of his should be banned.
No man should look that good in basic cotton.
It’s a safety hazard and I’m considering filing a complaint with building management.
“Dear Sir/Madam, regarding the new tenant in Unit 4C: his wardrobe choices are causing cognitive malfunction.”
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UPDATE (2:15 a.m.): Megan just texted to ask if I’m still awake researching bikers. I told her I was sleeping. She replied with “Your active status on Messenger says otherwise.” I need less-observant friends.