My Two Queens
“Why don’t you take us home and we’ll let you do an-y-thing you want?” she whispered.
A puff of warm breath from the “t” in want activated the erogenous zone in my lips.
The eastern bloc accent made me think of Bond girls.
“But of course.”
They were physically perfect and smelled like strawberries.
Tall, athletic, olive-skinned, and brunette, with super long eyelashes that fluttered in my direction.
Hair up, but more than long enough to travel past their perfect derrieres.
Their red, knee-high Louboutins fitted with sparkling diamantes sent rainbows of light in every direction.
I was voluntarily trapped on a huge chesterfield sofa with two of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.
Double and Trouble they called themselves, preferring mystique and anonymity.
They were entrepreneurs of the highest order and I had just been offered the ultimate indecent proposal.
“And what would my investment be?” I asked.
My shoulders tensed into my neck with anticipation of their response.
“Two thousand-dollars… cash,” Trouble said.
“Anything you want.”
Remaining cool like an Alaskan winter, I responded with feigned nonchalance.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies… you’ve seen what I’ve spent tonight; I couldn’t pay that much if I wanted to!”
Two pals visiting from overseas, another local friend and I had decided a gentleman’s club would be our home for the evening.
Like soldiers released on shore leave, we steam-trained into that place with blood alcohol levels high enough to blind most amateurs.
We needed a quick chemical intervention to level out the intoxication.
A chance encounter with a fellow patron provided us exactly what we needed.
Sporting a traditional ponytail, buffalo-leather vest, and more tassels than Dolly Parton’s wardrobe, he looked to be a legitimate Native American.
I stood alongside him at the men’s urinal and channelled my inner Geronimo.
“How,” I said, using my lowest octave and raising my right hand to show I held no weapon and meant no harm.
My left hand remained attached to my own “weapon,” as urinating on another man’s shoes is never cool at the best of times.
He was as high as a kite, and he knew that I knew.
“What do you need?” he bellowed in an even deeper voice.
“Drugs, please?” I enquired.
He grinned, zipped up his fly, and within sixty seconds, I had exchanged cash for a fun-sized Ziploc bag of dusty green pills.
They had the Mitsubishi logo pressed into them (a.k.a. “Green Mitzis,” for all you retired ravers) and looked real enough.
It’s astonishing the reckless levels of confidence I placed in drug dealers when it came to consuming illicit substances
(mind you, I did the same with the legal stuff and you’ll soon find how well that turned out)!
Without further thought, I gulped down two pills, room temperature whiskey my only lubricant.
I shuddered uncomfortably as the alcohol attacked my central nervous system and carried the mystery chemical cocktail down my gullet and into my stomach.
Thirty minutes later, I was fuelled by top-shelf spirits, huge amounts of dopamine, and Christ only knows what else.
Sweat poured from my forehead and my face distorted into a lip-chewing, human-hybrid, lizard-person—something between a troll and a goblin.
A Troblin?
My pleasure receptors lit up like the Fourth of July and a river of sexual energy cascaded into my loins.
If you’ve ever taken MDMA, you’ll empathise.
If not, imagine the best orgasm you’ve ever had.
Now, fall in love with everybody you meet.
Now, win the lottery.
And you’re still not even close.
The pleasure extends the entire length of your body and doesn’t finish for hours.
Sounds awesome, hey?
The aftereffects, however, make suicide seem like a real and viable option.
When sober, I craved the feminine touch; but pump me full of a man-made love drug and I became hornier than a short-nosed fruit bat*.
*During copulation, the female short-nosed fruit bat will bend over and perform fellatio on the male while still engaged in coitus—bravo!
Speaking of fruit, from the blur of my intoxication, the strawberry-scented Double and Trouble both appeared.
“Hello, handsome.”
Intoxicated by their scent, charm, and seduction, it was less than sixty seconds before I was led down to the “dungeon.”
The special section of the club was designed for you to lose yourself.
One lap dance became two, three became four, and four made it the most expensive night I’d ever had.
Draining the nearby cash machine, I quickly maxed out my daily limit of $1,000.
So, that $2,000 cash they mentioned? Impossible.
My mates didn’t have it; nor did I—and even if I did, I couldn’t access that much cash.
“Make it $1,600. That’s our final offer,” Double countered.
“Done! Give me thirty minutes, ladies.”
“Sure thing, lover boy.”
They both grinned.
I didn’t have the $1,600 needed, but I had $800 and I knew how to get the rest.
The strip-club was located half a mile from Crown Casino, Australia’s flagship gambling venue.
That was my new destination and I made it in record time.
As the clock struck midnight a new day reset, and so did my withdrawal limit.
I checked my bank balance: $800.
“WITHDRAW?”
“YES.”
Like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, I calmly entered the gaming floor via the escalator, spied the high rollers room, and beelined straight to the blackjack table.
I definitely, definitely knew what I was doing.
Crash Course in Blackjack (for the uninitiated):
Each player is dealt two cards, face up
Dealer also gets two cards (one exposed, one hidden)
2–10 = face value
Jack, Queen, King = 10
Ace = 1 or 11
Dealer hits until they reach 17+
Players win if their hand beats the dealer’s
As I traded my cash for eight $100 chips, nerves forced me to stand rather than sit.
The dealer pushed the pile towards me, and I carefully pushed the pile back, resting them perfectly into the felt box.
I had just laid the single biggest bet of my life in order to get laid.
All I needed was one result in my favor and I’d have the resources to fund a hedonistic rampage that would make Hugh Hefner blush.
The blackjack began.
“Queen!” I yelled, slapping my hand on the table.
That’s ten, I counted in my head.
The croupier dealt her own cards: King of Spades.
Her second card was placed face-down.
My heart rate now matched 90s techno BPM.
Second card arrived. Another Queen.
“Yes!” I exclaimed aloud.
The remaining gamblers all went bust.
The dealer slid her King under the mystery card and flipped it….
What happened next???
Want to know what happened?
Let’s just say… if you thought that was rock bottom, you’re adorable.
The real descent hadn’t even started.The one I probably shouldn’t have published but did anyway?
Grab your copy of Bet On You and prepare for a ride wilder than a fruit bat on MDMA.Already read it?
Whether you laughed, cried, or sent it to a mate with “dude, I can’t believe he shared that” in the subject line, leave a review on Amazon.
Good, bad, or brutally honest, it helps more than you think.Those reviews don’t just feed the algorithm gods.
They help someone out there, stuck, spiraling, or silently suffering, stumble across something that just might save their life.Your words might be the reason someone else bets on themselves.
