Gambling, Sex and Alcohol

I submitted my first story to Literotica many months ago, and would like to give countless thanks to all the positive feedback, words of encouragement and constructive criticism that has inspired me to try and write again. This is just something I do for fun, and I submit my work in the hopes that someone somewhere can derive half as much pleasure from reading my stories as I have from writing them. That said, sit back, relax and I hope you enjoy. Oh, and though it should go with out saying, all characters are of at least 18 years of age or older.

*

Marshal saw his mother once a year at Christmas. Every year he would dread it, and every year he tried coming up with an ingenious excuse involving a children's hospital or homeless shelter as to why he was unable to complete the visit. In the end, however, he always went.

It's not that he hated her, for he supposed she did hold his best interests at heart, but still. It got old as her voice droned on and on about how ashamed she was of her son.

"Where did I go wrong with you?" she would ask. "All of your brothers and sisters went to school and became doctors and lawyers. They help society and make a descent, honest living, but you and your sort are the scorn of the earth, no better than vermin. I hope you know that I couldn't be more ashamed of you than if you were in prison."

He only made the mistake of trying to defend himself once.

"You know mother, what I do really isn't all that different from going to school."

"What?" she asked incredulously, "how could you possibly say that?"

"Well think about it. Anyone paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for an education where there's no guarantee that they will get a job afterwards, are in essence gambling. The only difference really, is that with my gambling I see my losses or gains almost instantly, whereas with school it can take years."

After giving her son a brief stare as if he had just compared the Nazis to a small group of pacifist nuns who spent their livelihoods caring for the sick and feeding small children, she replied, "As much as it pains me to dignify such reasoning with a response, surely it goes with out saying that the chances of success are significantly higher with your average college graduate than your average gambler."

"Maybe true," he reluctantly conceded, "but then again, maybe you should try telling that to the college graduate with out a job or the successful gambler making millions."

Marshal was a gambler. All his life he never felt he had belonged anywhere, but when he was at a poker table—raising, check raising, calling and folding—he felt as if he was in his element, as if playing poker what he was born to do. Though he took no pride or comfort in his gambling, at the humble age of thirty he had officially acclaimed professional gambler status, and paid for his rent, food, and all miscellaneous expenses through gambling. Though he was fond of success and relished the independence that came from being able to work for himself, he still felt as if something was missing in his life.

Every morning he would wake up in his small home and think to himself, all I do is drink, smoke and gamble. I don't work, answer to anybody's schedule, or resort to kissing anyone else's ass. So why am I so miserable? It was a question he asked himself nearly every night as he slowly drank himself to that precious state of oblivion. Sometimes he felt that what he needed in his life was a female. Many years ago, when his last girlfriend broke up with him after kindly informing him that she was no longer interested in men, marshal would find himself at various bars doing what he thought was the best way to find company. Initially he was persistent and tried not to let bad beats bring him down, but in the end it became painstakingly obvious that he lacked whatever redeemable quality it was that so many females looked for in men. He had officially given up and accepted his new found life of celibacy after a good looking female he had once bought a drink for and tried talking to ended up leaving the bar with a deformed, albino midget.

Maybe that was why he drank so much. Sometimes he felt that given just the right amount of alcohol, it was almost as if he could relive his glorious teenage years—back when he was well acquainted with various teenage females who were quite literally turned on by the very thought of rebelling against their parents and teachers, and were more often than not willing to try alcohol and whatever else sparked their lively interests given the circumstances. Sometimes he found himself missing those days, and wondered what had changed. Was time just exceptionally cruel to him? Or did females everywhere grow exceptionally more rigid when they found out their virginities were worth millions on eBay?

He knew other gamblers would sometimes resort to paying for their love. Strippers, hookers, escorts, massage therapists; the stories were all the same. He had given it more thought than he cared to admit, and sometimes found it disturbingly tempting when he would fall asleep alone with nothing but the thoughts and memories of his past. In the end, though, something was always holding him back, but what it was exactly he couldn't tell. Maybe he had a soft spot he wasn't unaware of, and for whatever reason considered sex a sacred, spiritual, benevolent act that was in essence perverted as soon as he tried paying money for it. That, or he was subconsciously and irrationally petrified that the moment he tried paying for a prostitute, she would take one look at him and charge double. Either way, night after night he found himself falling asleep alone.

The only source of solace in his life—drugs and money aside—came from his nice, quite life at home. That was why he was caught off guard when one midsummer Saturday afternoon, he heard his doorbell ring. As marshal silently prayed that it was not the police or the IRS, he begrudgingly sat up, went to his door, and opened it with the most sincere intent to tell whoever it was to go and fuck themselves. However, he abruptly halted with the profanity as he found himself face to face with a young female. He stood there for a second in wonderment, for in truth, he didn't think he would have been more surprised if it were the lord almighty himself.

Now, in the past when magazine or insurance salesmen came to his door, he would kindly and politely tell them he wasn't interested. This time, however, as his gaze lingered over her soft freckles and round, blue eyes, something came over him. He knew it couldn't be sympathy or kindness, but what else could it be? What kind of world do we live in, where females like this have resorted to knocking on my door in the hopes that I'll buy their product? He knew he didn't want what she was selling, but at the same time he didn't have the heart to tell her he wasn't interested. As he internally struggled to overcome such a profound predicament, he decided a twenty ought to be more than sufficient to settle the matter. He took out his wallet and started searching through the bills. He kept searching and searching until to his utmost horror, it suddenly occurred to him that the only bills he was carrying were hundreds! Now, even though it felt like he was parting with a small part of his soul, he plucked out one of the bills, thrust it into her hand, and shut the door as quickly as he possibly could, counting himself both lucky and fortunate that he was able to escape from such a vulnerable position with such a minimal loss, and all before she was able to say a word.

Tracy stood at her neighbor's door stunned for a moment, and then quickly realized he must have had the wrong idea. She knocked on his door again.

"Please, sir, I'm not interested in your money. My name's Tracy, I live across the street. We're neighbors."

In the ten years marshal had been living in his home, it had never once occurred to him that there would actually be people living nearby. That these people also happened to be female and claimed not to be interested in his money made the matter all the more bizarre. Curiosity eventually got the better of him, and reluctantly he opened his door once more.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Sorry if I've disturbed you, I came here with the intent to find out if you could spare some fresh eggs, but instead you gave me this."

Tracy handed him back the money. Then, as if trying to justify to herself parting with such a valuable commodity that had been more than freely given to her, added, "And besides, I've only seen the look that came across your face when you handed me your money once before, and that was when an 8 year old had just found out that his new born baby puppy had died."

In spite of himself, marshal laughed. And I call myself a poker player.

Wordlessly, marshal walked to his fridge, took out a carton of eggs, walked back to his door, and handed her the carton. She thanked him, left, and as far as marshal was concerned, that was that. Amazingly though, several hours later he heard his doorbell ring once again, and once more he found himself face to face with the softly freckled, blue eyed female.

"Hello, again," she said with a small smile. "Your generosity has enabled me to make us some cupcakes."

"Cupcakes?" He asked as if certain that he must have misheard her.

"My special recipe," she replied. Then, after a brief pause, added, "So, are you just going to stand there all day? Or are you going to invite me in?"

Marshal was fully aware his home was in no way fit for entertaining a guest, and a brief wave of anxiety seized him as he desperately tried coming up with an excuse to prevent her from coming inside.

"Believe me, I'd like to, it's just… now's really not the best of times," he said as he hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

"Come on, now's not the time to be bashful! We're neighbors, after all," she said as she moved forward to enter his home uninvited.

Marshal was at a loss, but in the end decided he really didn't want to start making a habit of refusing young females with freshly baked goods entry into his home.

"Okay," he said with a sigh, "just don't say I didn't warn you."

Tracy couldn't help but lose a small piece of respect for humanity as she stepped inside his home and studied her newfound surroundings. Wow, she thought. This guy wasn't kidding. There were empty beer bottles everywhere, unkempt dirty laundry in the most peculiar of places, dishes that looked like they hadn't been washed in several years, and a ghastly odor that made her want to ask what had died recently. In spite of her better judgment, she felt a small pang of sympathy for the poor creature that had let life's transgressions bring him to such a low, diabolical level.

She set the cupcakes on the table, and casually walked to his fridge as if she had lived there her whole life. She was hoping to find a drink to serve along with her snack, but instead found a minor collection of beverages that would have put most small liquor stores to shame. Jesus, he has enough booze here to last a small army several weeks. Just as she was about to give up finding an appropriate beverage, she spotted a small carton of orange juice in the far corner and took it out. In truth, he was as surprised as she was when he saw that she had successfully managed to procure a non-alcoholic beverage from his fridge.

Tracy sat down at his table with the cupcakes and orange juice.

"So, what do you do exactly?" she asked curiously.

Marshall was suspicious by nature, so when the female invited herself into his home and proceeded to share cupcakes and ask about himself, he had assumed the worse. If she's not an underground DEA agent, then she's one of them born agains undergoing unprecedented measures to save your heathen soul.

"I do all sorts of things, I suppose," he replied diplomatically.

"Oh? Like what?"

"Where to begin?" he laughed half heartedly. "I Read to the blind, build shelters for the homeless, take part in community efforts to clean up inner city parks, donate money to the feed the children foundation, the works."

"Ha!" she replied skeptically, "I suppose next you're going to tell me you vote, pay your taxes, and attend church every Sunday, too."

She's a sharp one, he noted.

"Okay, fine," he said attempting to undergo a different tactic. "If you must know about me, my name is marshal, and I specialize in reading and analyzing human behavior for profit."

Despite herself, she was intrigued. "Oh, really?"

"Really," he replied. "Take yourself for example. My money says that when you were younger, you had a peculiar habit of caring for animals; in particular, bringing home strays, mending the broken wings of small birds, and caring for whatever other feeble creature you happened to come across. Now, a bit older, I'm guessing you're a devout vegetarian and a pragmatic perfectionist. If you don't have a 4.0 right now, then you cried for at least a week the first time you got a B. It's obvious you care for your health and your body, so I'd say you're a runner, maybe a dancer even. You take a bit too seriously the praise and criticism of others, as it's this that you rely on for the helpless justification of your pious existence. You have a small group of close friends, a good part time job where you get along well with your co-workers, and though your relationship with your parents is far from optimal, you still know you love them and wouldn't know what you would do with out them. You donate to whatever secular services you attend to on Sunday, and you're hoping to study education and become a teacher when you go to college." Marshal was about to go into the reasons he thought she was a virgin, but thought better of it.

"So, how'd I do?" he asked.

Tracy knew that he had struck closer to the truth than she cared to admit.

"You couldn't possibly be more wrong."

"Oh, and you're also a terrible liar," he added with a note of triumph.

"Whatever," she replied. "You can go on sitting there thinking that you're so smug and clever, but let me assure you that it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that you're nothing but a misanthropic, drug addicted, low life with a poor mother somewhere crying daily over where she went wrong her son."

Marshal gave a despairing sigh as he realized he was just defeated at his own game.

"Oh, don't look so gloomy!" she said guiltily. "Here, take a cupcake."

Marshall would have preferred a shot of gin, but he wanted to be polite so he took the cupcake.

"So, where do you work?" he asked trying to change the subject.

"I work at a coffee shop."

"And do you enjoy it?"

What kind of loaded question is that? She wondered.

"No one likes their job," she retorted, "that's why they get paid to do it."

"Ah, but of course."

"Are you trying to get at something?" she asked suspiciously.

"Oh, no, not really," he replied, "just… what if there was another way?"

"Another way? What do you mean?"

"You know. Not everyone likes to be asked to work overtime, to take double shifts, to do the tasks of a co-worker, to be constantly accused of getting an order wrong. I'd bet good money that there's a realistic way for you to easily make more than 5 times what you're probably making now, and all with out a manager constantly breathing down your neck."

"Oh, really?" she asked. "And what's the catch? Ending up like you?"

"Come now, there's no need for that. It was just a suggestion is all. Think about it, you would have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

"And what would I be doing exactly?"

"So long as you're at least 18 and interested, you'd be playing cards. I take it you know the fundamentals of poker? What beats what and when you're allowed to place your wagers?"

"I suppose so, but…"

"Excellent," he interrupted. "I can't imagine how a girl like you couldn't do well. I'd recommend incorporating a basic strategy at first. Raise 2-3 times the big blind for any premium hand, limp in for any given pair or suited connector, fold everything else, and bet with nothing less than top pair, though optimally you'll be getting two pairs or sets. As you gain experience and start recognizing betting patterns and different playing styles, you'll eventually be able to add in your own twists and deviate from the given strategy accordingly."

"That's pathetic," she informed him kindly.

"Suite yourself. Though, I feel like you should know, I'm willing to bet good money that if you did exactly what I told you, that you'd be able to pay me back twice over with more than enough left over for yourself, and I don't say that lightly."

"You'd be willing to hand me over money, just like that?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Sure." He replied solemnly. "So long as you're willing to follow my instructions implicitly, I see no reason why this investment shouldn't turn out like my others."

"So let me get this straight. By taking your money and incorporating your 'strategy,' you believe that I'd eventually be able to pay you back twice over with more than enough left over for myself?"

"Precisely."

"You're crazy."

"Oh? And what do you have to lose? Worse case scenario for you, this is free money. Take it and make yourself happy by trying to feed stray kittens for all I care. I promise I'm not going to hunt you down like the IRS or some other ruthless creditor."

As much as she despised the very thought, she had to admit he had a point.

"Alright, fine," she said at last.

Marshal took out his wallet, plucked out 10 bills or so, and handed them to her.

"Good luck."

Tracy took this as her notice to leave, but stopped as he said, "Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes?" she asked.

He briefly studied her more than modest dress.

"If you do this, you might want to consider a different choice of apparel."

She didn't think there was anything wrong with how she was currently dressed.

"And what might you suggest instead?" Tracy asked.

"For a job like this? The shortest skirt you can find with any low-cut t shirt—the tighter the fit the better."

"And if my wardrobe doesn't permit such provocative attire?"

He plucked another bill from his wallet and handed it to her.

"Then go buy yourself some."

After she left, Marshal didn't know if he was the world's biggest idiot or greatest genius. What he was hoping, what he was gambling on, was that it wouldn't matter if she couldn't lie to save her life. He suspected that if she played poker and took his advice, then the vast majority of those around her would be far more interested in stealing glimpses down her shirt than counting the number of times she was raising pre-flop.

Tracy couldn't help but wonder how many times in history someone was able to visit their neighbor with cupcakes, only to find themselves leave with almost eleven hundred dollars cash. Now that she was away from his undue influence, she began to think of all the greater thing she could do with his money. Help a kid with cancer pay for his surgery? Help an inner city school buy text books? Give it to her church? Initially, she found every single one of these options more tempting than to gamble with it. In fact, it wasn't until her boss who had at the last second asked her to work overtime on an evening when all her friends were out having fun, that she felt the conviction needed to go along with her neighbors' foolish notion that she could play cards for profit. Reluctantly, she also bought the clothes he had suggested to wear. As much as she hated the idea of feeling so naked and exposed in front of a roomful of strangers, she felt like she owed it to marshal to follow his advice, as it was technically not her money she was going to be gambling with.