One More Time


As Thursday night bleeds into Friday morning, it occurs I’m not The Cincinnati Kid, but a feckless wastrel who should know better.

Did the Vegas debacle teach me nothing? That weekend, the only person who got lucky was the jock in an adjacent hotel-room, who spent 48-hours having operatic intercourse with a prostitute, while I pissed dollars up paper-thin walls. Christ, did they go hammer-and-tongs – with her talent for faking orgasm matched only by his Brobdingnagian libido.

One more time, he kept saying, one more time.

Coincidentally, that’s my mantra too – in relation to this last hand of blackjack, anyway.


3 Responses to One More Time

  1. rivergirlie says:

    thing about blackjack, you have to know when to stick or twist (actually, that might have come in handy for your noisy neighbour too)
    why isn’t this linking to my new blog?

  2. 100 Words says:

    Oh, he knew when to twist. She knew when to shout.

    There can’t be that many river girlie’s out there. Consider yourself googled …

  3. rivergirlie says:

    hah – gotcha. i’ve been here before, in a different guise. i’m no less mad but there’s only one of me now.

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