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.