I gripped my husband's arm as he paid $1,000 to the legendary pool shark, Missouri Slim.
"No more," I whispered. "That's five straight losses. You can't beat him."
Boy, was that ever the wrong thing to say. The money didn't matter -- my husband and I both had bank accounts with over a million in them -- but my husband 's competitive fire had been stoked.
"I can and I will," my husband snarled. "He just got lucky!"
Missouri Slim calmly looked over at George. "I'm always up for another game. Pool is my life. But you told me you only brought five grand."
George stepped away from me and whispered to Slim. After about 30 seconds, Slim nodded.
"Ready? You break."
My husband set up the balls and stepped over to the side of the table to chalk his cue. Then he lined up for the break-shot.
[8 minutes later]
Slim eyed the remaining balls on the table. "8 ball, corner pocket."
Slim stepped up and calmly sank the shot. "I win again. But don't feel bad. I haven't lost a competitive game in 15 years."
"I'll practice some more," George said. "And I'll be back."
"I'll be here," Slim replied.
George turned and started to walk out of the hall. "Hey!" I snapped. "Don't leave without me! I'm your wife!"
"And you're coming back to my room for tonight," Slim replied. "Your husband wagered a night with you against getting back all his $5,000."
"WHAT?!" I thundered. "GEORGE, YOU ASSHOLE!"
George stomped away as Slim gently took my arm. "It's just for one night. And we set some ground rules: no anal and no BDSM stuff. But you have to do what I ask within those rules."
"Well, at least I'll get some," I grumped. "He hasn't touched me in six months. I know I'm no longer young, but a woman does have needs."
"How old are you?"
"I'm only 43. But he treats me like I'm 103."
"I'm 45, and obviously I find you attractive, or I wouldn't have agreed to the bet. Let's go."
Slim gently took my hand in his and led me upstairs. Yep, he actually lived right above the pool hall.
"By the way, what's your name? You know mine -- Slim."
"My name? Carol."
Slim keyed open the door. "Let me show you around."
His quarters were Spartan. There was a pool table in the living room, but no bookshelves. A TV with a DVD/Blu-ray player, but the only DVDs were things like "Trick Shot Competition 2012" and "8 Ball World Championship 2015." There was a small table off to the side with one chair. The kitchen had very little in it -- a single frying pan and a lone pot. The food was quite basic. Slim wasn't kidding when he said pool was his life.
After we both stopped in the washroom, he took me to the bedroom. The bed could comfortably fit two people. The only thing in the bedroom other than the bed was a small end table with an alarm clock on it and a dresser with three drawers. The closet had a laundry basket and a few button down shirts hanging on the rack, plus three pairs of comfortable slacks.
"Go ahead and strip," Slim instructed. He methodically removed his own clothes., putting the shirt and pants in the closet and his undershirt and underwear in the laundry basket. "I'll be back in a few."
I heard the shower running. I peeled off my clothes, folded them and set them on the empty top of the dresser.
Slim returned quickly, as promised. I availed myself of the shower as well, returning in about 15 minutes.
"So you haven't been touched in six months?" Slim asked, looking over my very full curves.
"Nope," I groused. "My stomach isn't washboard-flat, but you saw George. He's got no right to complain -- he's developed a severe case of dick-do syndrome."
"What?"
"That's the one where your stomach sticks out farther than your dick do. You saw him -- he's as wide as he is tall."
"That's a slight exaggeration, but I see your point."
"I didn't really start packing on all this poundage until three months ago. That would be AFTER George hadn't so much at looked at me lustfully for three months already. I took solace in a lot of ice cream."
Slim, true to his name, was trim and fit. He looked like a distance runner. Most of his muscle was in his legs.