Hello all, thank you for checking out this story. For a more indepth look into the main characters and their physical characteristics i urge you to also read Married to porn pt one.
As always, all sexual participants are over the age of 18 and are all disease free. Enjoy
Preface
One day prior at a Gamblers anonymous meeting.
"The first time I placed a bet in my life...I had no idea what I was doing you know...shits and giggles right? I went to the dog track with a few old army buddies, put down four hundred on a real long shot, and boom! Just like that; I was $40,000 richer.
I bought everyone around us a round of drinks and then I rushed home to tell my wife the good news.
I took a detour onto Rodeo Drive and bought her that Prada bag she had been hinting about. I ordered one of those nice wooden outdoor play sets for my kids.
And since it was the summertime; I surprised my family with an impromptu trip to Disney world and Universal Studios.
Two weeks' vacation, just like that. It was magical.
Here's the irony though. With my wife and kids having the times of their lives, all I could think about was getting back to LA so that I could get back to the dog track.
Thank God I didn't realize that there were dog tracks all over Florida.
So the trip, the purse, and the outdoor play set ran me close to 25k. Hell's bells why should I give a shit; it was found money.
Besides, I had hit the track for forty k once; how hard could it possibly be to do it again?
I found out just how hard it could be after I gave back the 15k and lost another 5 grand from my kid's college savings account.
And the losses continued to mount up...
I eventually got banned from the dog track after repeatedly getting into fights with other gamblers after loss after loss after massive loses.
My wife asked me to move out.
I got to the point where I was throwing craps in a back alley in South Central L.A with gang bangers.
Can you believe that? Me...a white boy from "The Burbs" throwing dice against a wall surrounded by a bunch of brothers in blue bandanas.
Then it all came to a head when I watched a murder take place right in front of me.
Was it the sound of the gun? The guy pleading for his life? Was it the sight of his guts on the sidewalk or the repugnant smell of shit that came quickly as life left his body that woke me up?
Humph...I'd honestly like to lie and say "yes" to all of the above...
The truth was though, as I looked down at the dying man on the sidewalk, I felt rage and contempt only. I looked at him and said, "very nice motherfucker! I was winning for once and you just fucked up the game by dying".
That was when I knew that I needed help. That I had lost control. My name is Phillip, and I have a gambling addiction."
"We love you,Phillip." Was the reaction from the group circle.
The counselor, a middle aged portly yet very pretty black woman turned toward Damon Hartsfield and asked, "would you like to share? You don't have to of course, but the option is there if you want to."
"Uh, no ma'am. I'm fine. Just taking it all in."Damon replied.
"Love your work bro." A random guy in the circle said to Damon which garnered a fair amount of giggles from the rest of the attendees, including the counselor who quickly regained her stoic composure.
Damon, on the other hand, completely lost his own.
"I was bullied into being here. Bullied by my wife, my employer, society..."
"Why are you blaming society for..." someone from the circle attempted to ask but Damon cuts him off.
"I didn't interrupt anyone as they spoke; I'd love the same courtesy. You wanted me to speak; well now I'm speaking.
Why do I blame society? Let's think about that for a second...down the hall is an AA meeting taking place. I saw it on the board outside. Across from there is a sex addicts meeting taking place.
Directly across the street from here there is a liquor store, and right next door is a sex shop. Inside of the liquor store, you can purchase lottery tickets.
And all of this is 100% legal.
Do you remember when it was a cardinal sin and basically a crime to take steroids?
Today, you can walk into a low T center and not only get testosterone injections, but human growth hormone, nandrolone, progesterone.
Some of you are old enough to remember when it was illegal to make an adult film. But today the industry brings in billions of dollars annually.
Billions, all legal, all taxable."
"Damon? I have to ask, where are you going with this?" The counselor asked with a confused look on her face.
"If gambling is so dangerous then why is it condoned and legalized? Same with alcohol, same with THC, same with porn, or any other so called "vice" that someone else decides for everyone else that they just might take it too far.
I can drive a few hours away from here; check into a hotel filled with slots, craps tables, roulette wheels and black jack dealers, and not one employee of that hotel is going to ask me if I have a gambling addiction.
Even if I'm an alcoholic, they're going to give me all the free booze I want as long as I keep gambling.
If I want to get laid, I can go up to my room, go online and order a hooker and no one is going to arrest me for it or ask if I have a sex addiction.
But back in the real world...for people like us? They tell us that we're sick and then force the cure upon us."
Damon shifts anxiously in his chair. He was definitely hoping that someone else in the circle would take up the baton and carry the talk forward. After all, hadn't he given them enough info to springboard off of?
When everyone remained mute, Damon decided to end his rant with...
"Is the time up? Because I have somewhere to be."
"Actually we are out of time. I hope to see you all back next week. That includes you as well Damon.
Damon doesn't say anything, he rises and walked toward the back of the room where the coffee pot is located. He is fairly disgusted with himself after his geopolitical tirade.
Why is he so angry? Who is he angry with? His wife? Surely not. Caz? Hell Caz settled the debt that he owed to a ruthless and sadistic mafia capo.
"Excuse me young man." An elderly voice from behind said as Damon poured his coffee.
"Uh, sorry ma'am, let me get out of the way." He said as he moved from in front of the pot.
"No young man." The elderly Caucasian lady said to him. "I just wanted to tell you that I know who you are and I'm a huge fan of your work."
"You are?" Damon said, somewhat taken aback.
"Of course! I used to watch you every weekend. I almost stopped after they killed your character off at the end of season three."
"I'm sorry ma'am." A highly confused Damon replied. "But I'm not following you here. What "work" and season are you referring to?"
"Season three of The Wire. Your character, Russell "Stringer" Bell. You had the right idea when you allowed Prop Joe's people to set up in the towers. Too bad that Avon Barksdale wasn't the visionary that you were."
"Why me Lord?" He asked quietly as realization set in that the woman thought that he was Idris Elba.
"That's very kind of you to say ma'am. Thank you."
"By the way...do you have any hot tips on the Lakers or the Clippers?" She asked in hushed tones.
"Uh, if I get any, you'll be the first to know." Damon told her with as genuine a smile that he could muster.
After she had ventured outside, Damon took it as a chance to exit before more "Wire" fans accosted him.
Only one other person didn't speak in the meeting. And to Damon's surprise, that someone was leaning on his car.
"Quite the speech you gave inside. Made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The swarthy diminutive man with slicked back hair and a heavy New York accent said.
"Glad you approved." Damon retorted. "Now, if you don't mind, would you please get the fuck off my car so that I can go?"
"Oh, you're a tough guy now? And here I thought that you were only a scumbag pornstar and degenerate gambler."
"I'm also the guy that can kick your greaseball ass if you don't get off my car."
"Go ahead and take a swing." The unknown antagonist said to him. "They'll find pieces of you in all 48 states, and half of your cock will be in Hawaii with the other half in Alaska."
"Ok, you've got my attention. So, who are you connected with and what do you want?" Damon inquired once he realized that he was talking to a wiseguy. Suddenly...realization set in. "Don't tell me...Tony Fishtank, I presume?"
"Yeah, I work for Tony Fishtank. He wanted me to tell you that he misses you. He misses your action.
Anthony "Tony Fishtank" Lombardo, made that animal Tony Blundetto from the Sopranos look like Gandhi.
Even hardcore Mafia "hitters"; those that did the bulk of the wet work/killing for a family, viewed the sadistic Capo as an abusive gorilla.
"He's like Roy Demeo, Tommy Karate, Anthony Gaspipe Casso, and Sammy the Bull all wrapped up in the fucking body of Greg "The Grim Reaper" Scarfa." Mobsters would whisper to themselves behind Fishtank's back.
"We are in a gambler's anonymous parking lot and you're trying to get me to place a bet? Get back indebted to Fishtank?
How low can you people really go?" Damon asked.
"Careful stud. That "you people" thing could be considered a racial slur."
"Wrong. "Greaseball" might be considered a slur, "you people" simply means "you assholes".
"Look...whatever, Mr. Big time Smut pusher. So, what do you wish for me to tell Fishtank? And be warned, I relay very detailed messages; so, if you're thinking about using words like Wop, Guinea, Greaseball, or the aforementioned "you people", in anyway that relates to Tony Fishtank, trust me, he'll definitely hear it from me."
Damon takes the threat very seriously and wisely chooses his next words.
