Taken by my Dad’s Poker Buddies

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!”

Raw, guttural laughter reverberates. I slouch in my seat, nose buried in a book while trying to become invisible.

Ugh. Thursday night—the worst time of the week. Dad calls it “Poker Night”. I call it “Poverty Night”.

My eyes peek over the edge of my book, surveying the degenerate scene. A solitary lightbulb hangs in the trailer’s living area, casting light through a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. It illuminates a rickety table covered in cards, poker chips, and beer bottles. Empty pizza boxes are stacked on the floor, cardboard still wet with grease.

Yeah, Thursday night…when our tiny home feels even smaller and dirtier than usual. Dad’s doing the best he can though, so I can’t be too upset. He deserves a night to let loose.

A night with the “buds”.

I eye their hulking frames through the hazy air. It’s like watching a pack of gorillas. Huge. Hairy. Sweaty. Their arms flex while they lift the cards. Their pecs bulge from tight wifebeaters. Bushy armpits flash whenever they take a swig of beer.

The sight makes my heart race.

Masculinity…men twice my age…men three times my size.

I shove my nose back in the book while a memory flashes in my mind.

I had just gotten home from school. Dad was in the kitchen, brewing a cup of coffee. He asked about my day. Asked if I had a girlfriend yet.

“C’mon, Dad,” I said. “I’m just starting college. Trying to get settled in…I don’t have time for girls yet.”

“No sports either…” His brows furrowed. “Don’t be a sissy, Shawn.”

His words made my stomach churn. My whole life, he’s pushed me to become an all-American son. He wants to raise a football jock. He wants a son to go hunting with on the weekends.

But what did he get?

A pale, skinny boy who prefers to read. The only guns I shoot are in video games. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’m not even a very sexual person. I’m just quiet. I’m just…me.

Forever inadequate.

Forever a disappointment.

And when Dad gets drunk on Thursday nights, he isn’t shy about speaking his mind.

“Shawn!” His voice roars across the trailer. “Beers are empty!”

“S-sorry!” I close the book and stumble to my feet. “C-coming!”

I head to the fridge and grab an armful of brown bottles. The men puff cigarettes, eyes tracking me across the room.

“H-here you are, sir.” I hand my dad a bottle.

“You’ve raised a respectful boy, Jack,” one of the men says. “My sons sure don’t talk to me that way.”

I glance toward him, a smile on his stubbled face. His name is Matt, and he’s the youngest of the group. Brown hair and bright green eyes, he’s a tall, tan, powerful creature. He works in construction, and it shows.

He’s got teenage sons already. It’s hard to believe…looks far too young for that. As I understand it, they were teen pregnancies. This guy’s been breeding for most of his life. Can’t keep that dick in his pants.

“Heh, thanks.” My dad opens the beer. “Susan taught ’em those manners.”

Susan…my mom. It’s been a few years since she passed. Dad doesn’t talk about her much…only when he’s drunk.

“Yer in college now, right, boy?” another of the men asks.

“Yes, sir.” I hand him a beer.

“C’mon, you know my name. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

“Alright…Roger.”

He’s around my father’s age. A wild brown beard…veins running up his muscular arms…he’s always intimidated me. Roger is my dad’s best friend. He’s been coming around these parts for as long as I can remember.

He’s got a bit of a beer belly. It bulges through his wifebeater. Rough chest hair pokes out the neckline.

“Sometimes hard to believe you’re Jack’s boy,” the final poker player says.

I just lower my eyes in respect, passing him a beer.

His name is Brock. I don’t know why my dad invites him over. He’s an asshole. His bright blond hair and blue eyes are almost angelic, but it masks his sharp tongue. Of all the guys here, he scares me the most. He’s still in his mechanic jumpsuit—came over right after work. Thick, beefy biceps stretch the fabric. His pecs are full and strong, sharp nipples visible.

And between his legs…a meaty bulge sags.

I purposely keep my eyes off it. He’d lose his shit if he saw me looking.

With the beers delivered, I move back into the shadows.

Matt, the young stud.

Roger, the rough family friend.

Brock, the brute.

The gang’s all here. Time for another round of poker…

“He just started college, ya know?” Dad flashes a smile. “Got a scholarship. Y’all sure as hell know I can’t afford tuition. Not until I’ve won a few more hands, anyway.”

He chuckles and slides chips onto the table.

“Not playing any sports, I take it?” Brock looks me up and down.

A serious expression flashes across my dad’s face. He throws his head back and pounds beer.

“Of course not.” Booze trickles out the corner of his mouth. He wipes it on his arm. “Just look at ’em. Yer right, Brock. Hard to believe he came out of my dick sometimes.”

“Small arms.” Matt shakes his head.

“Big eyes. Smooth face.” Roger folds his arms.

“A sissy.” Brock pops his beer.

“Shut up and bet.” My dad throws more money onto the pile.

I keep my eyes to the ground. I resist the urge to tell Dad to be careful. I know not to interrupt when he gets like this.

This is how every Thursday ends. Dad has a problem…he doesn’t know when to quit.

Bets big.

Loses everything.

Over and over. Night after night.

“Hmpf. A bit cocky, eh?” Matt grins and throws chips onto the pile. “I’ll take that bet.”

The other men grunt and drink, the pile of chips growing larger and larger. Oh god no…not again. My heart pounds. I can practically feel his drunken rage already. Please…Lady Luck, just let him win this one. Don’t do this to me…

The cards are dealt.

The players show their hands.

“FUCKING HELL!” Dad’s deep voice pulses into my chest. “GOD FUCKING DAMNIT!”