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Prologue: A Stupid Bet with Chris

I've done a lot of really dumb things to get girls to have sex with me. But this, by far, was the dumbest.

It all started over a stupid bet with Chris.

We were sitting on my back porch, drinking beer and shooting golf balls at the side of the garage when Chris said, "It's easy for you, you're a fucking Backstreet Boy."

Maybe I should explain.

See, we were talking about women and whether they were, as a group, becoming less slutty or not. Chris held that they were all turning into prudes. Me, on the other hand, I held that they were actually getting hornier by the day.

"You only get laid as much as you do because you're a fucking Backstreet Boy," Chris had said, shaking his head, "You don't remember what it's like being a regular guy who had to actually work to get some booty."

"That's because I've never been a regular guy," I answered, "I've been in the 'biz since I was twelve and I was more interested in scoring baskets than scoring women."

Chris tilted his beer toward me, "Like I said. You don't know what it's like being a regular guy trying to score."

"Seriously, bro," I said, shaking my head, "It has nothing to do with being a Backstreet Boy. Chicks are just ready to rock it these days." I whacked the golf ball into the bushes that lined my yard. It rolled into my neighbor's yard.

Chris got up and went after the ball and I took a long pull off my beer. He came trotting back. "You're sadly mistaken," he said, putting the ball on the tee and throwing himself back down on the porch as I prepared to swing again. "They're only coming on to rock stars these days. Us normal guys are getting stiffed." He snorted at his own pun, then, because I didn't laugh, he added, "Literally."

"That's bull," I said, again.

"It's true," he said. He tossed his empty beer bottle into a trash bin. Three pointer shot, right in the hole.

I pointed at the can with my golf club, "Nice shot," I said.

Chris grinned.

"I'm telling you, even if I wasn't a Backstreet Boy, I could land more chicks than you." I turned back to the golf ball, studied the angle of the ball to the garage - though I have to admit that at this point I was a little less than sober. I swung the club and the ball pinged off the tee and whacked the edge of the garage, right off the gutter pipe and bounced back, rolling to a stop just shy of Chris' sneaker.

He bent down and picked it up and tossed it to me. "If you weren't a Backstreet Boy you'd have just as much trouble as I do," he disagreed. "Maybe even more. You're almost too pretty, they'd probably think you were gay." He sipped his beer.

I looked down at my dirty sweatpants and tee shirt. "Because every gay man dresses like this."

Chris shrugged. "They can't all be Ryan Seacrest."

I snorted and put the ball back down on the tee. "So..." I mused, studying the angle yet again of the ball to the garage. "Exactly how much are you willing to bet on this theory?"

Chris laughed, putting his beer down beside him on the step. "You name it, Doogie Howser, you can't not be you. There's no way to prove who wins."

"There's a way," I said.

"How?" Chris raised an eyebrow. "And don't say find someone who doesn't know who the Backstreet Boys are because they, sir, would be of illegal age. And probably still having lived under a rock for their entire lives, deep in a cave in Guatemala or something."

"I wasn't thinking of that," I said.

"Then what?"

I moved my feet until I was in my swinging stance. "Place your wager first," I said.

Chris picked up his beer and swished it around. He gnawed the inside of his mouth. Finally, he looked up. "Okay. If you can bang more chicks than me in one month's time - completely anonymously -" he paused, thinking over his wager. "A hundred grand."

I studied the golf ball. "Where the fuck are you gonna get a hundred grand?" I demanded.

Chris laughed, "It doesn't matter, 'cos you ain't gonna win this one, bro."

"I want a wager I can actually collect on," I said, shaking my head, "When I win, I want something to show for it." I thought for a moment, then it hit me what I wanted most from Chris: "If I win, then I get First Pick for the rest of our lives."

First Pick was the way Chris and I kept from fighting over girls at bars and clubs. Before we went out, we'd have a stupid match-off of some sort - anything from thumb wrestling to hot dog eating contests - and the winner would get the coveted position of first pick, meaning if we both got the hots for the same girl at the bar - which, having similar tastes, we usually did - then whoever had won first pick would get "rights" to that girl and the other guy couldn't hit on her no matter what.

Chris looked like he wasn't sure that was worth the wager.

"What'sa matter?" I teased him, "Not so certain about our little bet now?" I smirked, then turned to the golf ball yet again, squinting down the club at the tee.

Chris asked, "If I win, I get first pick for life, too, then," he wagered.

I laughed, "Chris, if you win, you can have first pick and the hundred grand. How's that?"

"Deal," Chris said. He put down his beer, spit on his hand and held it out to me.

I made my swing - the golf ball sailed past the garage and into Mrs. Norbit's backyard again. Her cat came running out of the bushes, shrieking. The porch light of Mrs. Norbit's house snapped on and her kitchen door opened. "What're you hooligans doing at two o'clock in the morning whacking golf balls?" she bellowed, "I should call the cops on ya you drunkards!"

"Sorry Mrs. Norbit!" I yelled. I turned to Chris, spat in my hand, and shook his. "You got yourself a deal," I said.