You’d think a guy on the verge of losing ten thousand dollars could focus and get serious about finishing what he started.

It’s nearly midnight and for the last twenty minutes you’ve been sitting naked on the breakfast bar in the kitchen of this beach house, your legs spread and hanging over the edge, your dick shriveled for lack of attention, watching as the guy who’s supposed to suck you off paces in a tight circle, working up the nerve.

As far as you can follow the drunken story his two buddies tell, the whole thing was this guy’s idea. A kind of bet the three of them have going with each other.

While he dithers, his two buddies stand close by, watching to make sure he goes through with it even as they hope he doesn’t. They’re the ones who’ll split the ten grand if he fails to suck you off and prove it with a mouthful of your jizz by the time the clock strikes midnight.

You’d like for him to get on with it. It’s not the wildest thing you’ve done working summers in this beach town. But it’s close.

The house, about a hundred yards from the ocean, sits in a row of similar hundred-year-old houses, all lining the street that runs to and from the beach.

The kitchen faces a side street and the curtains are wide open. People are still out on the streets even this late at night. The sea air billowing the curtains, and the thrum of the waves is more of a labored breathing than the sound of surf. Tourists call out to each other as they walk along. Locals pass in silence. The kitchen isn’t brightly lit, but it wouldn’t take much for someone to get curious and come over to peek in and see you. These guys are only here for the weekend. You have to work here the rest of the summer.

When the three of them came into the seafood place where you worked, you recognized this guy right off. A star on television from maybe twenty or twenty-five years ago. A guy who happens to be your dad’s favorite actor. The guy is older now, but there’s no mistaking him, having to watch him like you did growing up. The only guy on television, your dad would say, worth a shit.

High praise from your dad.

You’d been working this stretch of the shore for more than a few seasons since college, and it had all been pretty tame tourist stuff. Waiting tables in oceanside restaurants, running ticket offices at the beach attractions, and playing tour guide in the pirate’s cove exhibit, dressed up in buccaneer drag and moustache, narrating the lusty depredations of Jolly Roger’s brethren. Not the kind of place to draw celebrities. At least, none that stood out.

The TV star guy, with his two buddies, came in late, looking way out of place in a downscale seafood joint by the shore, with its maritime decor of weathered lobster traps, marker buoys, cork bobbers, and oversized plastic sea creatures dangling in macrame fishing nets.

Despite their garish bowling shirts and rough khakis, they looked out of place. More at home crowded into a golf cart up at the country club, hands stuffed into ventilated driving gloves and marking their strokes on a score card with those stubby little golf pencils.

You couldn’t imagine them being there for the food. Had to be checking out the college kids hired to staff up for the summer season. Three older guys sharing a fantasy of smooth skin, firm asses, and pomegranate lips blowing life into aging cocks, or offering ruddy pink assholes up for daddying.

But after a bit of a chat with the hostess—which, you noticed, made her blush—they were seated at your station without bothering to look around.

TV star guy’s buddies made the usual small talk with you like out-of-towners do and you gave it back, no big deal. TV star guy looked like he was only half-listening, humoring them for picking out this kind of a joint.

Where’re you from, the short one asked.

The kitchen, you said. Makes me a native in these parts.

Two of them laughed, while TV star guy played with the flatware.

Where did you go to school?

Coconut Elementary, you said, but on the bright side, I’m only a year shy of graduating.

They liked that one, too. They must really want something from you, laughing at these jokes.

What do you do for entertainment around here, the tall one asked.

You don’t think this is entertaining?

Still with the laughter. TV star guy didn’t join in, but these two guys were way too easy an audience.

You took their orders and got drinks for them—premium liquor for the two buddies, club soda and lime for TV star guy.

Finished with dinner, they lingered over drinks. By the time the place cleared out, his two buddies were pretty well juiced.

They asked if you could take a smoke break. So you joined them on the deck over the water, at the far end looking out on the marina. Post lamps along the railing made for cones of light in the starry darkness.

You could tell they were after something. Still being in customer service mode, you played along.

TV star guy kept himself half-twisted away, leaned against the railing, looking sour.

Hostess tells us you’re a big fan, the tall guy said, tilting his head toward TV star guy.

It’s possible at some time over the summer you mentioned to her how you grew up watching this guy. She must have made the connection when they walked in.

Of course. Big big fan, you said. You didn’t tell him it was your dad who was the big fan. No reason to make TV star guy feel any older than he might already.

So—what’s a kid like you do for action, asked the short one.

Anyone under thirty must seem like kids to these guys.

Are you asking what’s available around here?

No, you. What do you do for action?

Ah, got it, you said. You told them how you and “action” hadn’t been on speaking terms all summer.

What? Good looking kid like you?

It was sounding more and more like you were the one being checked out. Which seemed odd, you being as much out of place here as the three of them.

You considered yourself a bit of a misfit. Too old for the college girls, kids looking to drink, work on their tans, and hang with anyone carrying money. Too young for the regular waitresses—mostly wives and girlfriends of the bikers who made their living in the off-season fixing cars and leaky toilets, but made a killing in the summer selling weed to the tourists.

One group was too immature, the other too dangerous.

I’ll bet they’re missing out. Wouldn’t you say so, the tall guy said to TV star guy, who just shook his head, impatient at the tall guy’s effort to draw him in.

The flattery amused you as you considered what it might be that attracted guys like these to you.

Was it something they could see? You’re thinner than you were in college because you don’t eat. Your food pyramid is bottom-heavy on cigarettes and alcohol. Any wholesome nourishment you get is probably an accident. You smoke with the dishwashers, and snack on leftovers snagged out of the bus boxes. You find space at the bar with the hard-edged women, ending your night with whiskey and soda, your idea of a summer drink, and you take home room temperature entrees folded into tinfoil.

Or was it something they could sense? You’d been working the shore for a few summers now. A way to clear your head, put a little money in your pocket, and make sense of what you wanted to do ‘for action’ as the short guy put it, before going back to the city.

Whatever was supposed to happen or whatever it was they were working around to asking you was taking too long for TV star guy because he leaned in and barked, ask him how big’s his dick.

We’re getting there, the tall guy replied, take it easy, making accusatory eyes at him for being so crude. Take it easy.

Because, if he’s got a horse dick, then no way.

Beggars can’t be choosers, bud.

You were not as prepared for this as you thought, but managed to say, horses do not run in my family, if that’s your worry.

The two guys even laughed at that.

Since we’re getting down to it, said the tall guy, next question. Is it reliable?

Is what reliable?

Mr. Happy.

His dick, said TV star guy. You’re talking about his dick. Just say dick.

Are you shy around strangers?

Can he get a hard-on with people watching, said TV star guy. Shit. Talk straight.

No. Not shy, you said.

I’m not doing this if there’s any chance he’s a dry hole.

Would you be up for joining us, the short one asked. For a late night snack. Just a bite.

This made the two buddies snicker at each other and TV star guy to mutter about fucking assholes.

So is this a prom date, you asked, for the three of you—?

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

—because it’s seems like you’re one vote shy of making it unanimous.

Him? It’s his idea.

You pointed out that he didn’t seem all that keen on it.

He’s not.

Fuck you.

And that is what makes this so much fun for the two of us. Because he thought he was being slick. Make a few quick bucks off the two best friends he’s ever had in his entire life. Didn’t you, he said to TV star guy? Yes, you did.

The short guy turn his back toward you and pointed with his thumb at the words Extreme Bucket Brigade stitched across the back of his shirt in sporty script.

That’s us, the short guy said. Extreme Bucket Brigade.

Since college, said the tall one. Whatever wild shit we can think of doing, goes on our bucket list. When we feel it’s time for a new challenge, we ante up—five thousand each—then we cut for high card. High card chooses the challenge. Anyone refuses the challenge loses the cash he put into the pot and it’s split between everyone else.

The short guy jumped in, saying, everyone else who completes the challenge.

Cash is a marvelous source of motivation, said the tall guy, when someone—I won’t mention any names—gets cold feet about finishing his own challenge. Mister Wise Guy here drew high card and challenged the Extreme Bucket Brigade to suck the cock of a random straight guy—had to be a straight guy—and if we refused—pffft—he gets the whole pot.

That was a helluva challenge, said the short guy, and very clever with that much money in the pot. Well. We did the only thing we could do—we took him up on it, and both of us completing the challenge.

Both of us, the tall guy said, then turned to TV star guy. Weren’t expecting that, were you?

The short guy went on. So. Now. He’s got until midnight tonight to make good. If he wants to hang on to his money. That’s where you come in.

So. I’m the random straight guy, you said, preferring that it had been your physique or your charming personality that got you singled out.

You seem the fun, adventurous type.

With a little bit of mileage on you, said the short guy. Not taking any chances, if you get what I mean.

Sorry we can’t offer you money, said the tall guy, one of our rules. But, hey, some primo whisky, have a little thrill, you can close your eyes and pretend it’s little miss what’s-her-name—do you have a little miss what’s-her-name?

Not at the moment.

Just as well, said the short guy. I’m betting he gives blow jobs that’ll ruin you for anyone else.

You’re a fucking shit ass you know that, said TV star guy.

If you want to suck a mouthful out of him, you’d better be pretty damn good, don’t you think?

TV star guy didn’t say anything back to that.

Tall guy asked if you were up for it, which caused the short guy to laugh again, and TV star guy to shake his head, extremely pissed at his buddies.

Maybe you felt sorry for him. Maybe it was your dad’s affection for the guy all these years. Maybe it was having to watch this guy while you were growing up, held out by your dad as a yardstick for heroes. Maybe fame dissolves certain barriers. Whatever it was, you said yes.

So you wound up sitting naked on the breakfast bar, watching your dad’s favorite TV star do his little dance of indecision. The same guy famous during his time for playing clever spies, gnarly ship captains, kindly doctors, and tough lawyers. The only guy—you’re dad would say after a couple of beers—the only guy he’d let your mom blow, just because the guy was the best damned thing on television.

Didn’t matter who was in the room when he said it.

No shit, he’d say. If that guy, that guy right there, he’d say, pointing at the television screen, if that guy came to my house and said he needed a blow job, I wouldn’t bat an eye. I’d say be my guest.

When your mom complained, your dad would smooth it over saying how a guy like that deserved the best. Probably sounded better to your dad than it did to your mom.

Which meant you had looping through your mind’s eye, images of your mom blowing TV star guy. Which wasn’t nearly as bad as your dad saying—after a lot more beers—that TV star guy was the only one he’d allow to bone him in the ass. I shit you not, he’d say, he’s the one guy I’d take it from, which fixed that image in your head as well.

Every time this TV star guy played a soldier or a priest or a fucking window washer, he was forever fixed in your mind with his dick in your mom’s mouth, a go-to jerk-off fantasy when you were feeling particularly wicked, seeing her dressed for going out wearing her tight sheath dress and pearls, squatting in front of TV star guy, bracing herself with her one hand on his thigh—a cigarette clipped between her knuckles—the other hand holding his balls, while your dad watched, his face all aglow at the honor the guy was doing him with his dick in your mom’s mouth. With a little bit of alcohol in you, the scene would dissolve to your dad, naked and draped over the ottoman, TV star guy’s legs in a half-flex, ramming home from behind as your dad grinned and grunted, red faced, making a present of his ass to the best damn actor, bar none.