Random question: How is BetMGM doing as a company?
I am potentially receiving a job offer to work at BetMGM and I figured you guys would be the right people to ask. I have no experience in this industry and wanted to know what you guys have heard pertaining to BetMGM's revenue/reputation. It seems like their sportsbook is pretty solid.
£500 for a rainy day- A Beginners Guide to Matched Betting
I've been meaning to update this guide for a while and add in some elements about Matched Betting that people should be aware of before getting started. Here they are as follows: (1) You can start with as little as £20 but ideally and for the sake of attaining more profit in a faster time, My Personal Reccomendation would be to start with £100-£200. (2) If you are careless, you can make mistakes. Like with any task, you must give it the level of precision it demands, a mistake when entering figures will cost you real money. When you read the guide below you will see that the process is very simple, but that means you must take extra care not to become complacent. (3) If you have a history with Gambling, do not come near Matched Betting. Matched Betting is not Gambling, but the fact you will be using betting websites to facilitate a profit is too much of a temptation- It's not worth it. (4) Matched betting won't effect your credit rating, however it's common sense that it doesn't look good to have numerous transations to betting sites on your bank statement. Open a seperate virtual bank account for all your Matched betting activity (It only takes 5 minutes, details below) With that being said, Matched Betting really is a solid way to secure £400-£500 in a very short time, it's the reason I was able to pay my first couple of month's rent when I moved to the UK and to this day still remains a handy way to pay the bills every month. Anyway, Below is the Guide: Starting Out: I was sceptical as hell about Match betting because a friend showed me the Facebook groups and it just looked like a giant gambling pyramid scheme. It turns out there is a decent chunk of change to be made from it, you just need to follow the guides and never ever actually gamble with your money. Never ever Gamble?Yes That's right, you are going to be using Gambling sites to complete the various offers, but the whole idea behind match betting is that every time you "make a bet", you match that same bet on the exchange. So for example, if I bet £10 for Real Madridto Winon the Bookie Site at odds of 2.5, I then also make a Matched bet on the Exchange (This is a separate site such as Smarkets or Betfair) where I bet for Real Madridnot to winat odds of 2.5 (or as close as I can get to those odds).In this way I am covered in all outcomes, and it allows me to fulfill the requirements of the bookies offer (For example Bet £10 and get £30 in Free bets) What's the difference between the Bookie Site and the Exchange?On the Exchange Site you are basically being the Bookie and just like a Bookie, you have liability. If I bet £10 and my bet wins at odds of 2.5 then I win £25, so the bookies liability for this bet is £15, the extra money that they would have to give me if I win. There arecalculatorson the Match betting sites which you can use to calculate what Liability you need to enter on the exchange each time you make your matched bet. There is also software to help you find what games have the closest odds on both the bookies and the exchange, which is very important. What do I do when I get my free bets?It's the same process again, You find a game that has very close odds on both the bookies and the exchange (You can do this by eye or by using odds matching software. A good site with this software is called OddsMonkey). Only this time when you use the calculator to work out your liability, you will set it to "Free bets SNR" so it knows you are not using real money. It will tell you how much Liability to use in the exchange and off you go. How does this make me money?The fact that you have a free bet to use is what makes you money, For example a £30 free bet at odds of 5.5 in the bookies will win you £135 (30x 4.5, because the original free bet stake of £30 is not returned to you). Now let's say that the closest odds I can find in the Exchange for the same game are 6.0, I will need a liability of £112.50 to match my free bet in the bookies ( I use the calculator on oddsmonkey to work this out) £135- 112.50 = £22.50 in Profit. Alternatively if my bet on the exchange wins, I will lose the free bet of £30 (but it's not actually a loss to me because It's not real money) and I will win £22.50 on the exchange. Either way, I make a Profit of £22.50 What about providing card details?You can use a separate, virtual bank account for all your match betting, In this way your main banking information is not shared with any of the sites you sign up to and all of your match betting transactions never go near your main bank account. A good one to use is Revolut or Monzo, both apps are super easy to use and it only takes5 minutesto open an account. It's also totallyfree to open. Revolut: Referral (£15 referral scheme) Non Ref Monzo non ref: https://monzo.com Where can I learn to do it? There are some sites that you have to pay a monthly subscription to but I found one called Team Profit that is free and has a full guide of all the different offers you can complete. I worked my way down through the list of offers, nice and handy, and having completed 20 offers at 15 minutes per offer, I came out at £470 for 5 hours total of work. If you are new to this site and are opening a free account I would really appreciate if you use my Referral (£10) Here is the non referral link to the page with all the offers: https://www.teamprofit.com/welcome-offers-list TLDR: You do not need to "gamble" to match bet, in fact by definition, the bet you make is "matched" on the exchange, so it is not a gamble in any sense. I hope this guide helps and hopefully might even get a few people out of a fix this month with bills, rent etc. Thanks for Reading.
I would say that I'm relatively new to Reddit and the one thing that surprised me is the number of people that still play on Bovada, Ignition, Betonline, MyBookie, etc. Don't get me wrong, great sites for sports betting and poker, but absolutely horrendous when it comes to slots and live casino games. Hitting 1,000x on a slot on Bovada is like a once in a lifetime achievement and the live dealer provider is... awful. Over the past month or so, I have seen this Reddit flooded with random users promoting a bunch of shitty no-name crypto casinos that have been around for like 3 days. So I figured it was my duty, as somebody who has no ownership interests in any of these online crypto casinos, to share my thoughts regarding the ones that I believe are trustworthy. All of which is based on first-hand experience and countless hours of research. First off, for those who aren't familiar with crypto casinos, the one thing that you need to know, as an American, is that you'll need to access these sites via a VPN. Personally, I use ExpressVPN and connect to Canada (or various other regions depending on which slot provider is available). The nice thing about ExpressVPN is that you can download the app and play on your phone. All of the casinos listed below allow VPN usage. Apparently NordVPN is pretty good too, but I cannot vouch for them personally. Second thing, KYC is not required. Honestly haven't looked into this too much, but I can tell you from first-hand experience that KYC is not required in order to register or withdraw funds. All you have to do is confirm your email address. Some people have said you get KYC'd if you try to withdraw more than $2k, but again, I can confirm that it's not true (specifically for the casinos listed below). Just make sure that you only deposit/withdraw via crypto and you'll be fine. If you think this is sketchy, then please, continue making your credit card deposits at Bovada to random shell companies based out of China. Also, DO NOT USE COINBASE TO TRANSFER TO AND FROM THE CASINO. They banned me. It hurt. Don't make the same mistake. I recommend using BRD as an intermediary between Coinbase and the casino. Since being banned from Coinbase, I have been using crypto.com to buy and sell crypto. Nothing but good things to say thus far. Finally, I have wagered roughly $3.5MM in total across the sites below and have spent countless hours researching them, so I'd like to think that I somewhat know what I'm talking about. In no way am I an expert and in no way am I a high roller or a whale. Just a regular guy that enjoys gambling. Now the common theme amongst the below casinos is that you have access to game providers such as Evolution (live games), Pragmatic, NetEnt, Thunderkick, Push, etc. that you'll never find on the casinos advertised as available to US players (such as Bovada). As I'm sure you know, Betsoft slots can get old after a while. Just a few of my personal favorite games that I recommend you check out... Live Games: Crazy Time, Monopoly, Evolution Blackjack and Evolution Speed Baccarat Slots: Dead or Alive 2, Money Train 2, Lil' Devil, Sweet Bonanza and The Dog House Site #1: Roobet.com (Best for casual gamblers) What I like: Instant withdrawals, huge selection of slots and live games, generous rakeback system, instant bitcoin deposits (they will credit your account before receiving any confirmations-- this is really nice), every so often they'll run a 24 hour promotion where if you hit 100x on slot betting at least $1 you'll be "King Roo" (basically King of the Hill) and accumulate ~$20 per minute until you're dethroned What I don't like: Rakeback system only allows you to collect every 24 hrs/1 week/1 month, no clarity surrounding VIP status (assuming you need to be a whale), there was one instance where I won $36k on a $40 bet playing Reactoonz and was told I can only withdraw $10k per day (this was 6 months ago and never had an issue withdrawing since), lack of sports betting My largest withdrawal (at once): $9.9k Deposit/Withdrawal Methods: BTC, ETH Referral link to enable rakeback system without having to wager a shitload: https://roobet.com/?ref=hkgambler13 (you can also use code "hkgambler13") Site #2: Stake.com (Best for medium-high rollers) What I like: Instant withdrawals, huge selection of slots and live games, incredible VIP and rakeback system (weekly/monthly bonuses, rakeback can be claimed whenever, daily/monthly challenges to earn extra cash), active and friendly chat community, multiple crytpo deposit options where your account is credited in that currency (meaning your balance equivalent in USD will swing with the market-- could be seen as a con), enjoyable "Stake Original" games that have a higher RTP than 3rd party slots, averages ~2k users online at any given time What I don't like: Can be overwhelming for first time players (Roobet is much more straight forward and easy to use) My largest withdrawal: $13.2k Deposit/Withdrawal Methods: BTC, ETH, LTC, DOGE, BCH, XRP (highly recommend-- cheap transfer fee, if any at all, and confirmed within seconds), TRX, EOS Referral link to instantly enable 10% rakeback: https://stake.com/?c=6c2f1c60 Site #3: Gamdom.com (Best for gamers) What I like: Instant withdrawals, huge selection of slots and live games, newly implemented rakeback system, constant "rains" in the chat (which is free money if you join in time), ability to instantly deposit and withdraw via Rust and TF2 items (could spend an hour talking about this-- generally caters to those who cannot get crypto or have to use a CC to buy crypto), averages ~1.5k users online at any given time What I don't like: Prior to the newly implemented rakeback system rains and level-up chests were the only "rakeback", your balance is denominated in coins (1500 coins = $1 USD), browsing through their slot selection can be a pain in the ass My largest withdrawal (at once): $7.4k Deposit/Withdrawal Methods: BTC, ETH, BCH, LTC Referral link to receive a free chest that could be worth up to ~$53: https://gamdom.com/chase (you can also use code "chase") Final parting words: PLEASE DO NOT GAMBLE WITH MONEY THAT YOU CANNOT AFFORD TO LOSE. Gambling is not a money making method and you will lose in the long run. The purpose of my post is to make those aware that other trustworthy online casinos are available for Americans that will (hopefully) make gambling online a bit more enjoyable!
A short Guide to making £500 through Match betting
Putting this out there once more for those who missed it a couple of months ago. Here is a link to the original post which might be useful because of questions answered in the comments section. Like I said before, This guide is a handy way to sort out a month's rent for 5 or 6 hours work, so I really hope it can be of use to someone. Having done my research and having been able to turn a really nice profit in such a short time, I wanted to make a short guide to eliminate people's doubts and simplify things a little. Since it really doesn't take a lot of time to hit that £500 profit mark, it's a shame not to try it out. Anyway, Here it goes: I was sceptical as hell about Match betting because a friend showed me the Facebook groups and it just looked like a giant gambling pyramid scheme. It turns out there is a decent chunk of change to be made from it, you just need to follow the guides and never ever actually gamble with your money. Never ever Gamble?Yes That's right, you are going to be using Gambling sites to complete the various offers, but the whole idea behind match betting is that every time you "make a bet", you match that same bet on the exchange. So for example, if I bet £10 for Real Madridto Winon the Bookie Site at odds of 2.5, I then also make a Matched bet on the Exchange (This is a separate site such as Smarkets or Betfair) where I bet for Real Madridnot to winat odds of 2.5 (or as close as I can get to those odds).In this way I am covered in all outcomes, and it allows me to fulfill the requirements of the bookies offer (For example Bet £10 and get £30 in Free bets) What's the difference between the Bookie Site and the Exchange?On the Exchange Site you are basically being the Bookie and just like a Bookie, you have liability. If I bet £10 and my bet wins at odds of 2.5 then I win £25, so the bookies liability for this bet is £15, the extra money that they would have to give me if I win. There arecalculatorson the Match betting sites which you can use to calculate what Liability you need to enter on the exchange each time you make your matched bet. There is also software to help you find what games have the closest odds on both the bookies and the exchange, which is very important. What do I do when I get my free bets?It's the same process again, You find a game that has very close odds on both the bookies and the exchange (You can do this by eye or by using odds matching software. A good site with this software is called OddsMonkey). Only this time when you use the calculator to work out your liability, you will set it to "Free bets SNR" so it knows you are not using real money. It will tell you how much Liability to use in the exchange and off you go. How does this make me money?The fact that you have a free bet to use is what makes you money, For example a £30 free bet at odds of 5.5 in the bookies will win you £135 (30x 4.5, because the original free bet stake of £30 is not returned to you). Now let's say that the closest odds I can find in the Exchange for the same game are 6.0, I will need a liability of £112.50 to match my free bet in the bookies ( I use the calculator on oddsmonkey to work this out) £135- 112.50 = £22.50 in Profit. Alternatively if my bet on the exchange wins, I will lose the free bet of £30 (but it's not actually a loss to me because It's not real money) and I will win £22.50 on the exchange. Either way, I make a Profit of £22.50 What about providing card details?You can use a separate, virtual bank account for all your match betting, In this way your main banking information is not shared with any of the sites you sign up to and all of your match betting transactions never go near your main bank account. A good one to use is Monzo or Starling, both apps are super easy to use and it only takes5 minutesto open an account. It's also totallyfree to open. Monzo non ref: https://monzo.com Starling non ref: https://www.starlingbank.com/ Where can I learn to do it? There are some sites that you have to pay a monthly subscription to but I found one called Team Profit that is free and has a full guide of all the different offers you can complete. I worked my way down through the list of offers, nice and handy, and having completed 20 offers at 15 minutes per offer, I came out at £470 for 5 hours total of work. If you are new to this site and are opening a free account I would really appreciate if you use my Referral (£10) Here is the non referral link to the page with all the offers: https://www.teamprofit.com/welcome-offers-list TLDR: You do not need to "gamble" to match bet, in fact by definition, the bet you make is "matched" on the exchange, so it is not a gamble in any sense. I hope this guide helps and hopefully might even get a few people out of a fix this month with bills, rent etc. Thanks for Reading.
My step dad passed away in May 2018 before he passed away he said to me look after your Mum Jo, don't let her sell the house, she has enough money in the bank to enable her to cut down her hours at work and she can take it easy, if she sells she will have to pay out money that she doesn't need to as they were mortgage free. Now my Mum is a stunning looking woman, very glam and I just knew the vultures would descend and 1 vulture in particular is an absolute scumbag. Now let me give you a picture because for a while I thought am I the arsehole here but to have the validation that other family members also picked up on the red flags was enough for me to realise I wasn't being unreasonable. Let me make this perfectly clear I want my Mum to be happy, but I know my Mum better then anyone and know she lacks a massive amount of confidence because she isn't very educated, she has alot of common sense (some of the time) but because she never did well at school this has made her lack confidence so she has always relied on me or my step dad to help guide her, but its this lack of confidence that makes her very easily manipulated. My Mum works as a cleaner and the company she works for one of the warehouse workers took an interest, at first she rebuffed him and I said to her Mum you are still grieving for Dad its not the right time to go rushing in just yet give yourself some time because you can put a band aid on grief in the hope it will just disappear you have to see it through. I was also trying to get her to a point of self sufficiency so she could start having some confidence about doing things for herself. However to my disappointment she pursued this arsehole and on their first date I found out he spiked her drink. He didn't spike it with pills, basically she ordered a Brandy and coke and he had a shot of vodka put into it. This prick thought it was hilarious and he told me it was to loosen my Mum up. Is he for fucking real? I mean if you are already drinking Brandy for god sake what possible reason do you need to put a poxy Vodka into it. Anyway Mum was hanging onto his every word and laughing with him and I have my head in my hands thinking men can actually get arrested for this shit. Following on from that were numerous other red flags ranging from
Accusing my mum of chatting to men on Facebook and he chucked her out of his mums home.
Calls her an excessive amount of times during the day my uncle and me counted he called her 9 times in one day.
We can never have a 1:1 conversation with her, he needs to be included and put on speakerphone
Found out she loaned his daughter £500
He encouraged my mum to part exchange her brand new fiesta for an Audi on finance when she didn't need to do that meaning she now has a huge £347 a month bill coming out.
Very forceful with my Mums dog, found out he even smacked him on the nose... makes my blood boil my mums dog is the most chilled out dog you could ever meet and he is tiny.
I believe because he was so forceful with my mums dog the dog developed a skin condition through stress and he was refusing to take the dog to the vet because his daughter said it would clear up... I want to scream right now.
Claims he pays my mum £1000 towards bills which is a lie found out he was paying her alot less
Because he transfers money for bills, everytime they do something like go for a meal he says to my Mum pay for it on the halifax card jan meaning the money he is supposed to contribute towards bills isnt actually paying the bills.
Excessive betting every day, my uncle spotted that he went out with £100 and came back with nothing.
Now I have tried speaking to her god knows Ive tried but she gets on the defensive and attacks me. Thankfully though I think a few things started to come to light and she started calling me on the quiet and complaining about things she had noticed. Last Sunday however my mother rang me up in a state because she found out this wanker stole almost £2k from her bank account on Gambling. The devious arsehole convinced her to let him download the bet365 app to her phone register her bank card while he deposited £200 into her account. He then went on to not only spend his money but also clean out my mums account leaving her with £7.50 As you can imagine I was raging not only at her stupidity but at him for the level of manipulation. My mum was determined it was over and was packing his bag, I’m selling up as soon as my house is decorated in order to be closer to her and it killed me that I didn’t live closer I can’t begin to tell you the anxiety I felt not being there. I told her to stay strong, I found the betting app and the log in and deactivated the account and told her first thing on Monday go to the bank and get the account changed. During this time the boyfriend aka Scumbag was at work, I said to her you don’t even let him in just leave his packed case outside. Sadly it didn’t pan out that way and to my complete shock later that evening when he returned to my mums home the boyfriend managed to sweet talk my mum and he never left. To add insult to injury she went Facebook official with their relationship the following day while I was here stressed to the max worrying sick about her. I also found out shes now blocked me from Facebook too. My family are all shaking their heads because we dont understand any of this, she has rejected her friends and family for this man and the only possible reason they want her in the family fold is because what she has, shes mortgage free has money in the bank. This fuckwit she is with is 57 years old and has nothing to his name, he was living with his mother for god sake and all his money goes to the bookies. Shes clearly getting something from them that she isnt getting from us or is it just how grief has manifested in my mums case. I dont understand why we are the enemy when all we have ever tried to do is support her. I am completely heartbroken.
BetWinner is one of the world’s largest online betting sites, and they offer everything, from an online sportsbook to an online casino. They’re known for offering an extensive selection of markets and also have unrivaled customer support. Their bonuses are also great, and you’ll be able to find great BetWinner promo code offers available to new customers. In this BetWinnerreview, we’re going to be giving you an impartial, honest and in-depth look into this popular bookmaker – and what they have to offer when it comes to esports. For example, we’ll cover the BetWinner app, BetWinner esports markets, payment options and more. Let’s kick things off with a look at our editor’s review of the site, following by looking at the main BetWinner bonus offer, available to all new customers.
EDITOR’S REVIEW
BETWINNER
Esports Offered
Customer Service
Deposit Options
Player Value
Summary BetWinner is a major name in the eSports betting industry and for good reason. They offer a vast selection of markets, but it’s not just their eSports that make them so desirable. They also offer a substantial number of other sporting markets and events, with coverage all over the world. They offer more than 140 different payment methods (so there’s something for everyone), and their well-made, secure and reliable website makes betting easy. They also have a mobile app, which we’ll talk about later. 3.9
A major part of writing this BetWinner review was taking a look at their esports betting markets. BetWinner offers a fantastic selection to choose from, and you’ll find everything from WarCraft III, PUBG, CS:GO, Dota 2, King of Glory and Rainbow Six. Many BetWinner esports markets also offer a comprehensive selection of betting markets for you to choose from. For example, let’s take a look at one of their events: CS:GO. ESL One Road to Tio – Winstrike vs Syman. Of course, you’ll find yourself able to bet on the overall match winner, but there’s a plethora of other markets available too. For example, you can attempt to guess the correct score – with lucrative payouts if you manage to do so. There’s a “Total Maps” market, and a “Total Maps Handicap” market. You’ll also find a “Total Maps Even/Odd” market providing even more betting options. You can also put esports bets into other types of bet, including accumulators, system and chain bets. You’ll often see “recommended” bets further down the betting page when you enter a specific event page. One of the things we really like about BetWinner is that they make it really easy to view even odds. For example, when they’re running lol events, you can easily and quickly view lol betting odds right from the main “esports” page. You can then click on a specific event to view a more comprehensive breakdown of the specific bet types which are available for that event.
HOW TO OPEN AN ACCOUNT WITH BETWINNER?
BetWinner makes it very easy to open an account. They have a one-click registration process for players from certain countries. You can also press the “Registration” button to open your account using a phone number.
Step 1: Choose your country, currency and enter a promo code if you have one.
Step 2: You will then receive your username and password.
Step 3: Add your email address and you’re ready to bet!
BETWINNER MOBILE APP
A big part of writing this BetWinner review was looking at the BetWinner app. It’s designed to let you place esports bets while on the move and is available to download – free of charge – on all iOS and Android devices. The BetWinner app is smooth, well-made and easy-to-use. There’s a handy navigation menu positioned in the upper right-hand-corner of the screen, and this lets you work your way around. It’s possible to register an account directly from the app if you’re a new customer. If you already have a BetWinner account, you can log into the app using TouchID once you’ve entered your username and password once. We tested out the app extensively while writing this BetWinner review. We really like the way you can search directly for events. Esports are far from being the most popular betting market offered at bookies today, so you won’t usually see them featured on the home page. Thankfully, using the app, you can search directly for the markets you want. Placing bets is also simple, and once you’ve added selections to your bet slip it’s a one-click process to confirm the bet amount and place it. We should also point out that you don’t have to download BetWinner’s mobile app if you prefer not to. They also have a fully-functional mobile-optimized website, which allows you to place bets through your mobile device’s internet browser. It’s worth keeping an eye on their mobile promotions too, as there are sometimes special BetWinner bonus offers for mobile.
IS BETWINNER LEGIT?
In our opinion, BetWinner is one of the most trustworthy and reliable esports betting sites. For the purpose of writing this BetWinner review, we wanted to find out more about their licensing – and who actually regulates them. BetWinner holds a valid online gambling license from the Government of Curacao. This ensures the bookie adheres to strict rules and regulations and allows them to offer their services to customers all over the world. This sportsbook website is also very secure. They use the latest HTTPS technology alongside state-of-the-art encryption. Not only does this make the overall betting experience faster, smoother and more reliable – it also ensures that your personal information/sensitive details are safe and secure.
I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob—the warm, living doorknob!—for it didn't just look like a human hand; it was a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is—" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several pieces of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female coffee table, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in— "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let them hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even your natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" Silence. I shut off the water faucet, turned— And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they work for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them—but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of— It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there— The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. I knew there was someone in there. "I can't d—" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a person," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." Her. "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be—for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me please," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it please," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled—once, twice—loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, because I was sure I'd felt bone, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank… you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again please." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed—until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, a woman, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now… Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"—he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, No, it couldn't be, but it was: she was—"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with someone like you?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something true that made me lunge for him—for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back—yet the only thing which followed were his words, I am the way the world is, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. I am the way the world is. He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly—the evil—and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app— That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. Miles was right, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.
My boyfriends gambling problem - should I stay or should I go?
Hi everyone! I’m really needing some advice. I’m only 23 and I’ve been with my boyfriend for about 4 years now. He lives and dies for sports of all kinds and he is obsessed with it. It’s a strange story really. He got into horse racing and started doing the odd few bets in the bookies - and I remember he told me he’d never set up an online account because of the issues it can cause later in life e.g. not being able to get a mortgage. Fast forward a year or so and he has the app and is betting fairly regularly. We were both in college at the time and he had very little money. We had many fights about money and gambling because I felt he shouldn’t be spending the small bit of money he has on betting (to be fair to him he only would bet about €2.50 or €5 per bet, but in my mind when you have no money that’s too much). Since then we’ve continued to fight about it occasionally. Every time he would give me a new option : setting a limit on the app, only betting on the weekends, deleting the app so he had to physically go to the bookies, etc etc etc. None of which have ever worked. He now has a full time job which is well paying. I discovered he has majorly increased how much he is betting, ranging between €30-€100 per day. I told him that I couldn’t stay with him if he didn’t stop or at least try to stop. I explained to him that for years I have told him I didn’t like it and I’ve tried to get him to reduce it stop which have never worked. He promised me he would try. I left it for a few months as I know it’s addiction and can be hard to stop. A couple of days ago he was watching one particular race. I asked him why and he told me his dad had a horse backed. I asked him had he many bets on that day and he said he had 3 worth €40 in total. I asked him would he show me and he was lying to my face. He had over €100 lost. I flipped out and said I was done, I told him he knew I was leaving him if he didn’t stop. It made me feel so worthless and depressed - that he’d pick that over me. He said he didn’t think he had a problem but my argument was he knew I had a problem with it and I told him he chose that over me. We stayed together for a few days and nights trying to sort things - not talking about it 24/7. Just before he had to leave I asked him had he been doing it while we were together. He told me know. I asked him does he have any other accounts with different bookies. He said no. I asked him could I check - and I found he had been betting while we were together. I don’t think he understands the depth of his problem. Should I just leave? I’m feeling so deflated. TL;DR my boyfriend has a gambling problem and knows I will leave him if he doesn’t stop, lying about it too. Should I leave?
I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob—the warm, living doorknob!—for it didn't just look like a human hand; it was a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is—" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several pieces of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female coffee table, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in— "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let them hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even your natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" Silence. I shut off the water faucet, turned— And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they work for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them—but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of— It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there— The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. I knew there was someone in there. "I can't d—" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a person," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." Her. "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be—for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me please," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it please," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled—once, twice—loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, because I was sure I'd felt bone, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank… you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again please." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed—until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, a woman, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now… Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"—he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, No, it couldn't be, but it was: she was—"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with someone like you?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something true that made me lunge for him—for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back—yet the only thing which followed were his words, I am the way the world is, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. I am the way the world is. He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly—the evil—and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app— That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. Miles was right, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.
The other side of the sugar life - when sugaring goes wrong
Two years ago I found out my ex husband was living a double life. I started finding out piece by piece of his double life within a span of 6 months but at first I couldn’t put it all together until I was introduced to this lifestyle/forum after my divorce. The overdrawn bank notices, bank statements with heavy cash withdraws, unexplained shopping sprees,cash app transactions, a long text message thread with a woman that kept asking him for an allowance finally all made sense. For so long, I couldn’t understand why he would ask me for money and couldn’t pay the house bills.....the house went into foreclosure and I had bookies knocking on my door for an outstanding gambling debt. His sugar life adventures ruined my life, not only emotionally but majorly financially since I had apparently been the one funding these SBs all this time. He had become addicted to the sugar life. I wonder if his SBs will ever realize how hurtful it was for me to see on paper all their allowances and shopping sprees. I asked myself , where was my weekly allowance ? Where was my shopping spree ? When I was the one putting up with all the nonsense at home. It wasn’t even the act of others having sex with my husband that bothered me. It was the fact that they had become a priority over me. I was heartbroken. In addition, I was furious and resented them at that time but life works in mysterious ways. I have now found myself on the SB side (I’m not ready for a committed relationship again) but I must admit having this personal experience has me with one foot in and one foot out. I don’t ever want to take advantage of a SD to the point of how it affected me personally in the past. Ps. I just wanted to get this off my chest. I don’t fault my ex’s SBs anymore. I’ve moved passed that after learning more about this lifestyle but he sure did run into rinsers. Smh 🤦🏻♀️
I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob—the warm, living doorknob!—for it didn't just look like a human hand; it was a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is—" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several pieces of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female coffee table, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in— "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let them hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even your natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" Silence. I shut off the water faucet, turned— And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they work for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them—but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of— It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there— The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. I knew there was someone in there. "I can't d—" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a person," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." Her. "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be—for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me please," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it please," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled—once, twice—loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, because I was sure I'd felt bone, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank… you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again please." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed—until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, a woman, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now… Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"—he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, No, it couldn't be, but it was: she was—"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with someone like you?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something true that made me lunge for him—for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back—yet the only thing which followed were his words, I am the way the world is, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. I am the way the world is. He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly—the evil—and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app— That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. Miles was right, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.
I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob—the warm, living doorknob!—for it didn't just look like a human hand; it was a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is—" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several pieces of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female coffee table, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in— "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let them hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even your natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" Silence. I shut off the water faucet, turned— And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they work for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them—but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of— It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there— The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. I knew there was someone in there. "I can't d—" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a person," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." Her. "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be—for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me please," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it please," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled—once, twice—loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, because I was sure I'd felt bone, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank… you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again please." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed—until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, a woman, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now… Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"—he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, No, it couldn't be, but it was: she was—"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with someone like you?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something true that made me lunge for him—for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back—yet the only thing which followed were his words, I am the way the world is, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. I am the way the world is. He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly—the evil—and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app— That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. Miles was right, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.
I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob—the warm, living doorknob!—for it didn't just look like a human hand; it was a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is—" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several pieces of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female coffee table, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in— "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let them hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even your natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" Silence. I shut off the water faucet, turned— And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they work for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them—but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of— It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there— The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. I knew there was someone in there. "I can't d—" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a person," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." Her. "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be—for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me please," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it please," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled—once, twice—loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, because I was sure I'd felt bone, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank… you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again please." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed—until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, a woman, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now… Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"—he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, No, it couldn't be, but it was: she was—"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with someone like you?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something true that made me lunge for him—for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back—yet the only thing which followed were his words, I am the way the world is, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. I am the way the world is. He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly—the evil—and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app— That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. Miles was right, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.
I hadn't seen Miles in fifteen years when we bumped into each other at the grocery store. Back then, we'd gone separate ways. He'd dropped out of high school to start learning a trade, and I'd gone to university. Our lives diverged and we fell out of contact. But our recognition was instant, and after a few minutes of conversation he invited me to his house. It was on the way that we caught up in broad strokes. I was married; he wasn't. I had a kid; he didn't. I worked for a corporation in a mid-level office job; he was self-employed. When I asked him what he did, he smiled a little mischievously and said, "I'm a bookie, but you could say I'm a bit of an employer myself these days." When I asked what he meant, he said I'd see soon enough. What I saw first was that his splendid two-storey yellow brick house was situated deep in the suburbs, and seemed decidedly too big for a single guy in his thirties. Nevertheless, I was impressed he could afford it. My wife and I didn't have our own house yet. "Renting or owning?" I asked as we approached the front door. "Owned," he said. "I've had a good run these last two years." Although the house had looked normal from the street, when we got closer I noticed that the front doorknob was odd. It was shaped like a human hand. Miles was carrying groceries, so he motioned for me to do the opening. "It's not locked?" I asked. He smiled just as I touched the doorknob—the warm, living doorknob!—for it didn't just look like a human hand; it was a human hand! Obediently, the front door swung open, and huddled in the triangular space between the door and the wall was a hooded, black-clad figure whose gold-painted fingers I had just touched. Without even raising its head, the figure shut the door behind us and replaced its hand into the door hole. Miles paid the figure no mind and continued to the kitchen, where another similarly dressed figure stood motionless by the light switch. Miles set down the groceries, clapped his hands and the figure turned on the lights. By now I had to ask: "What is—" "Look, I get that it may seem a little weird," he said, "but hear me out. These are people who owe me money. They're unemployed and they can't conceivably pay it back anytime soon." I followed him to the living room, where another figure turned on the lights, illuminating several pieces of human furniture. "So they're working off their debts." Miles whistled, and yet another figure appeared, this one holding two imported beers. Miles handed one to me before setting the other on his nude female coffee table, who / which reacted instinctively to the cold glass bottle by momentarily arching her / its back. "It's perfectly consensual," he added, anticipating my concerns. "And what would be the more humane alternative, breaking their knee caps?" By now my initial discomfort was turning into a chilled fear. I kept remembering how the doorknob-hand had felt in mine. Ostensibly both were human hands, but the gap in— "Dignity," I said, then repeated the word in a whisper so as not to let them hear. "Don't you think they lack dignity?" He chuckled. "See, even your natural reaction is to treat them as if they're invisible. As for dignity, they most definitely had it. Because they mortgaged it, and now they're working to earn it back. I didn't force them to gamble. Now they're house servants, that's all. Are you opposed to house servants?" I admitted I supposed I wasn't. "But this is such a strange form of it," I said, starting to stammer like in my elementary school days. By now the stress of being in this bizarre place combined with the mundane act of drinking beer was twisting me psychologically in ways I couldn't understand. I wanted suddenly out, but the most I could tactfully bring myself to do was ask about the location of the bathroom. "Just down the hall," Miles said. I stepped with dread. The bathroom was large but felt immediately cramped by the presence of two figures: one wrapped entirely in bath towels, and the other kneeling by the toilet, its hooded head down and arms up, holding a roll of toilet paper as if it were the idol of a long-forgotten god. Of course, I couldn't go in these conditions, so I waited uncomfortably for a minute, listening to the figures breathe, before washing my hands. "Are you OK?" I whispered to them. No response. "Do you need help?" Silence. I shut off the water faucet, turned— And nearly fell back against the bathroom mirror as the towel-wrapped one rubbed his / her / its moisture-absorbing material / body against my wet hands. "Please, don't," I begged quietly, escaping backward into the hall. Miles was casually drinking his beer. "Did you try to save them?" he asked. I nodded. "They don't need saving." He gestured for me to follow him, and I did, down the hall and up the stairs to a bedroom. But it wasn't Miles' bedroom. "I had it prepared just for you," he said, "in case you wanted to spend the night." The room was spacious and clean, decked out with an array of speakers, a large TV and a human night table flanking a queen-sized bed, freshly made and topped with a beautiful handmade quilt, on which rested a mattress-long body pillow, its linen case rising and falling gently with the breath of the human inside it. I wanted to back out, but Miles caught me by the shoulders. "Remember when in high school you told me I wouldn't ever amount to anything?" His grip was firm. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "Don't be sorry. You were wrong, that's all." "How long do they work for?" I asked, watching the body pillow shift slightly on the bed, desiring more than anything to change the topic. But also curious, genuinely and morbidly curious. "However long they want. Eight hours, twelve hours, twenty-four hour shifts. It's really not a bad gig, lying in a pillowcase on a comfortable bed for twice the minimum wage." He nudged me forward. "Go ahead. Try it." I didn't want to, but there was a menace in his voice, an unpredictability that made it feel safer to obey than disagree. He may not have been threatening me directly, but the threat was in the air, invisible and atomized like a perfume. I got on the bed. Miles watched my every uncomfortable move. "Like it?" "Yes," I said, "it's a very nice mattress." For a second, I imagined that the mattress was filled with people and I was lying on top of them, crushing them—but as I shifted my weight I felt the more familiar support of springs, and I could breathe again. "Try hugging the body pillow," Miles instructed me, the coolness in his voice betraying how used he'd gotten to being the boss. I didn't want to do that either, but I did it anyway, not only pervasively conscious of the army of servants Miles had amassed, which he could turn against me at any moment, but wanting desperately to feel even a fraction of the power he wielded over them. Inching closer to the body pillow and turning over onto my side before lightly placing an arm on top of— It squirmed, bony, warm and human underneath the crisp linen case. The person inside was a man. I wondered who and what he had bet on and how much he owed and whether it was really so bad what Miles was doing and if it would have been better for the man to be working two or three part-time jobs, probably labour, probably more tiring and dangerous, than being paid to be this objectified: this passive: this utterly domesticated. "Nice, right?" Miles asked. "Yes." "You can get up now." I got off the bed, smoothed my clothes and followed Miles wordlessly into the hall, down the stairs and into a spacious gym. He was so confident that not once did he look back; he knew that I was behind him. Although we didn't go inside, on the way we had passed a room outfitted with cameras, lights and a circular padded stage, and my imagination was running wild with thoughts of the recordings made in there— The gym lights flashed cold and bright. I squinted. Arranged before me was an impressive collection of weights, workout gear and exercise machines, but it was the object occupying the centre of the room whose existence sent an electric shock down my spine. A leather heavy bag hung ominously from the ceiling. Miles passed me boxing wraps for my hands, then began wrapping his own. "I know this is a lot, and I know how it feels, the pressure building up inside you right now. Believe me. Jealousy. Disgust. Maybe even anger: at me, the world, your own fucking life. When I get that way, I come down here and work those emotions out. It's not healthy holding them in. Whatever you do, you can't let them grow inside you." When he was done with his wraps, he handed me a pair of training gloves. I put them on, constantly eyeing the heavy bag, which was swinging now ever so softly from the steel ceiling mount. "Give it a shot," he said. I stood frozen in place. I knew there was someone in there. "I can't d—" "Of course you can," he said, then pulled his arm back and delivered a wicked right cross to the heavy bag. It responded with a dull thud followed by a reverberating groan. "Just like that." "It's a person," I said, my voice rising. "Which makes it even easier. Just ask the person if you can hit her." Her. "Do you want to get hit?" Miles asked the heavy bag. "Yes," a muffled voice responded. "See? She wants you to do it. If you don't do it, you're deciding for her, and how condescending would that be—for a man to tell a woman what she can and can't do." "Hit me please," the heavy bag mumbled. I made a fist and threw a light jab. Just enough to feel the bag: the padding, and the contour of the person hanging inside. "Come on, man." It made me sick to my stomach. But as I lifted my hand to my mouth to keep from retching, Miles put in a thudding left hook that lifted the bag on impact. I could hear the stifled pain within. "She gets paid by the punch," Miles said. "Ask her if she wants another." I didn't want to, but the answer came anyway: "Hit me." "One thousand dollars off her debt if you give it all you've got," Miles said. "Do it please," the bag begged. I planted my feet, exhaled—once, twice—loosened my shoulder, and put all my weight behind a looping shot that connected sickeningly with the side of the bag, my mind frantically trying to decide where I'd connected, face, ribs, hip, because I was sure I'd felt bone, as the bag bounced, the ceiling mount screeched and the woman inside moaned in pain. For a while: silence. Then, "Thank… you," she whimpered. "Nice one! What do you say, another grand?" Miles asked with a smile. "Again please." So I got her again, and again. And again. Each time connecting with everything I had; each time shaving a thousand dollars off her debt. Good deed followed by good deed—until Miles himself grabbed my arm and pulled me away, and I realized, over the pounding of my beating heart, how much anger there was in me. "Easy, easy," he repeated. After I'd calmed down, I felt the horror of it: of what I had done. I had beaten someone, a woman, and all her begging and thanking couldn't convince me it was right. Not that she was speaking now… Miles unhooked the heavy bag and laid it reverently on the floor as I took off my gloves and undid my wraps. He unzipped the bag. "Do you remember our prom?" he asked as if out of the blue. "Vaguely." "You went with Rashida Parker," he said. I did remember that. "Who did you go with?" I asked. Miles had pulled a body wrapped in a thick, bloodied sheet from the unzipped bag. He picked it up and cradled it. She looked small and fragile in his arms. For a second, I thought that maybe she was dead, but then she murmured something swollen and incomprehensible, and I knew I hadn't beaten her to death. I had almost forgotten my own question when, "No one," Miles answered. "I was supposed to go with Rashida, and she'd even said 'yes' to me"—he had unwrapped some of the sheet, revealing a tangle of black hair, and I thought, No, it couldn't be, but it was: she was—"when you asked her and she said 'yes' to you. After all, why would she go with some skid who smoked cigarettes by the railroad tracks, a future deadbeat whose parents worked in a factory and who couldn't read Shakespeare, when she could go with someone like you?" He unfolded the remaining sheet from Rashida's body and laid her on top of it. Her eyes were swelling shut but she could still see, and all I could do was avert my gaze as she slowly pronounced my name, each syllable willed into a hurt existence, before thanking me repeatedly with her fattened lips. Although she looked barely like the girl I'd fallen in love with, it was unmistakably her. After she could speak no more, she crawled forward, reaching pathetically for my legs, her broken body a coloured patchwork of various stages of bruising, as I backed instinctively away. I was scared and I was ashamed. "You'll appreciate the irony," Miles said. "She lost her money betting on mixed martial arts." He laughed. There was something about that laugh, something devilish and deep, something true that made me lunge for him—for his despicable throat! But even that did not stop the laughter, which resounded through the gym as we fought like boys on the padded floor. And still he laughed when his hooded minions arrived and pulled me off him, swinging wildly at the air. I'd bloodied his nose but nothing more, and as they dragged me away, up the stairs and to the front door, Miles followed us with a monstrous smile. "I am the way the world is," he said. Then I was out the door and it was closed and it was dark and suburban and I was sitting on the concrete front step, staring at the golden doorknob-hand jutting profoundly through the hole in the door of a yellow brick house. I got to my feet and descended the steps to the street, all the while trying to act cool and not make a scene, because that seemed like the worst thing imaginable: drawing attention to myself. My fighting spirit had evaporated. I was a coward once more. I buried my hands in my pockets and kept my head down, walking briskly through the cold night air, but when I reached the nearest intersection I turned and started to run. On both sides houses flew past at a blur. Illuminated windows. Imagined conversations. I knew Miles wasn't behind me, but because I lacked his natural confidence I kept glancing back—yet the only thing which followed were his words, I am the way the world is, and when I stopped to catch my breath, I looked directly upon a lighted window: several silhouettes gathered around a table. Was it a family or a group of hooded servants waiting on their master? I couldn't tell, but they must have seen me too because suddenly the curtains were drawn and the illumination ended. I am the way the world is. He was wrong. I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't believe it. Miles was the anomaly—the evil—and in every other house, behind every other beautiful brick wall, there were normal people with normal needs and normal relationships. They desired normal things and they worked normal jobs, just like me. In my stillness I felt suddenly the autumn cold and took out my phone, and almost without thinking I swiped toward the Uber app— That's when I understood. I smashed the phone against the sidewalk. Faces looked out. Miles was right, and I walked home for hours that night, terrified of myself and of every house I passed in which uncounted silhouettes passed silent and unseen.
The Premier League is back this weekend, which means a resurgence in Match Betting. Here is my 3 Part Mega Guide to making £500 for several hours work, and then making £500- £1000 on a monthly basis.
So a lot of you will know that I regularly post guides and tips about match betting, However since the same questions always come up in the comments, I decided to make one big, very thorough Mega Guide in order to eliminate as many doubts as possible for you guys. Like I said before, This guide is a handy way to sort out a month's rent for 5 or 6 hours work, so I really hope it can be of use to someone. Anyway, Here it is: PART 1: MATCH BETTING EXPLAINED; HOW TO MAKE £500 IN 5/6 HOURS Having done my research and having been able to turn a really nice profit in such a short time, I wanted to make a short guide to eliminate people's doubts and simplify things a little. Since it really doesn't take a lot of time to hit that £500 profit mark, it's a shame not to try it out. Anyway, Here it goes: I was sceptical as hell about Match betting because a friend showed me the Facebook groups and it just looked like a giant gambling pyramid scheme. It turns out there is a decent chunk of change to be made from it, you just need to follow the guides and never ever actually gamble with your money. Never ever Gamble?Yes That's right, you are going to be using Gambling sites to complete the various offers, but the whole idea behind match betting is that every time you "make a bet", you match that same bet on the exchange. So for example, if I bet £10 for Real Madridto Winon the Bookie Site at odds of 2.5, I then also make a Matched bet on the Exchange (This is a separate site such as Smarkets or Betfair) where I bet for Real Madridnot to winat odds of 2.5 (or as close as I can get to those odds).In this way I am covered in all outcomes, and it allows me to fulfill the requirements of the bookies offer (For example Bet £10 and get £30 in Free bets) What's the difference between the Bookie Site and the Exchange?On the Exchange Site you are basically being the Bookie and just like a Bookie, you have liability. If I bet £10 and my bet wins at odds of 2.5 then I win £25, so the bookies liability for this bet is £15, the extra money that they would have to give me if I win. There arecalculatorson the Match betting sites which you can use to calculate what Liability you need to enter on the exchange each time you make your matched bet. There is also software to help you find what games have the closest odds on both the bookies and the exchange, which is very important. What do I do when I get my free bets?It's the same process again, You find a game that has very close odds on both the bookies and the exchange ( You can do this by eye or by using odds matching software. A good site with this software is called OddsMonkey). Only this time when you use the calculator to work out your liability, you will set it to "Free bets SNR" so it knows you are not using real money. It will tell you how much Liability to use in the exchange and off you go. How does this make me money?The fact that you have a free bet to use is what makes you money, For example a £30 free bet at odds of 5.5 in the bookies will win you £135 (30x 4.5, because the original free bet stake of £30 is not returned to you). Now let's say that the closest odds I can find in the Exchange for the same game are 6.0, I will need a liability of £112.50 to match my free bet in the bookies ( I use the calculator on oddsmonkey to work this out) £135- 112.50 = £22.50 in Profit. Alternatively if my bet on the exchange wins, I will lose the free bet of £30 (but it's not actually a loss to me because It's not real money) and I will win £22.50 on the exchange. Either way, I make a Profit of £22.50 What about providing card details?You can use a separate, virtual bank account for all your match betting, In this way your main banking information is not shared with any of the sites you sign up to. A good one to use is Monzo, the app is easy to use and it only takes5 minutesto open an account. It'sfree to openan account and last I checkedthey actually have a referral scheme where you get £5 if you sign up through a referral link. Non Referral here: https://monzo.com/ Where can I learn to do it? There are some sites that you have to pay a monthly subscription to but I found one called Team Profit that is free and has a full guide of all the different offers you can complete. I worked my way down through the list of offers, nice and handy, and having completed 20 offers at 15 minutes per offer, I came out at £470 for 5 hours total of work. If you are new to this site and are opening a free account I would really appreciate if you use my Referral (£10) Here is the non referral link to the page with all the offers: https://www.teamprofit.com/welcome-offers-list TLDR: You do not need to "gamble" to match bet, in fact by definition, the bet you make is "matched" on the exchange, so it is not a gamble in any sense. PART 2: MAKING £500-£1000 EVERY MONTH. You may sometimes see people commenting saying they have made a lot more money since finishing the welcome offers, £1000-£1500 a month and such, but never saying exactly how... Personally I have made a lot more profit every month since I finished the welcome offers, Usually around the £1000 per month mark. People say that Match betting drys up once you finish the welcome offers but this is simply not true, it's a matter of being more organised and checking your email for new offers, while also checking the Reload Offers section on Team Profit every morning (Takes literally 5 minutes) Below is an Example from last month where I made £300 in one week. Bare in mind that the amount you make weekly will vary with the amount of sport that is on, but as long as there's sport, you will always be able to earn. This example is simply to show you the potential Match Betting has long after you've completed the Welcome offers: Here's exactly how I did it: Coral: Money back as a free bet up to £50 if your team is ahead in the first half but doesn't win the match in the end: Matched 5 Premier League games, 3 were successful. I received three £50 free bets which I matched and turned into £130 profit risk free. £130 in 30 minutes William Hill: Money Back as Cash if your horse comes 2nd- 2 of the 6 horses I matched came 2nd, I was also able to make a profit by just matching the bets because my odds were higher on the bookies side by using the Happy Hour odds (between 12pm-1pm, 3 horses with enhanced odds) and also the 3 daily bet boosts on Horse raising( to boost my odds on another 3 horses). £20 in 5 minutes Paddy Power: Money Back up to £10 if Horse comes 2nd 3rd or 4th, Matched the horse with the lowest odds and sure enough it came 3rd, got my £10 free bet. £8 in 3 minutes Skybet: Money Back as cash up to £10 if Horse comes 2nd 3rd or 4th, Matched the horse with the lowest odds and sure enough it came 3rd, got my £10. £9.50 in 3 minutes Skybet: Wednesday Super odds: Matched the three super odds on the exchange and due to the difference in odds (If the odds on the bookies are greater than those for same bet on the exchange you are automatically profiting). £10 in 3 minutes Boylesports: £10 Free bet if your bet loses(Premier League Match): £8 in 3 minutes Paddy Power 2up: An offer where you get paid out early if your time goes up by 2 goals, the profit varies depending on what the odds on the exchange are when you back the team you orignally lay against, but this offer can make you a lot of profit (You will need to download the team profit calculator app and use the early payout calculator). Last week it Made me £35. £35 in 5 minutes Novibet: Deposit £100 and get a £50 free bet. Very easy because you just have to deposit the money, get your free bet, withdraw your £100 straight away, then match the free bet on the exchange. £40 in 5 minutes Coral: Bet 3x £5 in play and get a £5 free bet-Availble everyday. Just match these at half time so the odds are stable, Make sure you also place mug bets every couple of days if you do this one a lot, I would reccomend doing it 5 times a week tops. £20 in 30 minutes Paddy Powe Skybet Bet clubs: Bet 5x £10 bets in a week to get a £10 free bet with Paddy Power. Bet £25 in a week to get a £5 free bet with Skybet. £10 in 30 minutes Above you can see the reality of making profit long after you've finished the welcome offers, but it comes down to organisation. So in Summary, these are my 6 Rules for making a monthly Profit: (1) Check your email daily for offers, many times bookies will send you personalised offers just for you, and these can be very VERY generous. (2) Check the Reload Offers section on Team profit every morning to see what offers are available that day. (3) Offers change all the time- Don't let this put you off. There are always new offers to replace the previous ones. There are also Weekly/Daily offers ( Coral £50 free bet, Paddy power refund if 2nd 3rd 4th, William hill money back if second, Paddy Power 2up, Bet clubs etc) which are constantly available when sport is on. (4) Make Mug bets ( Explained more in PART 3) (5)It all adds up. Don't think "It's only a £5 free bet, not worth matching". I get around 15 £5 free bets every week, If I ignored them all I would be down £200 at the end of the month. (6) Don't spend all day at it. Once you've checked your email and reload offers, you know what offers you need to do that day. Set alarms so you can make your matches before each event starts, but don't spend ages sitting at your computer waiting for "the perfect match", for your own mental health, set a time limit of 1 hour per day at most. PART 3: FAQ (1)How much money do you need to put in to start? When you go onto the offers page on Team Profit after signing up, there is an option to start with £25, £50 or £100. You can select one of those three options And it will show you a different number of offers according to your selection. I started with £100 because I wanted to get things moving a little quicker. I did this so that I would have enough money for liability to do a bigger earning offer at the start. One year later, and having see the potential for profit, I keep around £500 floating between my accounts. This is useful for large sporting events where I may want to do around 10- 15 offers in a short time. (2)Is it in anyway going to impact my credit score? Using gambling sites doesn't effect your credit score unless you borrow money to fund it. I do all my match betting through a virtual bank (Monzo) in order to keep that stuff out of my main bank on the off chance that it raises any eyebrows. You'll be using Monzo like a cash card, where you can only spend the money you put into the card. This is why it won't affect your credit score, because you wouldn't be taking out an overdraft or using credit for example. (3)What is Mug Betting? Mug Betting is where you make bets that have no relation to any offer or promotion in order to appear like a regular punter. If you are doing a lot of offers on one site, it's a good idea to make mug bets in order to avoid being "gubbed" (Gubbed is a term for when bookies realise you are only taking advantadge of promotions and close your account permanantly). Of course you will also Match these "Mug bets" on the exchange. Make 1-2 Mug bets on Each site every week(On the sites you are using a lot for offers and promotions) in order to ensure your accounts last longer than 1-2 years. I have been matching for well over a year and have never been gubbed. Take the extra couple of minutes to Mug bet, it's worth it. More on Mug betting here Ok so that's everything I can think of to share with you guys, The link to sign up to your free Team Profit account is at the bottom of Part 1 of this guide. TLDR: You do not need to "gamble" to match bet, in fact by definition, the bet you make is "matched" on the exchange, so it is not a gamble in any sense. I really hope this guide will help someone out because It really is a solid way to sort out a months rent for quite a modest amount of work. Thanks for Reading.
the•bookie. noun, singular. Your sharp, Sports Betting friend that sends you an email each day full of Free Picks, Tips, Tools, and Strategies you need to know for the day’s games. Sign up today and join our growing syndicate of Intelligent Sports Bettors. The Central Crime Branch police on Tuesday arrested a bookie who was allegedly running an online cricket gambling racket. The accused, Prabhu Kalaiah, 33, a resident of Bhuvaneshwarinagar, was running This MyBookie.ag mobile app review is a shorter version of our main MyBookie review.We still cover a few more details here, though, including the promotions you can claim, sports you can bet on, and the casino games you can play through the MyBookie.ag real money gambling app. "Screw the Bookie, Bet Your Friends." That is the first sentence in the description section of the SideBets Social BETworking Apple App Store page. Recognizing that it would be illegal to create a MyBookie is a Legal Online Sports Betting Site, However you are responsible for determining the legality of online gambling in your jurisdiction. Sportsbook and Online Casino Rollover Requirements: All bonuses come with a "rollover requirement." A "rollover requirement" is an amount you must bet (graded, settled wagers only) before requesting a payout. You do not need to win or lose that Bookie is free to play, and includes a daily bonus so you will never have to stop betting. While in app purchase is available, cashing out is not because Bookie provides as realistic as possible a fully simulated sports betting experience while avoiding actual gambling. Bookie Software App. A lot of people ask if there is a bookie software app, and the answer is there is something that is much better and it can be saved on the home screen of any smartphone and work the same as a clickable app, but perform even better.. Ace Pay Per Head is one of the leading pay per head services in the bookie market and they provide bookies with a fully functioning mobile As you might expect from one of the top gambling sites in the US, MyBookie is known for offering some great bonuses to its new and existing members. These can help to significantly boost the amount of money players have in their account to use on the MyBookie betting app. Like many other sites, MyBookie offers different bonuses for sports betting and casino gambling. There’s no need to download an app or access a unique mobile URL. Accessing the MyBookie mobile sportsbook is as simple as using your favorite smartphone or handheld device (iPhone, Android, any internet enabled mobile device). Once you’re there, just log into your account and start betting right away! Try your Mobile Device on MyBookie Mobile Sportsbook Now! Our mobile betting platform Use more than one app – Similar to shopping around, not all bookies cover the same markets and leagues. Some have price boosts and specials, so it is good to use at least 2 or 3 bookie apps for betting on the football. Only bet what you can afford– This one is a no brainer. Betting on football should be fun and only done to make the game
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