It all started out with a bet. It always does.

You've seen the movies, the ones your girlfriend drags you to even though you have your eye on the new action/thriller (Freddie Pansy, Jr. or Bruce Willis? Not that hard of a decision, people). And you can piss and moan all you want, but you know she won't put out for at least a week if you don't give in. So you're stuck being the gentleman, stuck in two hours of this cock and bull story about some guy and his dickhead friends betting on whether or not he can make a fox out of an ugly duckling. Of course, the guy takes the gamble, but only to find that something horrible happens: he falls in love.

Where do people come up with this shit?

But I guess I can't totally discredit it. If there's one thing ladies need to learn about men, it's that we can never turn down a bet. Never. "No" isn't even an option. I'd like to say that "no" isn't in our vocabulary, period, but what else would Luke Skywalker say to Darth Vader?

Vader: Join the dark side!

Luke: Never!

Vader: We have cookies...

Luke: Cookies? Well... maybe if they have macadamia nuts... do they have macadamia nuts? Ooh, and sprinkles? Tell me there's sprinkles!

My point is, unless your dad wears a big black helmet, "no" doesn't even exist. Which is exactly how I got here, some hole in the wall about fifteen miles north of L.A. Normally, I wouldn't even think of showing my face in these kind of places, but Bean tells me he's good friends with the one of the bartenders and likes to drop in every once in a while to mooch a few drinks. The whole "small town" feel is definitely not my thing, not when I could be out on the dance floor bumping and grinding between two blonde twins (God, I'll never forget that night), but as long as the beer doesn't run out anytime soon, I suppose I'll have to grin and bear it.

As for Bean (real name's Rob, in case you cared to know. You didn't? Yeah, didn't think so), he's already out on the main scene, scoping out the goods. Chris is with him, arm around the shoulder, winking and licking his lips at all the ladies passing by like it's his registered trademark. It seems like Bean's old divining rod has finally zeroed in on a potential target, stumbling past the crowd gathered at the bar as he and Chris make their way over to their victims. A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. Sounds like the beginning of a fucking joke. And me? I just watch from a distance, plotting when to make my entrance as I grab a cold Corona Extra.

(Oh, and get this - did you know I'm the unofficial poster boy for Corona now? Apparently, just one photo of me with the stuff brands me for life. I figure I might as well help them out a bit and keep up the image. They do make a damn good beer.)

After forking over a few dollars for the drink, I decide it's about time to grace the table with my presence, catching an "all clear" signal from Chris as he settles between the blonde and the redhead. Bean's taken to the brunette, his eyebrow cocked as he leans over to introduce himself. "Hi, I'm Rob. Suck my dick, and I'll let you meet Nick Carter."

"I'm right behind you, dumbass."

"Oh, hey, Nick, buddy!" Bean slaps me on the back as I sit down next to him. "You know I was just kidding about that, right?" He then scoots back over to the brunette, covering his mouth with his hand as his voice gets all hush-hush. "Meet me in room 212 at a quarter to one."

I roll my eyes, but I let it slide, just like every other time. Granted, I probably should have a little more class, but hey, if chicks are dumb enough to fall for that shit, that's their fault. Besides, if it wasn't for me, Bean wouldn't get much time in the sack at all. The guy could fucking pass for my dad. A darker, dumber, uglier version of my dad, but still. So if he needs to do a little name-dropping, why should I stop him if it gets him a nice piece of ass? Gotta help a brotha out, right? Hell, I used to name-drop all the fucking time. Still do... but once you've dated Paris Hilton, you're pretty much set (or screwed) for life.

Oh, yes... I dated her.

I don't like to get into details about it, though, for obvious reasons. I'm sure you've heard enough about it in the news and the tabloids (fucking paparazzi). But to answer the question I know you're just itching to ask: it was scandalicious. That bitch blew my mind... and then some.

I suddenly hear all three girls giggling, their mouths open and eyes wide as they bat their long lashes at me. I just lean forward and put my elbow on the table, whipping out my famous smile (I should really get it patented one of these days) as if to say, "Why, yes, as a matter of fact... I am Nick Carter." It doesn't matter how long I've been a Backstreet Boy; it never gets old. Yeah, yeah, laugh all you want, but I'm sure you'd nab the boy band label any day if only you knew just how many "benefits" there really are.

God, I love being me.

By now, Chris has managed to work his arm around the redhead as she's laughing at his every little joke and running her fingers over his hair (mental note: ask Chris what kind of gel he uses - those spikes are killer) like it's the greatest thing since sliced bread. Honestly, I don't see what's so great about hair when two other points of interest are clearly presenting themselves.

And boy, do they present themselves. It's almost like they're calling out to me, screaming, "Touch me! Squeeze me!" Maybe she'd let me test her for breast cancer. Or maybe she needs to be specially fitted for something. Obviously, there's no substitute for bare hands, but if I had to guess, I'd say a couple of 34 (36?) D's... maybe even DD's... all wrapped up nice and snug in that teeny weeny top-

What? You want to know the color of the top? Since when the fuck did color matter?

All right, all right, I can see you're a detail-oriented person. Fine. The top's red-

What shade of red? God, I don't know! Crimson, scarlet, vermillion... pick your poison; I don't care. Now let me move on with the damn story!

Anyway, back to the redhead with the big bouncing boobies...

Actually, with her whole getup, she's practically the spitting image of Jessica Rabbit in the flesh. Va va voom. I know I've always been a blonde magnet, but hell, if every redhead looked like this, I might just have to convert my ways. Emerald eyes, sultry voice, pouty mouth... and God, that rack... I think I can even spot a little mole peeking out of her top. What my tongue wouldn't give right now to play a little ring-around-the-rosy with Quirky and Perky. Just the thought nearly causes me to slip as I reach for my drink, attempting to ponder what is perhaps the question of life as we know it:

Are they real (dun, dun, dun...)?

And would she let me find out?

(Shit, slow down, Carter. It's not even ten yet. Pace yourself, for chrissakes.)

I realize I need a distraction, so I face Bean, which is the equivalent of jumping into an ice cold shower. Turns out the brunette had been dumb enough to ask him where his nickname came from, and now he's running down an entire list of all the different types of farts known to mankind. Yes, I said farts. Did you know that the kind of food a person eats determines whether or not the fart will smell?

Me, neither. Nor did I want to know.

Bean's explaining to the brunette that flatulence is only natural, but by the look on her face, I can tell she thinks there's nothing natural about this guy. And as for me, let's just say that there's a definite failure to launch.

I take another sip of Corona, tilting back in my chair as my eyes circle the table once more. Yep, these are my boys: Chris and Bean. You can't count on them for much of anything, but you can sure count on them for a good time. There's a chance you may die of alcohol poisoning, but at least you won't die of boredom.

And then there's the blonde to the right of me.

Like I said before, I typically gravitate towards blondes (fuck, who am I kidding? I draw them), but in this case, my eyes had the tendency to pass over her. I'd been too busy drooling over the redhead and her DD's in all their magnificent glory.

Right, not thinking about those.

Since the sight of Bean nauseates me, and I can't look at the redhead without getting a massive boner, I figure I might as well grant the blonde a second chance. Stealing a glance out of the corner of my eye, I give her the ol' Carter once-over: down, up, down, and - here's the kicker - back up again. So it really becomes a twice-over, but who's keeping track?

Remember the whole thing about the fox and the ugly duckling? Well, let me spell it out for you - redhead: fox. Actually, she's more like a vixen; vixen even sounds sexy rolling off the tongue. And the blonde... it's not that she's ugly by any means, but when it comes to TV shopping, are you going to pick any old standard model or the HD plasma screen? Sure, the standard works just fine, but it's certainly not in the same class as the plasma. Not even close.

I know... you're thinking, can I be any more insensitive? But I'm just telling it like it is. Okay, maybe the blonde isn't that bad-looking. She is cute, I suppose... in the way that puppy dogs or newborn babies are cute. You gush over them for about five minutes or so, and after patting them on the head, you lose interest and move on to something else. Like foxes. Woof.

Compared with her friends, the blonde's outfit is pretty tame, dressed in one of those short, white skirts with all that frilly shit girls seem to like nowadays, along with a modest pink tank top. Not low-cut or anything. Seriously, give us some fucking material to go off of! But whatever... she must not like to drink; I always thought the idea was that the less clothes you wore to a bar, the more free drinks you got, but maybe she hadn't figured that one out yet.

Then again, it appears I've spoken too soon, for she twists in the direction of the entrance, revealing the skimpy web backing to her top.

Now we're talking.

My smirk shows my appreciation as I perform a proper examination of her backside, feasting on her creamy skin and the smooth curves of her shoulders and areas further south. She's got this real sexy-looking tattoo sitting on her left shoulder blade, which absolutely fascinates me. It's a tiny white rose. I know, a white rose? What the fuck? Wouldn't you think it'd be red? But as I would later discover, this chick's anything but ordinary.

After getting that nice little view of her back, I try and edge in a side view of her frontal assets, but maybe what's left to the imagination isn't so bad after all. Not ideal, but the way I see it, under whatever she's wearing, she's completely naked. It's possible she could be hiding a pair of DD's, too, right?

Dammit, now I gotta know.

The blonde shifts in her seat, giving off this vibe like she might actually be a little uncomfortable. I know. Why would she be uncomfortable? Sitting at the table next to me? Me? Maybe Bean's farting fetish scared her. That had to be it. Hell, I'd probably want to duck out, too, if I didn't know Bean so well.

I down the rest of my drink and set the bottle back down. Time for a refill (gotta keep Corona in business, you know). As I look around the table, I realize that our new female friends are missing one key element: alcohol. Shame on us! I had been so distracted by Jessica Rabbit and her friends that I had forgotten to offer - and do you honestly think I could depend on Chris and Bean to do the polite thing? Really. I don't know what they'd do without me. Probably never get laid, the motherfuckers.

So I stand up and make a little announcement. "I'm going up to the bar for another beer. Do you ladies want something?"

The brunette nods her head towards me. "I'll have a Bud Light."

Blondie seems to warm up to the offer as she blushes and flips her hair back. "A cranberry and vodka, please."

And the foxy redhead purses her lips, and I swear I can see some sort of devilish glint in her eyes. "I want Sex on the Beach."

Whoa... need an instant replay, here. She wants sex on the beach? Dayum. This girl is just way too much!

"Oh, you do?"

(Oops... did I actually say that out loud? I'm going to have to watch myself around this one.)

She shoots me a playful smile, and for a second or two, my eyes lower once more towards my new best friends, Quirky and Perky. But before my thoughts can go any further, Bean and Chris interrupt my moment and ask me to get them two more Coronas. What the fuck do I look like? I may be Mr. Popstar and all, but I make it a point to only buy drinks for gorgeous girls that like to dance the horizontal tango. Sorry, guys. I do love you, but you gotta do something on your own.

So I excuse myself and make my way up to the bar, which is crowded as all hell, of course. Why is it that everyone has to order drinks at the same goddamn time? I bet people plan it that way on purpose.

Anyway, as I'm waiting, I look back at the girls. It's amazing how much you can learn about a woman's personality just from their choice in alcoholic beverages. Take, for instance, the brunette. She's a beer girl, obviously. Not quite as girly as the other two, but still has that natural look working for her, which can be just as sexy. The blonde is a little more complex. She wants a cranberry and vodka - not exactly the most unique drink in the world. Simple, but you can never seem to taste the vodka until you're already too drunk to care. I got a feeling there's some kind of inner freak hiding in that girl somewhere. Then there's Jessica Rabbit... oh, God, what can I say about her that hasn't already been said? Do I really need to even bother analyzing her personality? Her boobs got enough personality to end worldwide hunger. That is, if personality was eatable. Edible. Whatever.

(Just go with it.)

So, you wanna know what kind of drink I could be compared to?

Good question. We all know that I've been crowned with the Corona stereotype, but I'd have to say I'm like a margarita: I'm sweet and sour at the same time. But when you drink me, I make you feel hella good.

(Like that one, huh? It took me a whole entire night to think up.)

Man, speaking of margaritas, I could really go for one right now, but I must fulfill my duty to Corona! Well... that, and Chris and Bean would call me a pussy for picking such a girly drink.

It's finally my turn at the bar, so I order the drinks and all that fun shit. You would think that my so-called friends would see me struggling to carry two beers and two cocktails and jump up to help me, but nope! They just snicker, watching me trying to juggle it all in my arms. Fuckers... I'll get them for this.

I sit back down and realize that we still haven't made proper introductions yet. Hmm, that would probably be a good idea, wouldn't it? I'm getting a little sick of referring to the girls by their hair color, to be honest, and you're probably sick of hearing it. So when I start to distribute the drinks, I put an end to this nonsense. "You girls already seem to know who we are, but what are your names?"

The brunette accepts her beer and takes a swig before responding. "I'm Katherine, but people call me Kat."

Bean smirks. "Kat? Like Kat... as in, rawr?" Yes, he even makes the whole tiger growl, air claw and everything. I think I may have to explain to the poor girl later that Bean really isn't my friend. He's just a homeless guy I found sitting on a street corner and took pity upon.

The redhead rolls her eyes at Bean before introducing herself. I lean forward a bit, curious to learn her real name. "I'm Jessica."

I almost choke on my drink. Talk about coincidences! "Jessica? No shit..." There goes that voice again. Why can't I keep my thoughts to myself?

Those emerald eyes stare at me like I've just grown another head. "What do you mean, ‘no shit?'"

Shit, Carter... think! Think! "You, uh, just look like a Jessica." It's not a lie... exactly.

After what seems like an eternity, she finally buys it. "Well, thanks, I guess."

(B-E-A-utiful save, Carter. You didn't even break a sweat.)

I turn towards the blonde, who just fucking sits there, sipping her drink. She's been silent ever since I've returned back to the table. I'm already placing bets on what her name is. Probably something plain, like Mary, or Ann, or maybe even something old lady-ish like Joan. Or, God forbid... Jane. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I'm pretty much forced to ask, "What's your name, babe?"

She bites her lip before answering. "Chastity."

Chastity?! Who the fuck names their kid Chastity? Damn, I feel bad for her. All the teasing she probably had to go through. I bet she's gotten quite a few "Chastity belt" jokes throughout the years.

Then it hits me. I don't know why I didn't pick up on it sooner. Is my virgin alert malfunctioning or something?

(And yes, every guy has a virgin alert installed inside their brain. It's a red - or is it green? - light that flashes every time a virgin is within twenty feet. Well, in my case, it's usually at least fifty. What? You don't believe me?)

But now that I take another good look of her, it all makes sense. She might as well tattoo a big letter V on her forehead.

Jessica chimes in and sets things straight. "Would you cut out the Chastity business?" Yes, this chick definitely has some attitude. "Her name isn't really Chastity. It's Charlotte. She just insists on being called by that ridiculous name."

"It's not?" Now I'm confused. Thoroughly confused. Not that that's much of an achievement on their part.

Chastity or Charlotte or what-the-fuck-ever her name is finally speaks up with more emotion than I've heard from her all night. "I prefer Chastity. I think it sounds kind of hot. You know, like Madonna, or Cher, or Xtina."

God, and people think I'm pretentious. Next thing you know, she'll be referring to herself in the third person.

(And before you do a double-take - which I know you will - yes, I did just say pretentious. I know what the general consensus is - ooh, watch out, another big word - but I do know what a dictionary is and how to use it. I just don't act like it. What can I say? Everyone loves a dumb blonde.)

"Yeah, hot... whatever." Jessica exchanges a look with me and stifles a grin that seems to say, "Don't mind my friend. Her doctor had to up her dosage."

Chastity puts her hands on her hips. Are her feathers actually getting ruffled? "Chastity is a hot name! Go ahead and laugh now! But someday, when I'm rich and famous, you'll be sorry!"

Wow... this is getting to be some serious shit. And I'm sitting smack dab in the middle of the crossfire. I wonder if they'll start going at it soon. Now that could be "kind of hot."

I glance over at both Chris and Bean, their eyes about to pop out, among other body parts. I can tell they're thinking the exact same thing. That's right; let's see a good old chick fight with plenty of hair pulling and boob grabbing for all. Oh, yeah. Front row seats and everything. I could really go for a bucket of popcorn right now.

However, Kat intervenes before the situation really heats up. "If she prefers to be called Chastity, just call her Chastity, Jessica. It's easier than getting into a fight over it. You know how she gets." Kat's clearly the peacemaker out of the bunch. Bitch.

Jessica crosses her arms, silently giving in. What the hell? What happened to the little spitfire? She better put on a better show in bed; that's for sure.

Chastity's grinning like the Cheshire Cat, almost as if she's just made a touchdown and wants to pull a Randy Moss. She snorts as if she means to say, "Ha! Take that, Jessica! In yo' face!"

(Mental note: Keep in mind to call her Chastity and not Charlotte. Who knows what she might do if I accidentally cross paths with her? I hope she's not particularly fond of castration.)

Thankfully enough, "Don't Cha" by the Pussycat Dolls suddenly blares over the speakers. I say thankfully because all three of the girls perk right up, gushing and squealing, "Oh, my God, I love this song!"

(No, really? Say that a little louder, and then I might believe you.)

Of course, they have to start singing the damn song.

"Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Don't you wish your girlfriend was a freak like me? Don't cha, don't cha? Don't you wish your girlfriend was raw like me? Don't you wish your girlfriend was fun like me?

"Don't cha, don't cha?"

Oh, hells, yeah.

I'm noticing that maybe they've done a bit of pre-gaming earlier, because I tell you, right then, a fucking miracle happens. A fucking miracle. Jessica, the obvious ringleader, plants a foot on her chair, climbs on top of the table, and begins dancing. Dancing. Sashaying her hips, licking her lips - the whole fucking routine. Seconds later, Kat jumps up next to her. Now there are two gorgeous women grinding up against each other on the table right above me.

Hot. Damn. Life is good.

Jessica extends a hand towards Chastity, begging her to join them. "Come on, Chastity! Dance with us!"

For some reason only God knows why, Chastity's looking around and hesitating. "I don't know. I don't think I'm drunk enough for this."

Kat pushes her even more. "But it's our song! You have to! Please, join us?"

(Yes, please, join them! Please, please, please! For the love of God, don't make me drag your ass up there!)

If I've never believed in prayer before, I sure as hell do now. I mean, three hot girls dancing together on a table right in front of you? The only other place you'd see shit like this is a strip club, and that, you'd have to pay for. Not that I couldn't afford it, but what guy in their right mind would turn down what's practically spoon fed to him?

(Seriously, if Chastity doesn't start hauling ass in the next couple of seconds, I'm going to have to get up there myself. Well, I might do that, anyway. But I could break the table. Dammit.)

Chastity finally caves and lets them hoist her up (hallelujah!). We've gathered quite an audience by now, and the ladies totally seem to be getting off on it (I know I'd be getting off on it). The more whistles and catcalls people toss out, the crazier their dance moves are. It truly is the most awe-inspiring thing I've ever seen. I think I might even cry; it's just that beautiful. Judging by how far Bean's jaw has dropped and the number of obscene comments spurting from Chris's mouth, it looks like they're about ready to fall on their knees as well.

Even Chastity, who was painfully on the stiff side at first, appears to have found her groove. And actually, once you get her going, that girl knows her shit. Maybe even as good as Jessica.

Okay, whoa, wait. Let's not go that far just yet. But I sure wouldn't mind showing her some of my moves out on the dance floor later... and maybe a few "extracurricular" activities as well. Heh, heh. Horizontal tango, here I come.

It's at that point, I look up, and I think I'm staring into the face of God herself. From the angle I'm sitting, I have a clear view right up their skirts. Holy shit. I immediately poke Chris and Bean to bring this to their attention, and they look like they've just pissed themselves as they check out the goods. Bean slowly leans over and cranes his neck upwards, mesmerized (or just plain drunk) as he calls out, "Well, hello up there!" I try and yank him back, but Kat beats us to the punch. Or kick. Literally.

(Good girl. I like ‘em feisty.)

All of a sudden, Chris grabs my arm and jerks me over. He gestures towards Jessica and mouths the words, "No panties."

He's joking, right? He's gotta be fucking joking.

I only have to tilt my head slightly to get a better look... and sure enough, he's right. And I just about explode in my pants; I've seen the light. Hallelujah (I really don't say that enough), I've seen the light! My God, I love this woman! Chris doesn't deserve her. Well... maybe he can have her after I'm done. Chris usually gets my sloppy seconds, and then Bean gets thirds. That's the whole hierarchy between us.

Just to be fair, I manage to pry my eyes from underneath Jessica's skirt long enough to give Chastity some visual lovin'. She really seems to be getting into it now. Dancing, singing, and gyrating with the other girls like it's a fucking orgy. It almost seems as if she's a little too into it (I know, I know; I'm just talking crazy now).

What happens next is hard to describe because I can't exactly remember it very well (and believe it or not, I've only had two beers by then). Chris and Bean tell me she kind of lifted her leg to shift her weight while dancing, so I assume that's what had happened. All I remember is a high-heeled white sandal hurling off of her foot.

Right at my head.

I think it hit me in the temple. Maybe even got close to the eye. Wherever it hit, it hurt like one motherfucking bitch. And to this day, I can still clearly see her stunned expression and her hand flying to her mouth just before my face met with the floor.

I should've known right then that the girl was trouble.