But when I had big cards, I could make a killing. No matter how much I raised or re-raised, I couldn't seem to get my bejewelled Texan friend or his transatlantic counterpart out of my action. Sure, I could in no way bully my way to big pots. But, like many perceived inequalities, the sexism at this particular table could be used to my advantage. Of course, it's annoying to have a couple of big scary men chasing your cards all night, trying to prove you're a ditz. Even though I had established a solid table image by playing only strong hands, the fact that I was a young and traditionally attractive woman kept these jokers from giving me what poker players call, simply enough, respect. The other was a rowdy German who had been losing all night, throwing hundreds around like confetti.

One was a cowboy from Texas - all gold bracelets and fat diamond rings. Yet even with the blessed rush - the phenomenon known to cause other players to weep, shake, and cuss to the point of delirium - two players remained unconverted to my cause. My 'table image,' as they say in poker parlance, was optimum.

Two pairs of aces, a couple of flushes, and a number of successful bluffs had left me with a big pile of chips and an aura of confidence that gave me a huge edge over the other players.

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