This Could Be The Story Of Your Mom And You
- 3 years ago
- 11
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I was flying into Shanghai for a business conference and still felt like shit from the giardia I contracted on the last leg of my hiking trip through Nepal.
Not to mention that I was shaken by the turbulent ride over the Himalayas, having watched the snowy peaks of the mountains, like a bed of nails below us, as the plane’s cabin violently shook, and passengers screamed.
The plane sliced in through the smog, and several people on board applauded as we touched down safely to Pudong Airport…
After immigration, collecting my bags, I caught a cab and we set off into the bustling Shanghai traffic, and I gazed out at the massive city-state, its endless series of structures that were so alive, all glowing and glimmering, flashing their night colors.
My driver’s bouffant hair bobbed in the bumpy ride. He leaned back and asked me directions and I told him I’d never been to Shanghai, didn’t know where my hotel was, aside from its name, or location on GPS.
He cursed in a local Shanghai dialect that sounded more like Japanese. He looked pissed. It was the first time I’d been asked directions by a cab driver in a foreign country.
The cabbie suddenly pulled over, stopped in the breakdown lane of the highway. Big beeping trucks whizzed by us. A scarlet Lamborghini careened inches away, at breakneck speed.
I handed the driver my phone. After a shouting match with my hotel’s front desk, he finally figured out the way...
We chugged into the city, into the Bund area, passed by the waterfront’s colonial architecture and nearby glittering glass towers, sprawling malls and department stores selling luxury brands.
Finally arriving at the hotel, a burgundy, art deco colossus, the bellboy met me and whisked away my bags.
When I greeted the front desk staff in Mandarin, a pony-tailed, rail-thin, post-college age girl in red/black Hanfu replied to me in impeccable English. Her demeanor was gruff, her voice plangent, and her horn-rim glasses practically the size of grapefruits…
She averted eye contact, monotonously rattled off the breakfast buffet time, location, check out time, and handed me a key card, said the bags were already in the room. After handing my passport back to me, with both hands, she pointed me in the direction of the elevator and returned to her phone.
“Service with a smile” wasn’t a thing at this hotel, like most of China, I surmised, but it was sort of pleasant, sometimes, how no one kissed your ass or gave a general fuck…
On the 7th floor, I wandered through a cavernous hallway that was adorned with antique decor and Mondrian replicas and finally found my room, #721, and entered the fancy, compact, slightly dusty-smelling quarters.
The bed was queen-sized, with a comfy memory foam, super soft mattress - unlike the usual cement-style beds of Asia, and the furniture was a charming walnut color; the lamps, phones were vintage, 1930sesque.
The room’s only window, a single casement, next to the bed, led only to a direct view of the adjacent building’s red brick exterior.
I dumped my stuff. Got situated. The night was still young, and my stomach was growling for a better dinner than the microwave fare, beef noodle slop from the plane.
I went out, stopped by a tasty local restaurant, next door to the hotel, and had a sweet duck dish accompanied by steamed rice and stir-fried Cantonese cabbage. As I clamped my chopsticks on the last few bits of crispy duck skin, I received a text from my coworker, Denny, who was also in town for the conference.
Ole’ Disco Denny, The Wildman, told me he’d just arrived and was headed to a bar and that I should meet him there.
Though my stomach was still queasy from the giardia, I didn’t want to waste my first night in Shanghai doing my quotidian routine of TV, book, sleep. So I decided to join him, hoping to maybe meet a local lady or that a shot or two of whisky down the gullet might kill off the rest of the virus in my guts...
二
It was November, so it had rained and gotten colder, damper, as time passed deeper into night, and walking out of the restaurant, my breath appeared like vaporous mist.
Appropriately, I selected “November Rain” from my playlist, blasted Slash’s glorious guitar into my earbuds and zipped up my leather jacket, stepped and dodged through the masses of humanity in the streets, and I let Siri guide me to the subway.
There were 1.4 billion people in this country, and in places like Shanghai, it sure felt like that many…
Everywhere, there were people. People on every corner, in every building, every car, every bus, pretty much every inch of the city center had a person in or near it.
Most, like any metropolis, minded their business, hurried along, but I noticed an unusual number of obnoxious touts.
The touts mostly fell into two categories: either halfway decent looking young girls, speaking perfect English, on about trying local tea, or short, pushy, tacky dressed middle-aged guys, like gnomes, poking fake, gaudy watches in my face, grunting repeatedly, “Rolex, Rolex!”
These touts were practically the only people who paid attention to me, unlike other Chinese cities where simply being a foreigner rendered you a curiosity, a thing to be gawked at, taken pictures of, pointed at, yelled “hello” at, and basically considered a zoo animal.
I paid little attention to the touts, did my best to avoid eye contact, politely nodded “no” if we did lock eyes, and kept my earbuds firmly affixed...
Shanghai’s subway, despite being massively crowded, was impressive, state-of-the-art, almost futuristic, and it quickly carried me to the bar’s vicinity, which was only a few stops away. Riding the escalator up to street level, I swiped through my GPS, located the bar, which turned out to be a restro-pub, in a gargantuan shopping center close by...
I rode up another escalator inside the shopping center, spotted my destination: “Cowboys Bar and Grill.”
Walking in through the open, arched double doors, I noticed the place was packed. But I also picked up on something funny. There were no women there. Only dudes. At first, I thought this was because of China’s gender disparity.
But scanning around, examining closer, I observed how all the guys were buff or at least in decent shape.
They were mostly young, too, with well-trimmed hair, and dressed quite stylishly.
Gazing over at the walls, I saw posters of Madonna, Lady Gaga, Queen, Jason Momoa, and then, yes, a rainbow flag.
It was a gay bar.
Ah, shit, I thought to myself. Probably wouldn’t meet a lady at this place.
I was surprised Denny had invited me here. He’d never struck me as gay, but I don’t have the best gaydar.
I’d known Denny to be a skirt-chasing maniac. Wait, was he maybe bi?
He was a prankster, though, always pulling gags in the office. Perhaps it was a joke?
I wasn’t sure, but I decided to take advantage of the “fabulous” drink special, slam a couple of shots to finish off the virus, then have a stroll around the city, then head back to the hotel, creep online, probably jerk off to phone porn, the usual…
After draining a trio of Russian vodka shots, in rapid-fire succession, and paying the African drag queen bartender, who’d winked at me several times, I texted Denny to see if he was at the bar. He replied with only a rainbow flag pic. Sneaky bastard!
Slightly crapulous, I decided to one-up him, and I made a fake Grindr profile, with his pic, social media, and phone number, and I showed it to the drag queen bartender, asked her to post it on the bar’s Weibo page.
Figured Disco Denny Boy would have some interesting correspondences tonight…
三
The drag queen waved sentimentally, feigned heartbreak as I left, and on my way to the subway stop, I happened upon a massage place that looked legit and decided to get a leisurely rubdown.
The place was attached to a chain hotel and had the usual foyer, front counter that took your shoes, confirmed which package you’d like.
I chose oil.
A balding, shifty-eyed, runty fifty-ish man in gray “Guccci” sweatpants and sweatshirt led me up a flight of stairs, down a dingy hallway, into a KTV room.
“No, I wanted an oil massage, not karaoke,” I affirmed, but my words fell on deaf ears, and he scurried out.
I sat into the butterscotch brown leather couch in the center of the room, thinking perhaps another attendant would arrive to take me to the massage quarters.
But a second later, in slinked a very, very pretty young girl, maybe mid-twenties, and slim, with catwalk legs…
The China Doll, the geisha white Asian beauty had sparkling sapphire lenses in her epicanthic eyes. She was simply radiant in her black spandex miniskirt barely covering her pelvis. And her white button-down blouse showcased a most yummy, spicy pair of round B-cup boobies!
This was some serious Kung Pao Pussy…
Her wavy, midnight mane was waist-length, parted to the left, and she swept it over her shoulder, sauntered towards me, like a kitten, her black pumps speaking with the cherry laminate flooring.
Wordlessly, she sat on my lap, crossed her black floral pattern pantyhose-sheathed legs, and wrapped her warm arms around me.
What the fuck? I thought to myself. Had I mistakenly come to a brothel? I wasn’t sure what I’d gotten myself into. But I certainly knew where I wanted to get into...
“You have pretty eye,” the mysterious Geisha said to me, in a sultry voice. Her breath had a whiff of fruity candy to it.
“How about the other eye?” I quipped, wondering if my humor would land. But it didn’t. And she just quizzically stared at me for a second, like I was an asshole.
Sarcasm and plurals don’t usually translate well into the Chinese syntax.
Geisha licked her dark red, wide lips, leaned in and pecked me, and then backed away and timidly giggled.
I leaned towards her, pecking her softly. Her gem-like eyes widened with an expression of shock, and she shifted her gaze, for a split second, staring down at the floor, as if mired in trepidation, but then she swiveled her face back to mine and replied by kissing me again - this time slipping in her tongue.
And we were going at it, tongue-punching, sloppy, nasty, wet and wild smooching, tickling tonsils…
Hard to complain about snogging a yellow chick this smoking hot, but her kissing technique needed improvement; it was callow, far too aggressive.
I attempted to guide her with gentler, more romantic motions, lighter dips and dashes, but it was in vain, and I relented, matched her ferocity, reckless abandon, and then slipped my hand up into her blouse, over her microfiber, wireless bra, teasing and squeezing on her fantastic, pert little honey tits.
I broke our kiss, laid the Geisha Girl on the couch, hiked up her skirt, and marveled at her T-string thong panties, which were jet black, had strings like dental floss, and I gulped when I caught sight of one of her dark pink pussy lips poking out the V…
My cock was calescent, and it bulged, hardened stiff as cement. The Geisha reached up and lightly patted my tumescent little brother, over my jeans, and smiled approvingly, devilishly.
I reached down to yank her panties off, free her vagina, but my hands froze at the sight of another woman entering the room.
Sadly, it was not another super-hot chick. It was an older, frumpy cow with a bowl-cut hairdo. An obese Auntie in an aqua blue velvet jumpsuit.
The fat fucking bitch was angry, too, and ugly as a dragon...
四
Not sure if I was mistakenly molesting the boss bitch’s daughter, I relented my perving, sat back into the couch. I felt like a naughty schoolboy.
The Auntie appeared happier, seeing that I’d taken my hands away from the chick’s pussy.
The Geisha smiled at the Auntie, then looked and smiled at me, fixed her skirt and sat her hot tight ass onto my lap, its heat blanketing, grinding into my erection.
Giggling, Geisha hugged me and ran her fingers through my hair…
The Auntie plopped down next to us, the couch shaking, squeaking as she sat into it, and with a Cheshire grin, she said, “hello,” and told me that I looked like a white Drake. Given her age, nationality, I was surprised she even knew who that was.
Auntie spoke English quite well and asked me lots of questions, about my job, salary, where I was from, where I was staying. I lied in all my answers. I told her my name was Charles Bukowski and I was a police officer from Kansas City, visiting Shanghai before a cruise.
I thought that saying I was a cop might put her off, do away with whatever funny business might be about to go down. Maybe she’d go away and let me return to molesting the Mystery Geisha.
But it didn’t seem to make a difference, and while I spoke with the Auntie, with Mystery Geisha’s tight ass burning into my lap, an impish, fifty-ish bucktooth motherfucker, in a tacky suit, like a caricature of a British butler, brought in several trays of drinks, food, and then ducked out the room quickly.
Noticing the food, not wanting it, not having ordered it and not having a good feeling about where things were going, my dick shriveled like a frightened turtle, and I cut short the convo with Auntie.
“I didn’t order that food. Um, I think I’ll go now…” I said, as I politely loosened and lowered the Geisha from off me and got up from the leather sofa.
Right as my knees straightened, a trio of pissed off dudes burst in, the three assholes in a triangle formation. One upfront, two behind.
The frontman was thirty-ish and effete, dressed in tight-fitting bright blue slacks and a hot pink polo shirt.
The other two wore the same Guccci sweatsuits as the front counter guy, but they were younger and far taller, bigger and rougher- between the two of them they probably didn’t have a full set of teeth.
The effeminate one, Pink Shirt, slipped me a handwritten bill for 2100 RMB. About $300.
The Auntie and Geisha Girl promptly left the room smirking.
Watching Geisha’s pear-shaped ass as she girlishly stepped away, I knew heartbreak…
Pink Shirt had an angry scowl, but, given how thin he was, and seeing his tight, loud-colored clothes, and then noticing he had a man-bun, it was hard to take him seriously.
I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more. The man-bun or the bullshit bill.
“You pay for food!” Pink Shirt proclaimed, as menacingly as he could.
The other two goons, who didn’t look like they couldn’t fight, stood blocking the doorway, making their best war-faces too.
Ah, shit, here it was. I was being Shanghaied!
五
I evaluated my options.
A: Do I pay them, which would encourage them to continue their nefarious deeds?
Fuck no!
B: Do I call the police?
In China?! Yeah right! There’s no rule of law in China! These assholes probably ARE police officers or are paying off, drinking buddies with, or cousins of the coppers.
C: Do I try to fight them?
Well, I’m in decent shape, was an amateur boxer many moons ago.
BUT, if I beat them down, I go to jail, wind up like Wendell Brown... Even though there were three of them, it’d probably be easy to fuck them up. Contrary to popular Western belief, very few Chinese, in China, nowadays, know Kung Fu, or have ever been in a real fight.
BUT, if they did know Kung Fu, went Jackie Chan on my ass, I’d get my face smashed, get robbed, go to the hospital, pay extortionate medical bills, and maybe ALSO go to jail, all of which would totally suck.
Lose-Lose, Option C.
So, I chose Option D.
Buy time…
“Hey,” I pleaded, “I’m really sorry, guys. But I don’t have that sorta money on me. I’m a tourist. I don’t have that Ali- thingamajig. I really don’t want any trouble. Look, let’s go out by the subway station. There’s an ATM. I’ll pay you in cash,” I promised, speaking as conciliatorily as I could, holding my arms in the air as if the goons were cops pointing guns.
Then, without warning, without calculation, I ripped a thunderclap of a fart, a giardia, rotten egg stinker.
The three recoiled, covered and held their noses, retched and shook their heads in disgust. I thought the stink might paralyze them, allow me time to make a run for it, escape, but after the initial impact, they regrouped and hastily gathered their minds.
They spoke amongst each other in their local dialect. I couldn’t understand any of it. One of the ruffians seemed to have objections, was loudly motioning at me, yelling something, but Pink Shirt overruled him.
“Okay. We take you,” Pink Shirt said, nodding me towards the door.
The three assholes allowed me to pass, followed closely behind me. Walking down the hallway, I saw the Geisha Girl, two other pretties and Auntie sitting at a green felt table, smoking cigarettes, laughing and playing mahjong.
Shit, at least I kissed her, felt her up, saw her pussy lip, I thought, consoling myself...
I wanted my shoes, my Air Jordan 1 Low Laser Blues, but Pink Shirt wouldn’t let me have them. The man-bun fuck!
“You get shoe after you pay,” he growled, and pointed me to the door, and I stepped out into the cold wet misty night wearing flip-flop type slippers with no socks.
The three following behind me, I knew it was time to make my move.
I stopped, arched my ass directly at them and let out another violent, effluvial fart.
The noxious burst of gas temporarily stunned them, and I kicked off my slippers and tore off running, into the crowded street, dodging and shoving by masses of people, nearly knocking over a little pajama-wearing dancing granny, who shrieked loudly after I bumped into her.
The three fucks gave chase, but I was faster, and I knew I had to ditch them quickly or else they might catch up or enlist the help of a cop who’d surely take their side in the matter.
I ran into the road, alongside traffic, and the road’s surface, the bitumen, felt gentler and warmer than that of the rough sidewalk.
WHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRRR was all I heard, and BAM, an e-bike slammed into me.
The driver, a deliveryman, and I, in tandem, collapsed, crashed to the ground, and the food in a plastic bag hanging from the handlebar of his bike- rice, veggies, mystery meat- went splashing into and over the asphalt like a modern art painting.
The trio chasing me, upon seeing the accident, stopped and stood panting and wheezing, frowned at me and briskly walked off in the other direction.
It was then the adrenaline receded, and a massive surge of pain rushed over me.
I looked down and saw my right leg bent out of shape, grotesquely, a fucking Gordon Hayward.
Cars in the vicinity drove by, honking, as I lay there.
The deliveryman, not seriously hurt, at least not like me, nothing broken, I guess, got up, dusted off his mustard yellow jumpsuit, slid up his helmet’s visor and cursed at me, picked up his bike and zoomed off.
People nearby took pics with their phones. Many stood and stared.
Grimacing, I fished out my phone from my jean pocket and called the conference organizer, told her I’d been in a traffic accident, sent her my GPS coordinates.
She said she’d call an ambulance, and I dragged myself to the curb, sat and waited, pissed about getting Shanghaied, pissed about breaking my leg, losing my Jordans, and pissed I couldn’t bang the Geisha.
The only thing that gave me any solace was thinking of Denny’s Grindr profile and hoping he’d be getting sent dick pics and shit…
Charlize
- 25.08.2020
- 5
- 0
- Category:
- Humor
