There were several factors that led to my eventual and
admittedly inevitable patronization of a small Asian prostitute. However,
before I take that boner exhausting stroll back down memory layin' (remember to
copyright this for Norman Rockwell porn series) I feel it necessary to offer a
bit of an author's note.
Specific identities and locations have been altered or left out in order to protect those who shared in/provoked the following immoral self-indulgences. This may seem an unnecessary precaution to those with whom I've previously regaled this tale of lechery, but I feel it's only fair to not endanger certain relationships and professions because of my own need for recitation. Also, this story has a lot of my penis in it (now YOU make a joke!)
Every time I begin to tell a story about myself from the past 9-10 years, I try to preface it by describing how drunk/fucked up I was. I now realize that this may be an unnecessary step, as I really don't have much of a barometer for my levels of altered states through time, especially while living in Denton. Let's just say that this particular chapter occurred somewhere between the haze of the trailer park and the exhaustion of sunrise canoeing. Yes, the duplex days; jugs of Polar Ice and 30 packs of Keystone, kiddie pool beers and rooftop tents, heart attacks, rodents, acid on Thanksgiving and a thin wall between hip-hop and death metal. Simpler times.
In the midst of said times I was to bid a hopefully temporary farewell to a friend who had come into a bit of money to burn before their departure. We took this as an opportunity to take our party level from Dazed & Confused to Fear & Loathing in 3716 #A (yes, our address was #A, and yes, this joke is lame). I can't exactly recall the length of time this extended lost weekend took to complete, but by the time we were headed to the cat-house we were a solid 3 days drunk, jittery from blow, freshly tattooed and contemplating the bottle of Hydrocodone (Lortab?) in the cup holder.
Once we had made the u-turn on I-35, I knew our pilgrimage to the strip-mall brothel was a certainty. It was then that I decided to pop the muscle relaxer, as they had always caused a certain level of, uh, let's say girth induction, in me, which at this point seemed necessary to reach even a moderate level of solidity... balsa wood, if you will.
I've never agreed with the whole 'button on a fur coat' analogy for the condition of cocaine penis. Maybe it's because I'm not sure that fur coats have buttons, or maybe it's because I haven't seen enough fur coats in the orange-ish family. For whatever reason, the simile just doesn't sit right with me. The closest I've come to a proper description is when you've eaten most of the lifesavers and have folded a bit of the paper back over the top.
So we pull into the back lot of a nearly gated off three shop business strip next to a La Quinta Inn and walk in to what resembles the front room of a tiny money laundering shop in England. The woman behind the glass discusses things with my associate, and after a short wait a door is buzzed, unbolted and opened to reveal a tall Middle Eastern woman and a shorter East Asian woman, both in lingerie, both with smiles, both working the 3AM shift on a Tuesday.
The more Amazonian of the two offers to take me back, but I have my eye elsewhere. I had a certain expectation of how this momentous occasion would play out, and it usually mirrored The Pillow Book more than Halfaouine: Boy of the Terraces (this is an amazing joke). As subtly as I thought possible, I indicated my preference. Looking back, it was probably rather foolish to think that my desire of the other prostitute would hurt any feelings, but I truly believe that in my own mis-managed way, I was trying to treat these objects like women. So I went with the Asian whore.
The rest of the evening played out as a ribaldrous game of Saigon Says. We entered a small, romantic room with a few candles, a chair, a massage table and a large,
glaring, obviously two-way mirror. And the seduction began:
"So, what would you like?"
"Um, I don't know... I guess, just the usual, or..."
I had seen enough movies to coach me through the artful dodging of entrapment.
"You want everything?"
"Sure, yeah. Let's do... everything"
"You want take a shower?"
"Uh, okay."
"Okay, you undress."
She stepped out as I gave the mirror some raised eyebrows before a deep breath and a shrug. I pulled off my shoes and socks and carefully placed them to the side by the chair. Then my shirt, then my pants. I have no idea why I felt the need to delicately fold each item and arrange my attire in a respectable stack, but as I've tried to relate, my mind was for a bit of a wander. Now, I could feel that the downers had yet to offset the cocaine, but they had begun to affect my sense of 'giving-a-shit', so I dropped the boxer briefs and stood, staring at the door, waiting for a flicker of dicker.
The great thing was that by the time she walked in I knew that this was all going to happen regardless, so I began to relax and enjoy the ludicrous abandonment of it all. My Geisha in Gilly Hicks wrapped a towel around me and led me down a hall to what pretty much resembled a cleaner version of where Riggs was tortured in Lethal Weapon 1. Maybe not that bad; the lighting was excellent. I think I was by this point so fucked up that everything had that soft-porn glow, like vanilla candles and billowing beige bed canopies, in a Jr. High shower. Along for the ride as ever, I lost the towel and stood while our flirtatious discourse intensified.
"You want hot water, or cold?'
"Hot, hot. I mean..."
I glanced down, as if to notify her of the assistance needed before we could experience "everything". She nodded in approval and pulled out a long shower head extension, whose climaxing member was the cause of both great joy and great envy. The hot water spray-down was working it's magic as Esmeralda from earlier poked her head in and said something in Prostitutian I couldn't quite make out. She then gave me a full body scan and a wolf whistle, which I understood to be placating as I was still hanging cold-water brain.
I was then told to lie down on a sort of waterproof massage table, where I was rubbed head to toe with a washcloth of warm soaps and snake-oil (I presume), front and back. It was easily the best I have ever been washed by another human being. This went on for what felt like 12-15 minutes, and then it was time to go back to the first room. I remember thinking to myself that even if that had been everything, I would be content. Maybe even more so.
Alas, the best had yet to come.
Specific identities and locations have been altered or left out in order to protect those who shared in/provoked the following immoral self-indulgences. This may seem an unnecessary precaution to those with whom I've previously regaled this tale of lechery, but I feel it's only fair to not endanger certain relationships and professions because of my own need for recitation. Also, this story has a lot of my penis in it (now YOU make a joke!)
Every time I begin to tell a story about myself from the past 9-10 years, I try to preface it by describing how drunk/fucked up I was. I now realize that this may be an unnecessary step, as I really don't have much of a barometer for my levels of altered states through time, especially while living in Denton. Let's just say that this particular chapter occurred somewhere between the haze of the trailer park and the exhaustion of sunrise canoeing. Yes, the duplex days; jugs of Polar Ice and 30 packs of Keystone, kiddie pool beers and rooftop tents, heart attacks, rodents, acid on Thanksgiving and a thin wall between hip-hop and death metal. Simpler times.
In the midst of said times I was to bid a hopefully temporary farewell to a friend who had come into a bit of money to burn before their departure. We took this as an opportunity to take our party level from Dazed & Confused to Fear & Loathing in 3716 #A (yes, our address was #A, and yes, this joke is lame). I can't exactly recall the length of time this extended lost weekend took to complete, but by the time we were headed to the cat-house we were a solid 3 days drunk, jittery from blow, freshly tattooed and contemplating the bottle of Hydrocodone (Lortab?) in the cup holder.
Once we had made the u-turn on I-35, I knew our pilgrimage to the strip-mall brothel was a certainty. It was then that I decided to pop the muscle relaxer, as they had always caused a certain level of, uh, let's say girth induction, in me, which at this point seemed necessary to reach even a moderate level of solidity... balsa wood, if you will.
I've never agreed with the whole 'button on a fur coat' analogy for the condition of cocaine penis. Maybe it's because I'm not sure that fur coats have buttons, or maybe it's because I haven't seen enough fur coats in the orange-ish family. For whatever reason, the simile just doesn't sit right with me. The closest I've come to a proper description is when you've eaten most of the lifesavers and have folded a bit of the paper back over the top.
So we pull into the back lot of a nearly gated off three shop business strip next to a La Quinta Inn and walk in to what resembles the front room of a tiny money laundering shop in England. The woman behind the glass discusses things with my associate, and after a short wait a door is buzzed, unbolted and opened to reveal a tall Middle Eastern woman and a shorter East Asian woman, both in lingerie, both with smiles, both working the 3AM shift on a Tuesday.
The more Amazonian of the two offers to take me back, but I have my eye elsewhere. I had a certain expectation of how this momentous occasion would play out, and it usually mirrored The Pillow Book more than Halfaouine: Boy of the Terraces (this is an amazing joke). As subtly as I thought possible, I indicated my preference. Looking back, it was probably rather foolish to think that my desire of the other prostitute would hurt any feelings, but I truly believe that in my own mis-managed way, I was trying to treat these objects like women. So I went with the Asian whore.
The rest of the evening played out as a ribaldrous game of Saigon Says. We entered a small, romantic room with a few candles, a chair, a massage table and a large,
glaring, obviously two-way mirror. And the seduction began:
"So, what would you like?"
"Um, I don't know... I guess, just the usual, or..."
I had seen enough movies to coach me through the artful dodging of entrapment.
"You want everything?"
"Sure, yeah. Let's do... everything"
"You want take a shower?"
"Uh, okay."
"Okay, you undress."
She stepped out as I gave the mirror some raised eyebrows before a deep breath and a shrug. I pulled off my shoes and socks and carefully placed them to the side by the chair. Then my shirt, then my pants. I have no idea why I felt the need to delicately fold each item and arrange my attire in a respectable stack, but as I've tried to relate, my mind was for a bit of a wander. Now, I could feel that the downers had yet to offset the cocaine, but they had begun to affect my sense of 'giving-a-shit', so I dropped the boxer briefs and stood, staring at the door, waiting for a flicker of dicker.
The great thing was that by the time she walked in I knew that this was all going to happen regardless, so I began to relax and enjoy the ludicrous abandonment of it all. My Geisha in Gilly Hicks wrapped a towel around me and led me down a hall to what pretty much resembled a cleaner version of where Riggs was tortured in Lethal Weapon 1. Maybe not that bad; the lighting was excellent. I think I was by this point so fucked up that everything had that soft-porn glow, like vanilla candles and billowing beige bed canopies, in a Jr. High shower. Along for the ride as ever, I lost the towel and stood while our flirtatious discourse intensified.
"You want hot water, or cold?'
"Hot, hot. I mean..."
I glanced down, as if to notify her of the assistance needed before we could experience "everything". She nodded in approval and pulled out a long shower head extension, whose climaxing member was the cause of both great joy and great envy. The hot water spray-down was working it's magic as Esmeralda from earlier poked her head in and said something in Prostitutian I couldn't quite make out. She then gave me a full body scan and a wolf whistle, which I understood to be placating as I was still hanging cold-water brain.
I was then told to lie down on a sort of waterproof massage table, where I was rubbed head to toe with a washcloth of warm soaps and snake-oil (I presume), front and back. It was easily the best I have ever been washed by another human being. This went on for what felt like 12-15 minutes, and then it was time to go back to the first room. I remember thinking to myself that even if that had been everything, I would be content. Maybe even more so.
Alas, the best had yet to come.
I was told to lay, face-down, on the voyeur-tastic massage
table, without my towel. As I did so, I peeked over to see my gracious hostess
drop her negligee to reveal... "everything". She climbed onto my back
and began what turned out to be a much more sensuous massage than I expected,
replete with oils, subtle grinding, and hot breaths on my ears and upper back.
As it progressed, I sensed something. A presence I had not felt since... well,
probably the night before, or earlier that morning maybe. Almost on cue I was
rolled over, still mounted, as her breasts were brought up to me...
The door opened. Jasmine gave us a quick look and informed us, "All finished." She then turned and closed the door.
I had only a moment to assume that she meant her and my compatriot had completed their romp before the Asian hooker's mouth was around my wavering member.
Not business-like at all. For what seemed to be a small establishment, the level of skill and commitment was uncanny. I wasn't prepared to believe that these girls would be so convincing in their portrayals of enjoyment and desire. Not with this location. But sure enough, in what in no way was a side effect of my pre-coital consumptions, we were having hot, freshly-cleaned sex.
Her on top, close and further back, rolled over and continued. And then...
Somewhere, in the cloud of lewdness and revelry I had indulged for days, I thought I should be respectful. I reverted to what at the time was an instinctual act of not only safety, but courtesy. Forgetting my surroundings, my current activity, the profession of my sexual partner... I pulled out.
And as the world began to reappear around me, I looked down to see this woman's soft, patronized face looking back at me with disappointment. She reached down and put her hand around what I had just then realized was my prophylact-ed self. I believe I smiled a bit, and through calming breaths muttered, "force of habit."
I crawled off and sat in the chair across from our now desecrated site of passion, almost merrily awaiting some pillow-talk. She sat up, posturing herself.
"Thirsty? You want a coke, some water?"
"Um, yeah, I'll take a coke. Great."
"Okay."
She left, and I sat, naked and happy. I really believed that she would come back with two soft drinks and we would just shoot the shit for awhile. Maybe I would be the one customer she would open up to, share a little reality with. I'm empathetic, I'm charming. Wouldn't that be nice, a break from all the scum she probably puts up with in here. I think she would appreciate someone really listening to her for once.
She walked back in, no doubt ready for a coke and a smile. She only brought one cola, but so what? I took a long gulp, then looked over to her.
"So, do you have girlfriend?"
"Oh, uh... no, no, not really. No."
"Oh."
I sat still, suddenly feeling the awkwardness seeping in.
"So, should I go?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh, okay. Right. Yeah."
I dressed in a hurry and walked out to the waiting room, where my pal sat with a magazine and grin full of excrement. I hung my head a bit before releasing a chuckle, and asked if we were all settled. He said we were, and the ladies waved goodbye as we left.
Feeling almost sober, certainly invigorated, I asked to drive and we pulled away, just as another car was pulling in. After some hesitant, muted laughter we began to open up to each other. I shared my sensual epic of heated depravity, awaiting a story that would rival my own. What I got was this;
"Oh, I just got a blow job."
And she didn't even charge me for the Coke.
The door opened. Jasmine gave us a quick look and informed us, "All finished." She then turned and closed the door.
I had only a moment to assume that she meant her and my compatriot had completed their romp before the Asian hooker's mouth was around my wavering member.
Not business-like at all. For what seemed to be a small establishment, the level of skill and commitment was uncanny. I wasn't prepared to believe that these girls would be so convincing in their portrayals of enjoyment and desire. Not with this location. But sure enough, in what in no way was a side effect of my pre-coital consumptions, we were having hot, freshly-cleaned sex.
Her on top, close and further back, rolled over and continued. And then...
Somewhere, in the cloud of lewdness and revelry I had indulged for days, I thought I should be respectful. I reverted to what at the time was an instinctual act of not only safety, but courtesy. Forgetting my surroundings, my current activity, the profession of my sexual partner... I pulled out.
And as the world began to reappear around me, I looked down to see this woman's soft, patronized face looking back at me with disappointment. She reached down and put her hand around what I had just then realized was my prophylact-ed self. I believe I smiled a bit, and through calming breaths muttered, "force of habit."
I crawled off and sat in the chair across from our now desecrated site of passion, almost merrily awaiting some pillow-talk. She sat up, posturing herself.
"Thirsty? You want a coke, some water?"
"Um, yeah, I'll take a coke. Great."
"Okay."
She left, and I sat, naked and happy. I really believed that she would come back with two soft drinks and we would just shoot the shit for awhile. Maybe I would be the one customer she would open up to, share a little reality with. I'm empathetic, I'm charming. Wouldn't that be nice, a break from all the scum she probably puts up with in here. I think she would appreciate someone really listening to her for once.
She walked back in, no doubt ready for a coke and a smile. She only brought one cola, but so what? I took a long gulp, then looked over to her.
"So, do you have girlfriend?"
"Oh, uh... no, no, not really. No."
"Oh."
I sat still, suddenly feeling the awkwardness seeping in.
"So, should I go?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Oh, okay. Right. Yeah."
I dressed in a hurry and walked out to the waiting room, where my pal sat with a magazine and grin full of excrement. I hung my head a bit before releasing a chuckle, and asked if we were all settled. He said we were, and the ladies waved goodbye as we left.
Feeling almost sober, certainly invigorated, I asked to drive and we pulled away, just as another car was pulling in. After some hesitant, muted laughter we began to open up to each other. I shared my sensual epic of heated depravity, awaiting a story that would rival my own. What I got was this;
"Oh, I just got a blow job."
And she didn't even charge me for the Coke.
