|
|
|
Dear Me, I suffer from premature ejection; for those unaware of this rare and incurable disorder (Most of our, as yet limited readership, I suspect) I will explain. This unfortunate condition, which is entirely psychosomatic and self-inflicted, compels me to seek out and enter certain nocturnal and post-nocturnal establishments from which I am very likely to be expelled in short order. It is an addiction. I target those nondescript buildings where loud, repetitive music assaults the eardrums of its clientele, consisting mainly of group-oriented folks who like wearing black and scowling. They sit in the darkness on plush sofas and watch their girlfriends, of questionable age but unquestionable beauty, sway to the music and shake their heads - in pre-emptive refusal of any possible overtures I may make, no doubt. I skulk in through the door, fully aware that people I know have recently been removed or asked to remove themselves by the aforementioned "groupsters", and also expecting that the same is very likely to happen to me. After all, I am entering territory hostile to the average, white booty hunter. I just can't help myself. It's nine in the morning. My eyes are rolling back in my head, I've already chewed half way through my inner cheeks and I'll soon need a new jawbone, but I must go on. After blowing my complimentary drink voucher on a bottle of water, I try to lean inconspicuously against the railing in the upstairs, "VIP" area. Unfortunately, being one of only two foreigners in the whole place, I do a lousy job. They know I'm here already. I talk to the other "whitey" - an American guy who identifies himself only as "Scott". A friendly enough fellow, he bounces around the bar and approaches several young ladies. I'm stunned. He is still here. Don't these people care that he's hitting on their women? Am I in the right place? I start to sweat a little more than I was before. My fix is at risk. I must suffer at least one premature ejection today. I must! And (Apologies to our English-teaching readership for starting a sentence with that awful word) the more ignominious the better!! I observe Scott's actions closely. He seems to be on unusually good terms with the sofa warmers. He talks, they laugh. They talk, he nods. I wedge myself between two fellow patrons and try to make friends One of them, a girl whose face is concealed by a baggy hat and sunglasses, seems determined not to give me the time of day. She's just playing hard to get! The other is a camp Taiwanese guy with green oil he keeps rubbing on his hands then holding over my nose. I think he's jealous that I'm talking to hat girl (To our no doubt burgeoning gay readership I would like to say that, though my own loins don't burn for boys, none of this perturbed me in any way). In any case, I later discover he's been appointed babysitter by her boyfriend. A spy!! Mr America bounds past: "Hey, how're you doin'??¡K.. Me, oh I can't really tell you what I'm doin' in Taiwan¡K. Well, if I told you, then everyone else would want to do it too, wouldn't they? ¡K You see those guys? They're my employers; own half the goddamned country. The day after I arrived, I woke up and found a brand new Merc in my drive¡K. No shit. They said it was just to drive around in! ¡K. Don't really know how long I'm here for. I've got a wife and kids back in the States¡K. Yup. Got married at sixteen. Now I've got three kids¡K. Now? I'm 22 years old man." He goes on to inform me that his familial ties are not going to present him with any moral dilemma when he accompanies the voluptuous young table dancer, now pivoting and wiggling all over his alleged benefactors' table, back to wherever it is he intends take her. She's off her face, but still attractive in her figure-hugging dress. He turns and skips off in pursuit of yet another passing skirt. Of course, the all the neural pathways of my cerebral cortex have been re-sculpted and deep fried by this stage. Consequently, I find his frankness and sincerity touching and his unlikely spiel not only feasible, but utterly unquestionable. How could it be otherwise? How could somebody be so malicious as to take the piss or mislead me in any way whatsoever? Inconceivable! I shrug it off and occupy myself by watching the steaming pit of human flesh swirling in the green, laser beams beneath me like a vat of stinky tofu gone awry. It descends in a glowing sheet - a giant body scan [???] that washes over the dancing mass, like a baptism absolving them of all the night's sins. Sinking down onto their heads and shoulders, it falls lower, sags a little, then fragments as suddenly as the structure of a chemically constructed sentence early on Sunday morning, exploding into a million sharp slivers of light that seem to lodge themselves in the dancing faces and black walls at their backs. Scott's back; shoulder's hunched a little this time. "Hey dude. The guys I'm with don't want me talkin' to you¡K. Well, it's weird, they think we already know each other and I brought you here to get you in on the deal¡K. They're pretty pissed about it. Cont'd on PE2 |
|
