Did the mama-san just ask me for a date?
"How was the massage?"
"The best ever." As it was.
"And the other?"
I gesture: So so. I'd paid for two penetrations, gotten one, but been compensated with two hours of imaginative, thorough massage, beginning with a table shower where she detailed my entire body with a scrub brush, and ending with the blood singing in my scalp. Afterwards, she lit up a cigarette, smoked half, stubbed it out, then wrapped the stub carefully up in a tissue. "Scratchy," the mama-san said, before my whore took me upstairs. "You see."
And now, in the green room, the table is laid with chopsticks and Korean savories: Pale orange sliced rounds of radishes, kimchee, chewy potatoes steeped in soy sauce with hot peppers and onions, an egg dish with tofu and chives.
The mama-san shouts downstairs: Jennifer! and for a moment I think she hasn't recycled the name, but No, not gracile Jennifer (newly endowed): a big tall slow heavy-eyed girl belting a white fluffy bathrobe round her amplitude.
She and the other whores squat round the table: the whore I just had, in clean flowered flannel pajamas: a tiny overly even-tanned half-breed in pink hot pants: a too-tall girl with a long face:
Each of them pointedly not eating the "spare ribs," which, under the sauce, seem not pig's knuckles, but elbows, or even knees. By what theory does she invite me to dinner? Can she imagine that, seeing me make a polite show of eating the ribs, the whores will eat such meat willingly?
"Where do you buy your meat?"
"Try Central Market."
"Right near here; downtown."
"I don't know that."
"Of course, you don't leave the house!"
"No, I live in the bainlieu. You show me; we drive there."
She's clearly fattening you up for something, John. Just don't let her feel your finger!
No fear, DTG...
All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."