The Bangkok Blitz Pt 2

The choice of Shio was more of a banausic selection than it was an inspirational crafting. It was a nod in tangent with the saying that sometimes, we let fate pick us. If I’ve learnt anything, it’s that hitting and scoring are two very different brackets.

Simple logic; if you hit on someone, you might not always score, but when someone hits on you, you will score – taken that you don’t fuck it up.

Shio came with a huge expectation weighted on her. This was due to my preconceived notion that, all Japanese women ruled the bed and were born with an innate talent in oral fellatio. Her predecessors were after all, women who have made me weak in places more than just the knee.

The first was an 'American' born Japanese who had silicon for tits, but had a face so hot, I could make pancakes on them all day. Then came the Japanese doll, and we all know what happened. And now that baton fell on the youthful shoulders of a young Japanese undergraduate.

God had a great sense of humour that night, putting my favourite national in my favourite nation and just to nudge things along, he throws in a table lined with whiskey, vodka and champagne. When Butterfly is drunk, everything is a great idea.

The best thing about Shio was that she quickly understood the entire dynamics of the 3 hour relationship. She didn’t ask if I was attached, or anything beyond the superficiality of age. Not even spiritual beliefs or if I supported Seppuku or even my preference between soba and udon. At least I didn’t remember any of it.

The bad thing was that she was absolutely vanilla once the lights dimmed and the fornication ran riot under the sheets. It was pretty much me doing the solo tango with a coat hanger.

Uneducated in oral sex? Now that’s vulgar. Pardon the racial stereotypes, but being raised in an era where the proliferation of Japanese porn across the cyber medium has shaped my crude perception of them as a superior race of bedside companions, I am unable to fathom a situation as such.

Now, in my myopic interpretation, a Japanese not knowing what a blowjob is, is like Indians not knowing how to assemble a computer or Singaporeans not knowing how to cheat on parking coupons. It’s incredibly dumb-founding.

When she told me that she didn’t know how to give a blowjob, I was so shocked, I almost insisted on checking her passport just to see if she might be Russian, or Puerto Rican or maybe from Jupiter even, because I never believed I’d actually hear it from a Japanese. This was like a Brazilian telling you he has never heard of soccer.

My reaction would have been punctuated with a “What?!”, but I kept my composure – it might have something to do with the copious amounts of juices in me, including a very sinful gulp of champagne – and instead took a mental note of the night and saved it as, “Must submit this story to Ripley’s believe it or not”.

We woke up hours later from TheScout’s morning call and Shio suddenly became more interested in my daily activity and planned itinerary for the coming 3 days. And there was only so much ambiguity I could run her through with, that it degenerated into her solution of,

“Call me when you know, ya?”

I obviously didn’t call because I took it that our plans were malleable as we didn’t want to rivet ourselves to a single course of plan and be dictated by time and place. Temporal and spatial freedom was the play of the day, and we decided that impulse was our best tour guide.

I told her that I was going to soak myself with every drop of decadence Bangkok had to offer and ran a gauntlet of everything from A-go-go bars to massage parlours to playing ping pong with a bat up my ass, but nothing could winch her in disgust.

This was hazardous to my psyche because she would reply my every seemingly depraved adventure with, “have fun, call me when you are done”. She was an absolutely wonderful person, but all I really wanted was for her to just say,

“You are an asshole.”

Why do things just never go according to plan?

Note: I'll upload the pictures on Facebook.