Monday, April 06, 2009

The Macau Story - Pt 3. That Clubbing Night

Macau isn’t particularly known for their clubbing scene and for a valid reason because it looks almost like 80% of their focus is on casinos. It’s a simple urban development manifesto for them; if there is an empty plot, build a casino, people don’t need houses since they will lose it eventually.

The club we went to was called Cubic and I believe the choice of it was more a matter of close proximity to our hotel than it was an iconic outlet. When we got there at about 1am, the place was relatively empty and the only person we got to know was this lady whom I struck up a conversation with in the elevator. She wasn’t attractive nor did she look sane, so I pretty much ignored her after we got in.

We immediately started off with a round of beers and a bottle of X.O and the night threatened to turn into a minefield of boringness because there was hardly a crowd and even if there were, the male population out-striped the females that it started to look like China’s one-child policy was in place there.

The great thing was that by 2am the crowd started coming in and the music eased gently into a semblance of Trance and House. By 3am and a lot more alcohol in me, it started to look like this was unfolding into the best night in Macau thus far.

There were Thai dancers gyrating on stage and pockets of all women group graciously littered around the club. And with the modus operandi I’ve come to embrace, I do not pick the dancer I like, but I pick the one that shows the greatest interest in me.

She finally came over and after several mock butt humps on my thigh, she popped the question like all true coyote girls peddling shots for a living.

She: “Can you buy me a drink?”
Me: “How much?”
She: “$400.”
Me: “I have $100.”

It was a bargaining game where she would tell me that there was a minimum set she had to sell, but I was all too familiar with this to be lured in. Then I would come back and tell her that I would allow her to sleep at my place to make up for the $300 and she would stare at me as if I had told her the most ludicrous line.

And finally, she actually forked up the remaining $300 for herself, which I tickled me to no end because if you look at it objectively, it made no economical sense, at all. She was paying $300 of which she would probably earn half that amount on commission and she actually gave me all the drinks. This ultimately meant that she was actually buying me drinks. God bless drunks who cannot count. I love Macau already.

When she had to go do her rounds, I joined the guys who had already gotten to know a group of Viet girls, who suspiciously looked like they suck cocks for a living. I didn’t care much because I believe alcohol is the greatest social adhesive ever invented.

Then that Thai dancer would periodically swing by and make audible her displeasure for me coveting the waist of another girl. Then I would re-assure her that she was by far the only one I was interested to see naked, until of course a group of Chinese girls started popping champagne across the room and I lost focus thereafter.

Then a strip show came on. Yes, a strip show and two Caucasians – presumably Eastern Europeans – started hopping round on stage topless and I found a new focus. It did take me by surprise like an unwarranted erection on a soccer pitch because the last I expected was for strippers to come on stage for what – well, most parts at least – looked like a legitimate disco.

It was all good, until the third stripper came up with a whip and had some poor dude rooted to a chair. She looked like a cross between a transvestite with an artificial tan session gone wrong and a wrestler. It was just horrible and I prayed that she was just going to come up and body slam the guy, without stripping.

I remembered smiling a lot to random women in the club and of course, equally guilty of having my hands conveniently around their waist or on their hips. And then for a brief moment of bumping into the Thai girl on my way to the gents, I saw that she staring so hard at me, I thought she might have lost her ability to blink from all that alcohol.

Then swiftly and most unexpectedly, just as I was close enough to coax a smile out of her, she threw an open palm at me and it caught me entirely by surprise that I took what seemed like an eternity to recover from the shock. I was slapped by a dancer, in Macau, who was probably on medication for mental illness. This is incredible. Does this only happen to me?

The only thing saving her from a flying kick from me half way across the room, was a good dose of X.O that had already lined my liver. Alcohol is great for getting over trivial matters like, being slapped, break ups, divorces and bankruptcy. The only thing that beats alcohol in solving problems, is suicide.

Of course, that slap came with an accompanying vituperation about flirting with other women and I thought it was ridiculous that a working girl of all people would be at the helm of this lecture. She bought me a drink, but was I supposed to marry her for that?

The good thing was that at least I found out she was psychotic before sharing my bed with her. If she can slap me for talking to other women, I cannot imagine what body organ I will lose if I suggested an orgy.

Then LB and some of the guys went off and I stayed back with a couple of them with their group of girls. And at some point in time between champagne toasting and a dice calling, I got dragged away by a Russian girl who wanted to use me as a shield to ward of some drunk.

She: “Come, you pretend to be boyfriend. This guy drunk and I tell him you my boyfriend.”
Me: “Wha…t?”

I barely had the time to react but my instinct was to immediately look for the guy who would potentially be beating me up over a girl. I love being a tool because within seconds of assuming the role of the sudden boyfriend and the subsequent script to convince the guy, she had straddled my thighs and conveniently planted a succession of kisses on my cheeks.

The only thing that would top this was an instantaneous blowjob by the table and everyone else in the club breaking into a synchronized dance ballet complete with singing bartenders and Mariah Carey popping up behind the stage crooning ‘touch my body’.

This is the greatest day in Macau; Ever. I love being me.

Then one thing led to another and it went from superficial banter to teasing lap dances to an open suggestion to take the episode beyond the club. Now, I was already clearly inebriated to a point where everything was a great idea.

I was no longer in the grace of sobriety to consider the possible consequences surrounding my decision to follow her home. For one, I was in a foreign land and following a complete stranger home. There were infinite scenarios that could have penned out, of which a vast majority would include robbery or having to buy my penis back from eBay.

But at that point in time, coaxed with an ample visual appreciation of cleavage and a luring promise of an orgasmic romp between the sheets – and maybe a couple by the bathroom sink-, I couldn’t think of anything that would sway my decision to hop into that cab with her; even if it meant being robbed at gun-point.

When we finally got back to her place it was an awkward bout of trying not to trip over the front door, whilst complimenting the lack of lighting and still trying to sustain a decent erection. If there was an award for multi-tasking, I would be giving my acceptance speech right now.

When we finally got down to making out over the sprawling bed sheets, the alcohol started kicking in so badly that for brief moment I found myself looking up at the ceiling and wondering where I was. Then the cruel reality of inebriation kicked in.

No matter how she had her tongue run down my groin or whether she was lying naked over me with her breast inches from my face, I couldn’t be aroused. Periodically, I would reach out to cop a feel but that was a mandatory reflex of bedroom etiquette rather than it was a desire.

I was limp. So limp that I could have well been on extended years of estrogen medication. All I needed was a robe and some feather caps and I would have qualified as a eunuch.

Then it finally got to her, the lack of blood rush on my part, the futile tease on hers and the looming reality that sex was beyond possibility. She got up, slipped on her blouse and in a dramatic turn of events, said,

She: “Okay, bye bye.”

I was being chased out of the house. This was truly amazing. I was actually being chased out of the house because fucking was beyond my limits. I might be out of touch here or it might be a cultural difference, because usually it is okay to sleep through the night and then fuck in the morning.

And I knew for a fuck that she was actually serious because her face was scarred with pissness and she started flinging my stuff at me. I was drunk and slowly trying to reconciliate the panoramic event that was unfolding.

Then she ushered me to the door and when I finally got out, I still had no idea what the fuck just happened. Next I know, I was standing in the streets, drunk, had no idea where the fuck I was, it was 8am in the morning and I was lost in a foreign country. I cannot even begin to describe the absurdity of it.

When I finally got back to the hotel, I was actually pretty amused by the whole debacle. LB got up from the rackus I was making.

LB: “Dude where the fuck did you go?”
Me: “You cannot believe what just happened to me.”

This is the worst day in Macau, ever. And I no longer love being me.


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