Deflated, Flaccid, Alone

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It was so shockingly easy to pull women in Beijing that Dick wondered why so many of the Revolting Foreign Men seemed to have girlfriends. Why would anyone go to the effort and expense of maintaining something as volatile and costly as a Chinese pseudo-princess, when more durable, cheaper alternatives are available in every supermarket, noodle bar or underground train? His guess was that the RFM get off the plane, score, become catatonic at their astonishing good luck and by the time they resurface the claws are in, the chains are on, and they are carrying the world’s most attractive monkey on their back forevermore. It’s not the best option on the planet, but it sure as Hell beats the crap out of the 120kg gospodyni back in Gdansk.

Try regularly leering lasciviously at any suitable (age, general attractiveness, socio-economic status, race) woman on the platform at Holborn and you will receive 5000 shades of ignorance, 10000 kinds of antipathy and maybe a snog in a doorway after a hundred quid bar bill once every four or five generations. Try smirking at any three women, anywhere in Beijing and the nearest mode of transport (taxis are cheap, subway is faster) will be speeding you back to the ranch to have your seminal vesicles drained before you can say 杰克罗宾逊. Dick strained and groaned trying to understand exactly what was going on and there was only one logical conclusion to be reached. Chinese women have internalized what Western women have reified: reasonably decent sexual intercourse is a harmless and pleasant way to pass an hour or so. As soon as those funny Europeans decided that ‘making love’ was synonymous with sex, they were fucked. Or rather not. No wonder they call blondes dumb. No blondes in China.

Dick was in the lift with a takeaway and girl he got at the 7/11 when upon passing floor 2, he was overtaken by the desire to ‘give her one’ before they reached 21. She struggled a bit and gesticulated towards the camera on the ceiling, but he had lived there for three months and no one anywhere was watching anything. This much he knew. Arriving at his apartment, both as yet unfulfilled but highly anticipatory, they discovered the Dick had lost his keycard. It wasn’t in the lift. The doorman in reception was somewhat uncooperative. What was the name of the landlord? Dick didn’t know, he doesn’t pay the rent, it is a company flat. What is the name of the company? Again he doesn’t know, all Chinese companies are shells within shells and how does he expect Dick to pronounce it anyway? Surely the fact that he has seen Dick enter and leave the building roughly 400 times is bona fides enough? There are procedures. Security will call the landlord and check him out, please come through to the office.

And what an ‘office’ it was: three walls of TV screens showing ever nook and cranny of the building and on the big screen, rerunning for the umpteenth time, every nook and cranny of Dick's bouncing scrawny arse. The girl’s eyes were wide over his shoulder, and wider yet, he imagined, behind my back. The door slammed with a squeak.

Issued silently with a new card, Dick returned to the 21st floor: deflated, flaccid, alone.

http://s7.zetaboards.com/PPooDD/forum/3027224/

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