Driving to the train station, 35 miles away on small southeastern Asian country roads, old Mr. Me, though happy to soon see May Linh again, was bothered with something. Yes she had signed my contract, agreeing to be nude all day around me and agreeing to be fondled, weather permits. Which in itself was incredible. Yet, I remembered how during the last nights we spent together she had kind of helped me in being decisive as far as the gamahuching was concerned. And, driving, it occurred to me that indeed I maybe wasn’t decisive enough.
I was the boss after all, and she was coming back… On her own. Either she liked the job, or she liked the money, or she liked me somehow, or she liked, or needed maybe, a good gamahuche here and there. Maybe all of the above. In any case, maybe my being to gentlemanly French wasn’t the right way to do it with women in general, May Linh in particular.
See, as a French man, as a man I guess, there’s just no way I’m ‘gonna jump’ a woman’s ass. She has to want it otherwise there is no point. I never understood guys using the so-called ‘rape-drug’ on women, they might as well repeatedly fuck a bag of beans, it’d be about the same feeling as fucking a passed-out woman and they wouldn’t have to pay for the drinks. The woman has to want it otherwise it defeats the purpose. Ok I can say this now that I am impotent but I don’t recall ever fucking with a woman who didn’t know what she was doing at the time with me. That said, not being assertive enough I felt hindered me many times in my lives prior to coming here. I liked to believe that had a lot to do also with my natural timidity but I know that was an excuse to hide a true weakness, a true fear of women, probably issued from my fascination to their forms.
Thus the immemorial need for prostitutes but even whores have to do their job out of free will for it to really help. That’s for example the difference between an American street prostitute and a French street prostitute. The first one will give you a blow job for ten bucks in your car, and if it takes too long, the pimp will come and beat on the car to tell everyone in there to hurry up. In France, from the same woman, you don’t get anything for less than €50 euros, and that’s already in the suburbs. But you get something for your money that doesn’t make you feel wanting to go home and hang yourself.
An American whore, from the cheap fuck with a crack addict – and you better get her quick, at the beginning, because it will be soon too late for her – to the diamond fuck with a high class escort broad – whom you better get early because she soon will be too botoxed and too expensive for you -, will trade with you and sell herself like old guys of lore were selling animal skins. That’s the frontier spirit I guess. Here’s some fucking raccoon pelt!
With a French whore in Paris, you better mind your language and pay respect otherwise her friend may show up and he may me a cop and you don’t want that to happen. But you’ll be able to have a conversation with the lady without a sonofabitch beating on your door every five minutes. And this woman will have the time to figure you out – she’s a pro – and she’ll give you a good time. Then you can go home and you feel there’s hope for you. Then again, even in France, free whores are fast disappearing because it has become too lucrative a business for pimps. Too many clients I guess. Too much poverty everywhere and sorrow and sadness.
Still, I figured this was maybe the time for a change. In any case, my mind was made up: I was going to be from now on a bit more assertive on the gamahuching subject, maybe with a mix of American and French ways. That’s what I wanted really and May Linh was coming back on her own will so there was nothing to fear. Which didn’t mean I would turn into an asshole but I felt I could be a bit more audacious and I really loved that idea. I laughed alone: being a bit more assertive, now, that’s a life resolution!
So I was driving with some sort of glee. I even changed the radio station. May Linh had it on a classical music radio station and it had stayed that way ever since. But, as I was driving to pick her up, 35 miles through motorbikes’ country, I got tired of classical music because it didn’t fit with my mood. So I started searching.
I stopped on some station because I liked the voice of some girl talking in the radio in a language I didn’t understand. I noticed and really liked her voice right here and there. I thought at first it had to be a commercial, for prophylactics maybe, but I soon recognized that she was announcing the next song. She had a sweet voice, speaking whatever Asian dialect, a voice intriguing enough that I stuck to that station and waited for the song to come. And then I almost lost control of my car and ran into a buffalo or something.
I guess this was southeast Asia’s version of oldies but right there and then, and I guess that’s what Mrs. Nice Voice was announcing, the radio played, in English, ‘Oh this old heart of mine’ from the Isley Bros I think.
Ooh, this old heart of mine, been broken thousand times
Each time you break away, I fear you’re gone to stay
Lonely nights that come, memories that go
Bringing you back again, hurting me more and more
And, happy and shit, I was singing aloud with the radio and going wild with the chorus:
I love you
This old heart, darling is weak for you
I love you, yes I do, yes I do
Singing so much that I arrived, again, a good hour too early at the train station but I was in an excellent mood when I hit the train station bar.
A waitress came. I didn’t recognized her.
“What can I do for you?” she asked in English, and proud about it.
“A bloody Mary,” I said.
“A bloody Mary?” she asked, “what is that?”
“Vodka, tomato juice and pepper and celery garnish,” I said.
“OK,” she said with a smile, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Sure enough, she came back a little bit later with a bloody Mary. I figured she or one of her friends went to check on Internet what a fucking bloody Mary was and someone fixed it for me. At least she had understood me right up front, in spite of my French accent, and that was to her credit. I wondered if her boss was paying her up to her true value. As expected, there was plenty of vodka; they wouldn’t want to deceive a white foreigner tourist, would they? That’s why they’re learning English…
Bloody Maries were special to me. I was drinking it only on special occasions, like moving from one world to another. So I ordered another one and the waitress gave me a big smile. I wondered for a second if I should tell her of the job position I was offering. She would fit. She was pretty and she may have liked it enough for the money. She brought the drink and, before I knew it, I heard over the public sound system speakers that the 3:45 pm train from the capital was arriving. I didn’t need to understand the language to see that everyone was now getting busy.
So I paid my bill and left a nice tip. “Thank you sir,” she said and she meant it. I didn’t like the ‘sir’ too much because it was sending me back to old Mr. Me and that wasn’t flattering. But I didn’t care. May Linh was on that train.
I went to wait near the exit of the platform. There was the bench where May Linh and I had sat before she left, last time I saw her. Sitting on the bench was now a family, with kids running around. It looked as if he was leaving and going somewhere and they weren’t. Kids and wife were here to say goodbye, I was here to say hello.
The train came to a stop. I saw the first class people coming out first, along with the busy people. Then I saw May Linh. She had her severe black dress and her small suitcase and her purse, as I expected. Mary Poppins here we go! I was so happy to see her. And, when she saw me, I saw in her eyes that she was glad to see me and she waved and I waved.
But I realized also, almost quite instantly, that May Linh was not alone. I was flabbergasted.
That too she saw.
I saw it all at once; red tight pants, white blouse, big round sun glasses that hid more than half of her face, a Chicago Bulls American cap that said 23, Converse sneakers. Probably copies of Converse I thought. Then my eyes went back to May Linh’s and she didn’t flinched.
For a second I wished I was somewhere else, like swimming in the ocean for example and being eaten by sharks. But I couldn’t flee. These two women were walking toward me on the train platform and I was so stunned I wasn’t moving at all, just standing there like an idiot.
The woman – young I could tell now – had a small suitcase very much like May Linh’s but she also had a brown leather bag that looked pretty much like a doctor’s case back in the 20th century, and the 19th even. What the hell!
All of a sudden May Linh was in front of me.
“Hello Mr. You,” she said, without shaking hands with me. I didn’t have time to say anything that she said: “Mr. You, this is Lily. Lily this is Mr. You.”
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