A fat pudgy German tourist and as rancid as sauerkraut arrived with his gay Malay boyfriend for a short time session. He didn’t like me but wasted no time. I was chatting with Adul at the front desk when we heard the bed getting the work out of it’s life time. Squeak squeak bang bang.
‘Will he have to replace the bed if he breaks it?’ I asked.
Abdul said yes ‘ and even my assole is twitching in sympathy after listening to that brutal workout.’ The German’s prowess in the sack was heard by everyone in the hotel and Adul was just about to call the ambulance, ‘in case there’s been some major rupturing to the sphincter muscles.’
‘More like internal bleeding,’ I said as we watched the German guy leave without saying a word. He was squeezing his butt cheeks to prevent any spillage. Now he really didn’t like me as both Abdul and I chuckled at the fallout of a major butt session.
As the German and his boy friend left, a young couple from England arrived. They were on their way to Thailand by train. ‘The line you are going on was blown up the other day.’ Abdul told me the next morning they took a bus to the next town with an airport. ‘You shared the bejesus out of them,’ he said. More liked I saved their life, I said. I’m quite modest in that way.
The Thai massage lady scared the shit out of me too with her high quotes. She was doing some special new age massage therapy on my balls. ‘Cleaning out all the blocked passages.’ Before I knew, the price kept on going up before she agreed on ‘pipe’ cleaning. Two sessions later I dumped her after she thumped me in the back with her elbow and damaged my neck. She was more gentle with her mammary glands and it was a pleasure to meet her two massive hooters.
Just after Ramadan the authorities did their annual raids of illegal workers, especially the reflexology places. I’ve not seen her since. But I know she’s a survivor and no doubt did a runner back to the border after a tip off.She told me many of her clients were government officials. ‘They love the ‘clean’ pipe services,’ she said proudly. But I bet their wives don’t.
Thinking another massage would sort out the damage the Thai massage lady had done, I hit a reflexology place. Half an hour late I was stumbling out of the place. I had an umbrella to steady myself as I walked back to the food court.
I hit the Milos hard. The Chinese are always great company and like a laugh like the next man. One lady started showing me her weird video collection on her phone. ‘I just love it,’she said.She really did. First screening was some bondage, next a vampire Chinese who loved slaying dogs and drinking their blood. The last one was some horrible beheading. I knew where it was going. When I didn’t show interest, she showed the other elder Chinese gents. They were grossed out.
I move to the next table where a Vietnamese whore is speaking very good Mandarin to another elderly Chinese. “She only wants money,’ he says. He’s drinking milo and admiring her big hooters. How much I ask? “She only wants money.’ He’s not going to tell me the rates. So I keep on admiring her lovely white teeth and big boobs.
She is dressed in some satin Chinese outfit. When I was eventually told the price, I nearly choked on my milo. But that didn’t stop me from admiring her pearly whites, in-between bouts of coughing and spluttering. Another distraction was the way she drank her milo, only using a teaspoon.I was under the spell of that one.
Food courts are so much more than about food. They are places to relax, unwind and talk with good friends and maybe get laid with a Vietnamese whore . Or a quiet place to while away some time over a milo.
Next it’s a visit to the 24 hour barber shop.I choose an Indian guy I thought was my barber from the last hair cut. The Indian Malaysian was generous about it, when I told him to sit down and let the other guy cut my hair. He’s Indian. Indians cut the best hair and in my case, the worse – I haven’t washed it for over a month.
Cutting hair is what they do and they do it so well. His technique was much better than his colleague who returned back to India last month. I’m always humbled when I see the Indians at work cutting hair. They deserve a nobel peace prize for the pride they put into the profession. The only titillation you might get is a big gut and sweaty armpits rubbing against you. But boy it beats the tit rubbing that comes with overpriced and bad haircut.
I pay for my haircut with red note. He gives me back my change. But I think I might have given him a higher orange note. He shows me the note I handed him that’s in the drawer. I take a group photo to cover up the embarrassment of not remember what note I had given him. I only mistaken a one dollar note with the fifty dollar one. You can never be too careful.
Lastly I meet a volunteer from KL who is working at a detention center as a volunteer. He’s doing great work there too, he says. ‘I teach the inmates, mostly Rohingyas, how to wash their hands with soap. We encourage them to do it six times a day.’ He said one of the inmates committed suicide by eating chicken bones. “We only serve them fillet of chicken now. Malaysia can’t afford any more bad press.’
He says this is the most conservative state in Malaysia, and you really gotta watch yourself. I said people from KL can’t talk. What were those activists doing on the weekend, reenacting their own arrest for? He’s not available to comment on that one.
I said a little ping pong table would be better for the inmates than hand washing. ‘No no,’ he said, ‘That would be too dangerous, they might try and choke on a ping pong ball.’
I’m just wondering how close minded people from KL really are. More than I thought, apparently. To change the subject, the volunteer tells me he loves Thailand. ‘I just dance with all the pretty girls all day and night long.’ And would you be using any stimulants? He never answered. He didn’t have too. Besides, he’s on a mission to save the poor refugees. I wonder if he teaches them anything useful like how to put on a condom.
‘Are you being sarcastic.’ It was more a statement than a question. I put my hand up in defeat. The Indian freeloader who abused me the other night is watching television and surfing porn on his phone. He gives me the evil eye. “Don’t worry,’ says Abdul. ‘He’s only 65 percent there.’ That’s what worries me most.