Western stereotypes: Feeling obliged to live up to them

Sometimes it was a pain to have to live up to our western stereotypes.

“Hey, Pierre,” I said bumping into him coming out of the hotel where we lived.

“Where are you going?”

“Bit of business to solve,” said Pierre.

At the time I was teaching forty-five hours a week and had no time for dating. So I wondered if Pierre could help me with a problem: “Anyway, know any women who are the no questions asked type, will be around in twenty minutes.”

“Why don’t you go to that whorehouse down the road? That is what I always do.”

“Those old skanks? I thought about going in but it just felt like I was intruding on one of my mother’s Tupperware parties.”

“Very nice! They know what they are doing…How to provide ze service.”

“Your right,” I said.

This old, therefore, provides a service is nonsense to me now. Yes, when I was 14 and clueless, I wanted my mate’s mother to broaden her legs and my horizons; I thought she was gonna take me on a magical ecstasy tour – but then I grew up, and realized while there is such a thing as a bad fuck, they are mostly the same, with: location, fitness of said bird, and atmosphere being more important. I haven’t really experienced anything new from the box of tricks in a while.

Pierre stopped and turned around. “I have something for you. Just go home. Take a shower and I will sort it out…Don’t worry, it is not a whore…well, not one that charges anyway.”

Twenty minutes later I was sat on my bed waiting. I had just gone downstairs to buy some condoms, a bottle of water and some beer – and had turned the TV to MTV (something neutral; prevent the neighbors from hearing through the wall). Life was good again. Today had been a bad day: it had rained the last few days so the pollution had been cleared away. Tomorrow the pollution would start to build up again, and in a couple of days the sky would be cloudy and I would be thinking about how it was best I was in work. At the end of the week I would be half way through my marathon summer schedule. I was going to get laid; make an excuse to get rid of her and then be asleep by twelve, ready and refreshed for tomorrow’s ten hour day.

“Very pretty,” I said opening the door. “What is your name?”

“Claudette,” she replied.

Most girls had an English name so it was fun and exciting to get one of the French groupies - I guessed she could also speak the language of love.

“Pierre said you would like to meet a Taiwanese girl. You are lonely in Taiwan, and you would like to talk.”

I smiled, “That is right.”

One hour later: “Yes, a good start. I know you foreigners like to fuck - satisfy a woman. Come on. Drink some water and then make love to me again.”

Hmm, not me, I thought, once is enough to get my frustration out.

I should tell her she had been watching too many movies, but then I always believed you shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds. I felt strangely responsible to not let down our stereotype.

I reached for the bottle of water and pointed at my soft dick to suggest she do something…Oh well, I wasn’t going to get any sleep.

Fuck it is light. I have to get up in one hour. And I can’t even sleep because that bottle of water was finished hours ago and I am parched…desperate for some more.

I headed for the shower, and scrubbed my body in slow-motion, enjoying cleaning myself as if I had just played football for four hours in driving rain and mud.

That fucking bastard Pierre…Then I looked down…Well, at least you are going to be out of action for a while.