Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Work abroad: Pierre and his KTV gigolo job in Taipei II

Just a reminder this is the second installment of the story of Pierre's work as a gigolo in Taipei. In total there are six parts to Pierre and his KTV gigolo job series from work abroad.

For a long time he had contented himself with drinking with the younger girls, then teasing from his gigolo colleagues made him have to take things to the next level. Finally, a couple of months after going to work in the KTV club, he sold himself for the first time.
We heard the story in one sitting of two parts. The first his manful boasts then the real story of how he felt. As suspected he wasn’t as big an asshole as he tried to be.
We pick up the story at the love hotel with Mrs. Jiang, a woman fifteen years his senior and married to some rich guy who spent all his time in China.
This Love Hotel was an up-market one recently opened by a Japanese Love Hotel Chain, leaders in this market. It was themed Africa Nights: mud hut texture wallpaper, African masks, shields and spears, and fake antelope and elephant heads adorning the walls; the bed had a leopard skin bed spread; the toilet was in the shape of a hippo's mouth; and the center piece of it all, a giant massage chair in the shape of a spider which shook, vibrated and closed its legs to give you a tickle when you sat on it.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked. “You don't like here?”
“It is great,” he answered, then slipping into French so she didn't understand. “It is just what I need to take my mind off things.”
He stood staring at her for a minute. It wasn't her forty years that were putting him off. She had smooth white skin, the result of years of expensive European cosmetics, wearing factor 50 suntan cream, and carrying a parasol (older Taiwanese do their best to keep their skin as white as possible to show they don’t have an outdoor job; they are not low class). She is decked from head to toe in designer clothes, and carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. She is well-manicured and made-up with her hair dyed a taint of dark brown instead of her natural black. In fact, she wouldn't look out of place pulling up in a Land Rover to pick her son up from any of the best public schools across England.
She was only five-foot high, petite, slim, not more than fifty kilos; she is ethnically Chinese and therefore exotic. But all of that misses the point completely: she is attractive; he wouldn't choose her as a girlfriend but he wouldn't say no to sleeping with her based on looks. And, most importantly, he wanted to sleep with her because he have seen her prim-and-proper lady-like exterior, and was aware of the ironic contrast.
They had taken up positions on opposite sides of the leopard skin bed spread. She was sat down on a bamboo chair in front of a huge mirror; back straight, knees, elbows and wrists together checking her mobile for messages. A lady to the last.
He was loitering; leaving himself open to being asked if he was staying or not.
She looked up from her phone.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
She had gone quiet once they got in the taxi, but now she was looking at him with a motherly concern. Suddenly, she had the upper hand.
“No problem,” he had to answer. “You want a drink?”
He had already entertained for an hour before Mrs. Jiang came to the club, but the whiskey wore off easily these days.
She said no, headed to the shower, and he got a little bottle from the mini bar - and lied on the bed to ponder his doubts.
Mrs. Jiang had been coming to see him at the club for about a month now – paid for his company at least eight times before he had agreed to be taken out.
What did he know of her? - Very little. She had two children. And, her husband lived in China with his air hockey table factories and several mistresses. No doubt she was lonely, but there were lots of lonely women who didn't employ the services of a gigolo. He told himself he didn't know the whole story and it wasn't his job to do so. She had decided to come to the club.
But he felt sorry for her. He used to feel sorry for female prostitutes. Now he felt sorry for being one. A contradiction if it wasn't for the lowest common denominator: a liberal middle-class white male upbringing, that always seemed to find another way to bite back.
And that was another thing: he was getting those pangs of guilt you do when you cross a moral boundary. It made no sense as he was hardly robbing a bank or selling drugs - but then again, after living here for more than a year, he had forgotten how Christianity, unlike the local one, does equate purchased lovemaking with murder and mayhem. He wasn’t religious or anymore moral than the next twenty-five year old; it was surprising those values are still lurking in the subconscious, raising objections when he least expected.
He started playing with the electronic panel next to the bed to pass the time. He hit the button below the Chinese characters for Office, and the sound system kicked in blasting the noise of a busy meeting. He had heard of this - It was designed for when you get a call from your loved one. Next to it was the characters for restaurant and motorway. Presumably, if you are in the room for a long time…
He started to roll around the floor after hitting the last button: Atmosphere - Suddenly 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' was shaking the room, and the elephant trunk was swinging from side to side. He turned it off, figuring he would need it later.
Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom; tiptoeing, hip wiggling and holding her towel at the chest to protect her dignity. Her exposed slim white shoulders, ankles and calves were getting him excited. It occurred to him he could presumably do this for free, and then he wouldn't need to feel guilty.
“Why don’t you take off your jacket?” she said now back in the wicker chair.
“Sorry,” he said jumping up off the bed. “I hate it too when the whores play all coy and waste my money.”
He took off the suit – black Emporio Armani – that he had been wearing almost constantly for the last three months, and jogged across the room to the wardrobe. The wardrobe door was in the shape of a huge African shield with crisscrossing spears, split vertically down the center into two doors. He grabbed the hair on the imitation shrunken head door handle, and hung up his suit, then his shirt. For a moment he knew what a girl felt like when she displayed herself for cash, and he thought about shouting 'so here are the goods, love.'
He guessed a little bit more subtly was in order.
“Lay on the bed - I'll give you a massage,” he said.
For the next five minutes, he worked his hands over her body, still stung by that feeling he wasn't doing a good job.
Soon his hardening dick woke him to decision-making time. He knew he wasn't going to give it out for free - if he did, he would have to pay the club's cut out of his own pocket. Her husband would be paying for this not her, so he wasn't making her destitute. Which left the question of exploiting her loneliness? He knew the guys in the club would just say he was providing a service; temporary relief from loneliness and it sounded right, even if it didn't feel that way.
He looked at her face, eyes closed, relaxed with just a faint sadness bubbling around the surface. I would only make her feel worse if I walked away now, he thought.
“Turn over,” he said, and then undid the towel from the front.
Her breasts were in fact a wonderful pert c-cup that sat up nicely on her chest. Fakes he guessed.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“About what?” he replied.
“My breasts - can you tell they are fake?”
“Really? I didn't notice.” he replied.
“Yes - I went to the best plastic surgeon in Taipei. I even swapped the nipples - After you give birth, they are very dark.”
He perched himself up on his elbows, above her chest and turned up the brightness of the lamp to check.
“Look,” she said now animated grabbing her right breast and pushing it towards his face. “The nipples are very pink again. This technique was pioneered by a Japanese surgeon - Only one place in Taipei knows how to do it.”
“Those are truly the nipples of a fifteen-year old.” Then speaking a bit faster. “If I hadn't seen your face first, I would now be running for the door.”
“They look fantastic. I am honored to get my grubby hands on them.”
“You really think so? Wow. You know - you are the first person to see them.”
“As I say - honored love. Now let's not waste them talking.”
He smiled to myself, figuring he wouldn't need to listen to Tight Fit anymore.
Still he had had many questions - Was she just going to lie there? Was she going to do anything for him? Then he remembered she didn’t have to: this was a service. In that case, was he expected to warm up with a lot of foreplay? If, so? How much? He had a large ego, but for once he was not sure if he wanted to do his best. If she didn’t cum was he obliged to go again? Female prostitutes have it easy, the extent of their service was clearly defined: get the jizz out; payment was always per hour or ejaculation, but here a satisfactory conclusion of service was unclear. He was supposed to stay with her for the evening, but otherwise…?
He started to head downstairs.
“Take it slowly,” she said.
“Hmm, trying to get your money's worth then…What ever that may be.”
Anyway, he headed back up to her neck and then jerked his head back as she tried to kiss him - You are not supposed to let a client kiss you. At least that is what happened in the movies.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
He thought for a moment: “Nothing…I presume you want me to just pretend this is a romantic encounter. Save your face. I can do that. I have been here a while.”
“Ting bu dong (I don't understand),” she said.
“Nothing,” he repeated and started to kiss her.
A little while later, he went for the condoms in his trouser pocket and took one out.
“What are you doing?” she said.
He wanted to scream: I am a whore. Are you mad? But it wasn't entirely unexpected. He threw it away.
It was time to penetrate, and now the adrenalin was rushing, almost like it was his first time. Once he did this he was officially a whore. He concentrated hard on what was important in life: experience, risk-taking, enjoyment and pride; something to tell the grandson.
Once inside, he had the feeling you do when you have got anyway with something naughty; he held things in press up position enjoying the moment. 
“Just a minute,” she said.
She then twisted her body round and started to look at the control panel next to the bed, while he twisted his torso trying to stay inside. Soon it too resembled a game of Twister and he gave up.
“Ok,” she said, and 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' started blasting out. “This is romantic. Don't you think?”
“Totally - Sade and Barry White will be relegated to student all-you-can-drink night from now on.”
Twenty minutes later, the alcohol meant things were taking a long time, which was kind of good and bad: good because she was getting her money's worth, and bad because he was flagging. He wanted to tell her to get on top so he could take a breather, but he reminded himself that this was what she was paying for and kept chugging away….
He noticed he wasn’t really making any noise, and he wondered if he should. Ordinarily - Yes - noise showed you were turned on, gave her an indication of your progress, but now he was providing a service. Too much noise might appear like you were in it for yourself; too little would make her embarrassed. Men like girls to make a noise because it signifies that we are giving them pleasure, but is the reverse true?
Another ten minutes and it was all over. He lay on his back. As post-coital adrenalin dissipated, and the cold light of day crept back in, he began to ponder his actions.
“You don’t like?” she asked.
He thought it a strange question, irrelevant in fact, still: “Of course,” he replied.
“I am not so bad, no?”
“You are very sexy?” He replied because it was the truth. If she just got a plane to the West she would be the one getting paid.
She put her arm across his chest and tried to engage him in eye contact. He suddenly got a sickening feeling and tried to change the subject.
“How is Michael (her son)?” he asked because I knew he had been in trouble at school (Only 99% on his tests apparently).
“I know, you don't love me,” she said rubbing his chest with a tragic look. “I just want a man to make love to me, sometimes that's all. Is that so bad?”
He said nothing because he was an immature twenty-five year old who didn't deal well with reality. Yes, he was admittedly an attention seeking, manipulative, arrogant asshole, who liked the idea of being a gangster, but his was the romantic world of crime, where there are no innocent victims. He had wanted his first one to be a bitch so he wouldn’t have to care. Now, he could see his mother’s sad told-you-so face, like that time when he hadn't listened, let the dog run in the road, and it was hit by a car.
“You will find someone,” was all he could muster, and he turned over and pretended to sleep.
Two hours later - six a.m. - he stopped pretending to sleep and sat up. The rhythmic, peaceful chants of Daoist music and a drum beat were coming from outside, reminding him of where he was. He pressed the button for Tight Fit, lit a cigarette, and focused on the swaying rhino head.
The sun was beginning to come through the curtains, it was going to be a beautiful, hot sunny day again. It was a pity he would be getting up at three in the afternoon as usual. Simpler pursuits like teaching English and studying Chinese suddenly seemed attractive again. He couldn't remember why he had given them up.
He really had learnt his lesson this time, he was sure: he was going to lead a normal life.
Suddenly, he was horny again - and she looked fantastic with the light on her shoulders. Presumably, it was a simple matter of waking her up, but he didn’t know what to do - If he made love to her again was it part of the original price or a separate item? If she had paid for just the once, he felt obliged to negotiate a new contract, and he was too embarrassed and lazy to do so. Anyway, she might not want to pay for a second time. He decided to give it away, but then the words of the gigolo guys from the club started ringing in his ears, and he felt Scrooge-like towards the thrusting of his thighs: if she did want it she would be getting something for nothing.
He decided to head to the bathroom to resolve the problem
…Nah, he wasn’t like the other guys he would give it for free…

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