Pee Pee massage.
They get all excited at the thought. Going to a health club with the big daiye, is always an experience.
Pee pee massage. You hear the young women whisper to each other as you walk down the hall. It's not common that they see an American, in fact, during this trip (November 2002), and, even during my last, back in July 2002, damn I'm coming here a lot lately, Americans were the last thing you would see in Beijing. Or Dengfeng. Or Shaolin. In fact, the only Americans I saw in China during my entire last stay here, were two that went to Decheng's school, on my " facilitating". No, you don't see Americans in Asia. I stick out, horribly so. Being six foot three, two hundred and fifteen pounds, and, bald, well, makes it all much worse.
Pee pee massage. I was shuffling in these tiny little slippers, made for tiny little Chinese feet, as I wore these tiny little cotton pajamas. Funky little designs on these pajamas, damn, I'm glad no one had a camera to record this. Going to a health club in Beijing, like, well, the discos, and the karaoke bars, and, well, lots of places, is quite the experience. And, like everything else in China, it's not what it appears to be. This place was right across the street from the four star hotel uncle got me in. Uncle, or, the daiye, as I refer to him because of all of his high level government connections (daiye means brother or uncle; in Chinese slang, it has mafia connotations. They like to refer to me as the "big daiye". It amuses them), got me a suite, at less than the usual standard room price. You learn something in China. Once you get to know people, and they like you, you get taken care of. I'm usually well taken care of here, which is one reason why I like coming. The health club, well, that's another story. It's based in the basement of yet another huge nondescript Beijing building. But, what's fascinating, is the huge culture of people that you find scattered througout the various rooms and hallways; older, and fat, Chinese male visitors, young healthy "assistant" males, that try to help you shower, bathe, dry off, and dress (Hey, fuck off. Do you understand fuck off?), and, a multitude of young, sometimes really beautiful Chinese women, placed strategically, here and there, in various states of dress and undress. Wow. Where they find these women, I'll never know. You just don't see them walking the streets of Beijing. Now I figured it out. There are no beautiful women on the streets of Beijing. They're all sequestered away in health club basements under these huge buildings.
Pee pee massage. I could barely hear the girl moan it to her friend as she walked in front of me. I didn't have the slightest idea what the fuck she was talking about. But, I found the admiring eyes of all these young women, and their lightning quick smiles, fascinating. Smiles in Beijing are interesting, as are the typical Chinese interaction with Americans. Or, at least, with me. I could walk along a street in Beijing, or, in one of the fewer and fewer hutongs, amidst large crowds, and find that these people, fiind me, well, curious. They'll sneak a peak at me when I'm not looking, and, if I turn quickly to capture their glance, sometimes, they'll just stare in horror. Or, amazement. But, a slight smile, which is about all that I am capable of at this old and tender jaded age, just brings absolute delight to the Chinese stranger's face. They truly are warm people, you just have to let them know that you're not the monster you appear to be.
The visit to the health club starts at the entranceway, where you take your shoes off, and don these tiny little plastic slippers. You're escorted down this hallway and that, through this room, down these stairs, and down, yet more stairs. How deep they dug this damn basement I'll never know, but, it seems, like the deeper I go, the better looking the women get. I started thinking of Dante's various levels of his inferno, which brought a slight snicker to my face. Yes, at this rate, bring me down to the bottom of hell itself. She's gonna be gorgeous. But, it was not to be, for we had to stop at the changing room.
Pee-pee massage. The young men, all half my size, that wanted to help me undress were damn lucky they weren't whispering that. Three of them stood by, wanting to help me remove my shirt. Well, that may be their culture, but it wasn't mine. I made it clear to them, the last person that routinely dressed me was my mom, and that was many, oh so damn many, years ago. I certainly didn't need any help now. Once undressed, it was in to the showers, which were adorned with images of young, and very unclothed, western women. I found that curious, the whole fascination with western women. After all the time I've spent here, with Asian women, I've noticed quite a few differences between the two breeds. As I showered, in this little cubicle of a shower stall, with no door to speak of, and, with quite an ever increasing gang of young male employees, and a few older clients gathering to watch, I thought of the many Asian women I've spent time with, and, their attitudes that they had towards their men. I thought of the hundreds of western women I've known, and the attitudes that they've had towards their men. As the gang of Chinese grew, watching me shower, I just had to laugh. This whole concept of adoring western women was just so misguided. Poor bastards. The idea of what a typical Las Vegas girl would do to one of these guy's minds, was just hysterical to me. I was going to have to educate them about western women one day.
The sauna was rather nice, except for the fact that Chinese men don't seem to care much about self or nakedness, nor, do they really seem all that concerned about sitting wide legged, with their little packages hanging out, on an untoweled wooden seat. Well, I didn't have much trouble with that, but, my sense of nakedness was not going to go that far. Wrapped up in a towel, I sat and sweated, listening to this old guy occasionally suck up his lungs and hurl huge lugies onto the wooden clad floor. I thought, that I must try to remember, with my horrible memory, where each and every one of those little slippery land mines were, before I left the sauna room. After a few minutes, and after a few well placed lugies, I left, careful to navigate across the dangerous zone.
Another shower, another audience, another viewing, and then it was time to don the small pajamas. Without my permission, and without much notice, I was surrounded by a few young men who, each armed with a towel, proceeded to dry me off. It was quite the shocker to me, until I noticed that yet another small gang had been drying uncle off. I guarded the parts I wanted to keep wet, and next, it was time to don the stylish pj's. But, first, came the paper underwear.
That was fun. Paper underwear. Kind of reminded me of the surgical hats we wore in the OR. But, these had little holes for your legs to go into. I tried, it ripped, and ripped, and ripped. I quickly jumped into the pj pants, donned the shirt, and cruised out of there, before a new gang of young men tried to dress me in unripped underwear. I followed some young girl, who whispered to yet another on the way down to new depths, "pee pee massage". Apparently the fun was about to being. Dante didn't have it this good.
There are many options, in these health clubs. You can rent a room, for about ten dollars an hour, which includes a bed, a television, a shower, a sauna, and a girl. Not a bad place to stay if you don't mind being way the fuck under a huge building with no windows. You can get foot massage, Chinese massage, and Thai massage. Time limits vary, from thirty minutes, to, I guess, a few weeks. I made a mental note of planning to move into this place, upon my return to Shaolin next year. Gong fu? What's gong fu? Screw that stuff. I've found my new passion. This basement living could be fun.
Uncle and I decided to get the Thai massage, which, as I was to discover later, had nothing to do with a real, traditional Thai massage. As I was walking down this hallway, before entering my private room, with this rather short bed on the floor, of the many little Chinese girls who smiled at me, one stood out. She was cute. Lovely little smile, great little walk, appeared to have one hell of a little personality, lovely soft and shiny vibrant hair. And, she had breasts. In the land of the eternal A cup, she was a trophy. I grabbed her, gave her a little hug, and motioned with my massaging hands, as I pointed at my back. "I want you", I said, not sure if I was pulling a major bozo no no in this little counterculture world. She smiled back, "OK. Pee pee massage." God, these girls think of nothing but. Whatever the hell it was...
I want you come!
It was typical, it was expected. It took a while, but, as usual, it happened. The experience was like all the rest, just like the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. Sometimes, it happened once a day, sometimes twice, sometimes even three times. I waited for a while, and, well, there it was. The usual bubbly eruption.
From the mouth of Shi Xing Wei.
He just couldn't stand the fact that Lu Yong and I were in Beijing, for what seemed to him, days and days and days. Well, it was days and days and days, and, for some reason, he missed us, and made it known, through his daily phone calls. When are you going to come to Shaolin. What are you doing in Beijing.
What was I doing in Beijing. Oh, now there's a story all by itself. I actually had quite a few things to do in Beijing. I had some friends that I had to visit, which, required, multiples of dinners in nice little hidden out of the way Chinese restaurants; I had some shopping to do, well, Lu Yong had shopping to do (he wanted a camera); I had the honeys to chase (and, spend time with), a girlfriend to get reacquainted with (and spend time with), and, I had some business projects to deal with. But, there was one, very important project that I had to take care of, before I left for Shaolin land.
I had to buy drugs.
I have a good friend who has cancer. It's an interesting story, one which will get briefly described in another future, on the way, post in this forum (Wisdom of WKK, Qi gong and western medicine). He has lung cancer, which he got from many, many years of smoking, from the old style Las Vegas mentality. It's metastatic now, though, we've been here before with him, and, the last time, the chemotherapy and radiation therapy was effective. But, it's back, and he's not a candidate for surgery or radiation. So, it's just the drugs. And, like anyone who is facing his mortality on a relatively short term basis, he is open to options. One of those options, was, another round of Chinese medicine. Traditional Chinese medicine. I used it before on him, I felt it was time to use it again.
I'm not exactly a firm believer of this stuff, though, as I've told him, I keep an open mind when it comes to it. I do believe that acupuncture is effective, but certainly not for all that the Chinese say it is. I have similar feelings when it comes to qi gong. But, these herbal remedies, well, those are quite the other matter. Western medicines have generally been derived from natural substances, so, in my mind, there's no reason why the TCM herbs can be efficacious. But, unlike western medicines, which have to go through all sorts of studies and evaluations before they're released to the public, TCM drugs basically survive over the long term because people believe in them. And, well, maybe they believe in them because they work. To, some unknown degree.
To a man who is wondering how long he has to live, he believes in them. Hell, why not. So, I had one of my high level friends here in Beijing find the best TCM lung cancer specialist. It took a few days, but, shortly thereafter, I was in his home, discussing the little yellow and red pills in the small plastic bags. Price was one thing, getting through customs, at which I'm notoriously famous for getting searched, was quite the other.
The medication was developed by his father, who, was also a TCM doctor, at the hospital he now worked at, around thirty years ago. It is used for all sorts of cancer, specifically to strengthen the non-cancer cells and immune system, so that they kill the cancer cells. They've had wonderful experience with breast and lung cancer, among others. He showed me his statistics, which, though difficult to analzye based upon their classification system, was quite amazing. He claimed a 94% cure rate for people with early cancer, a 50-60% cure rate for people with moderate cancer, and a 17% cure rate for people with advanced cancer. The problem is, in my mind, what exactly defines mild, moderate and severe (we have a much more specific method of classifying stages of cancer in the west), and, what exactly characterizes a so-called cure. He then showed me some post operative pictures of some horribly unfortunate woman who underwent a butchered double mastectomy for cancer, with before and after medication shots. How much was natural healing and how much was medication, was, well, in everybody's imagination. And then, picture after picture of some old guys smoking cigarettes, who supposedly were cured with his drugs, for various sorts of cancer. Quite frankly, I wasn't impressed. To me, it really didn't matter. My friend wanted to try it, whatever I could find, and I was going to get the supposed best stuff I could find. A bit of negotiation, and a few hundred dollars later, and I trudged out of the typical nondescript tiny Chinese apartment, with a few hundred pills. Time will tell.
Time. Oh, what a concept. You have no idea what time has done to this country, or, how Beijing is changing. This is my third trip to Beijing/Shaolin this year. Imagine. Third time this year, twelve times, or something like that, over the past seven. One would think I would know something about this gong fu stuff by now. But, I have learned one thing. Beijing is growing and improving at a logarithmic rate. It's incredible. Buildings, dress, cleanliness, the city is evolving into one hell of a masterpiece. Now, if they can get rid of the traffic, they would be performing a miracle. But, for a major metropolitan area, this place is truly ••••••• incredible.
What's also incredible, is the amount of western influence. Back in 1995, during my first trip to Beijing, I noticed a lot of Mao suits. Lots and lots of them. Even the women wore nondescript drab clothing. The streets were filthy, people spit and smoked everywhere, and the only western food, which was a veritable godsend, was Mickey D's. I don't eat that shit at home, but, boy, during those early days in Beijing, after getting absolutely worn out on rice and mystery meat, Mickey D's was beloved. Now, times have changed. Mickey D's is not just in one place near Tiannenmen. It's everywhere. As well as KFC, Pizza Hut, Starbucks, Hagen Daaz, and others. Western food is not only ubiquitous in Beijing, it's popular. I spent a few hours in a KFC with a new found little Chinese girlfriend, whom I met on the street, and was absolutely amazed at the business that this place was doing. The Chinese have experienced the western way of life, and they want it. And nobody is going to take it away from them. Communist country? Oh, we have a lot to learn in the US about that nonsense.
The government cracked down on the public spitting; no longer do you see it in Beijing restaurants, or, ever more rarely, on the streets. Smoking is another issue which is getting some major attention. There are more and more public places which are nonsmoking, as well as, and thankfully, the taxi cabs. The cabs are, for the most part, clean and fresh. I still perform the famed sniff test before I get into one of them, something which annoys the hell out of the unfortunate driver that still smokes in his cab. They just hate when I flag them down, open their door, smell the interior, and send them their way. But hey, they want to be capitalists, let them be capitalists. I don't pay to sit in an ashtray anymore.
But one thing really did erupt over these past few months. Fashion Style. It can best be seen in the Chinese World Trade Center. OK, so it's not nearly as tall as the one we had in the US, but, this place is huge underground. And it's chock full of the latest, and, most expensive, western clothing retail outlets known to man. Ferragamo, Gucci, Fende and other stores that you would never find me dead in, all scattered throughout the mall, all, very new, very modern, very stylish. And all full of young women, all very beautiful, very modern, very stylish. The men were dressed in expensive European style business suits and other higher class wear. Yes, there I was, dressed in my usual New Balance sneakers, the one with the holes in the sides, and ar elatively worn pair of black combat fatigues. My shaved head was covered with the usual Porsche baseball hat. And, of course, I was wearing a new, Shaolin Chan Wu Xue Yuan sweat shirt. All of this loveliness covered by a high tech North Face well worn winter coat.
I was truly a fashion statement. They found me to be very entertaining, as usual.
Gone are the days when your typical Beijing woman looked like every other typical Beijing woman. Now, there's some incredible beauty running around. Clothing and style, all worn with sophistication and self respect. Attitudes, very open, friendly, and lovable, always with a smile or a slight giggle, always approachable, always respectful, and always, with class. Some of their western counterparts need to take notice. The Beijing women have evolved, and they have truly stolen my warped, abused, and beat up little heart.
Beijing was a joy to be in, despite the fact that the weather was a bit chilly. Bright clear skies, with some cold northerly winds. It was a nice time to be there. But, everything comes to an end, and, after making sure that all my projects were well taken care of, it was time to move on, for an overnight train ride, to Zengzhou and Shaolin.
Time to get this old worn out body back into some sort of gong fu shape. Two months of not training has really taken its toll.
The traditions are dead. Long live the traditions!
The Math Teacher
She was just one of those things that you looked forward to. Just a fairly non-descript young Chinese woman, with a fairly non-descript little Chinese figure, and the usual and typical fairly non-descript semi-long black Chinese hair, all configured fairly nicely, with the fairly common young Chinese female face.
But she had a smile that melted even my jaded old burnt out heart.
And she was just one of those things, that I really looked forward to, on my trips to Shaolin.
For I knew that it would never go anywhere, for her rather small understanding of English was no match for my even smaller understanding of Chinese. But, we would sit together, and look at pictures, or, words in books that neither of us really understood, or, I would teach her few, soon to be forgotten words of English, and she would do the same with Chinese, and, well, it just never really mattered. For, she would look at me, with that slight twinkle in her left eye, that I knew was only reserved for me, and she would smile. And even though it was well understood between the both of us, that absolutely nothing was going to come of this horribly small long distance relationship, she knew that I just melted from that big New York tough guy, into something resembling slightly more like a young lost blithering child.
And it was good.
Oh, what a tradition. Travel thousands of miles, train with the monks, and engage in this fanciful go nowhere love affair with a young woman who would never be mine. But, it was tradition. Get off the plane, unpack, go to Shi De Cheng's school, make imaginary eye love with a woman I couldn't speak to. It was tradition, a doc tradition, and I did it almost every time I came here.
But, no more. For the math teacher got married, and we never saw her again.
Married a bus driver. What a way to go. So much for that tradition.
I'll never forget the day I first ran into PS. After enduring the Shaolin wushu guan for many years, I was brought to the FengYuan hotel, in nearby Dengfeng, to reside in, about the time Yongxin was antagonizing the martial monks. Decheng and Xinghong had opened schools in Dengfeng, so, it made more sense for me to stay there. The FengYuan is the nicest hotel in town, and, because Xinghong's manager knew the FengYuan manager well, I was, well, taken care of. In more ways than one.
The hair parlor on the first floor is home to many a young Chinese girl, some of whom pretend to be knowledgeable about cutting hair, the others, pretend to be knowledgeable about giving massage. Few really know how to give a massage, and a few are downright hookers. But, no matter, it soon became my home away from home away from home (as Shi Yong Qiang tends to refer to the Shaolin area as my home away from home, I'm here so damn much it seems), and I tended to spend every evening, in the hair/massage parlor. It was actually quite the fun place, for, you find these older, and horribly out of shape, Chinese men, that go in to get their presumably, horribly smelly feet massaged, among other things. It's pretty uncommon for a rather large and rather healthy American to wander these environs, and, because of that, I get a lot of attention. Usually one girl takes one customer, or, at least, that's the way it's supposed to work. I sometimes get two, or, occasionally, three. Sometimes a gang of them will come in and watch, as one rubs away, the others just stand there and gawk, or giggle. There's been some nights where I've been the subject of "tag team massage", where, one would get tired, bow out, and watch as another took her place. Sometimes, two would attack me at once. At one time, I had three of them, two standing on my back, and one standing on my legs, with about five others watching, all dancing to some Chinese tune that they were humming. Needless to say, that was one hell of a massage. Yes, over the visits, I've been rubbed by quite the variety of young Chinese girl; few I"ve gotten a little attached to, as they have to me. But, there just never was a one like Purple Snow.
I walked in one evening, actually, it was during DocTour 2001, and I was with some of the members of the group. Kevin and Mark had wanted massage also, so, we went together. Almost hiding, in the deep recesses of the crowd of young girls who worked there, was a rather attractive Chinese girl, with hair down to her waist. Had this rather innocent look that I'm quite fond of. So, in my usual fashion, I went up to her, and pointed directly at her, as she stood, quite horrified, with eyes, suddenly rounded with fear and amazement. "I want you". And that was that.
She had never given a massage before. And, in fact, she didn't even work there. Her sister managed the place, and, she was just visiting. All this had been explained to me, with Yong doing the translating, but, I didn't care. I looked at her, and motioned to have her follow me into my favorite dark little room. She was appalled. She didn't know how to give a massage, I was told; why don't I just take one of these other girls. Nope, I wanted her. And, after grabbing her hand, it was off we went. I had shocked yet another little Chinese woman. I was having fun. There's nothing quite like my terrorizing the local inhabitants.
It turned out to be one of those horribly hysterical moments of my life. For, before entering the little massage room, I had assigned one of the better massage girls to Mark, who took the other bed in my room, and, I had hooked up Kevin, who was married to an attorney back in Las Vegas, with one of the sluttier whores. She was the one who carried a backpack with a big pink bunny emblazoned on the back. I remember pointing to it, and mentioning it as a "bunny".
She grabbed hold of the english quite well, for all during Kevin's massage, Mark and I could hear, on top of the beatings and Kevin's groans, this slutty little massage girl slap Kevin here, and pull Kevin there, all the while yelling out loud, "fuck bunnies".
An hour of a groaning Kevin, and exclamations from Kevin's little Chinese masseuse, in horribly broken English, of "fuck bunnies", was quite the experience.
But it was PS who stole the night. For Mark was getting massaged, by his little professional masseuse, right next to my aluminum cot, which I thought, at any minute, I would crush and tumble to the floor. PS really didn't have any idea as to what she was doing, so, she basically watched the massage Mark was getting, and, she would mimic it. Granted, it was a fairly shitty massage, but, I was enjoying it. It became downright hysterical when Mark had been turned on his stomach, for the back flexing maneuver.
What they do, is make you lie on your stomach, and put your arms behind your back. The girl then gets up on top of this rickety little bed that you lie on, and, kneeling over you, at your feet, grabs your hands, and pulls, so that your back arches, and that your face, head and shoulders leave the bed. Mark's little girl had him up and almost bent in half; I, on the other hand, felt this tugging at my hands. I didn't move.
Mark, pulled halfway up off his bed, and I, lying flat and motionless on mine, happened to turn around at the same time.Maybe it was the grunting and groaning that we heard behind us, grunting and groaning which sounded much more painful than what we heard coming from Kevin's room. Whatever it was, we both looked back, and saw PS, now, on the first massage of her life, trying to make an impression and keep up with the big girls, was standing on the bed above me, frantically pulling at both of my arms, in a desperate attempt to pull my shoulders up off the bed, with feet sliding on the mattress, and sweat virtually pouring off her horribly reddened and strained face. "fuck bunnies" came from the other room, and, at that moment, PS's feet gave out from under her, and down she went, falling first on the back of my legs, and then, partly to the floor.
Screams of "fuck fuck bunnies!" came from Kevin's room, as he groaned in pain yet again. Mark's and my massages were over. We were laughing way too hard to do anything else.
It was the beginning of a tradition. PS started massaging me every night, and, eventually, because I couldn't stand the cigarette smoke that filled the air in the hair parlor, and, probably for other reasons known only to PS, we moved my massages to my room. Eventually, she "moved in", and my nightly massages turned into all night events. Yes, most definitely a good tradition, for, one just cannot beat the life of waking up in the morning next to some young cute thing with much more hair than I, eat a few chocolate chip cookies to start the day, work out all morning and afternoon, and get back to your room, for a two hour massage/back scratch, and wonderful cuddly dreams.
What a way to train.
And what a relationship.
She was attractive, even for a northern Chinese woman. With long, long healthy hair, which, if you haven't figured out yet, absolutely drives me nuts, and a cute little smile framed by a rather attractive face, she was very pleasing to look at. And what a disposition, always there to take care of me, always there to look out for me, always washing my clothes in the bathtub on a daily basis. And when she yelled at me, for something that I just didn't do, as usual of course, I could just stand there and laugh at her, because, when she got angry, it just amused the hell out of me. Then, as the frustration mounted, her face would get red, and her eyes and mouth would curl up into that same position she first had when she struggled to arch my back on that massage table. And I would think, "fuck bunnies", and laugh out loud, sometimes, really, really hard.
It annoyed the fuck out of her. It amused the hell out of me. Out of the well over a hundred women that I have dated in my life, this was truly a perfect relationship, the most perfect, enjoyable relationship I have ever, ever had. The absolute, most joyous, best. It was a match made in glorious heaven, and I, in a rare moment, was happy.
It had really helped that she couldn't speak a word of English.
But relationships. like traditions, are meant to end, and end they must. PS met me at the airport this trip, and spent some time with me in Beijing, but, because of a supposedly ill sister (she burnt her foot with hot water, I wonder if her name is "Yellow..."), we didn't get too spend much time together. She hasn't been able to come to Shaolin to stay with me, but, no doubt, if she does, she'll take a bus. Like she always does. Always taking the bus, where ever she goes. A bus.
Damn bus drivers.
Traditions end, traditions begin
It was the beginning of my routine afternoon eight mile brisk hike. The same one I do at 7AM, every morning, before I start training. I can't run anymore, the blown discs in my neck preclude that. But, after getting up at 5:30 AM, and having a small breakfast, with some email checking, my hike begins, my workouts begin, my hike begins again, and the evening, sans PS, is spent on learning Dreamweaver, and wondering when my next massage was going to be. My Shaolin experience this time has been empty, for lack of young female hands that wander about my body.
She was young, and very cute, and for some reason, on my way down the stairs, she stopped me, all, oh, eighty pounds of her, by standing in front of me. And, she started yelling at me in Chinese. Since I didn't know her, I decided not to laugh, so, I just kind of looked at her, with that "what the ••••" funny look that I'm so good at. It soon became clear that she had worked in the massage/hair parlor, and that she wanted to give me a massage that night. Never got approached like that before, so, I agreed. I told her I'd be back. And off I went for my walk.
Epilogue: A new beginning
Oh the traditions. How they end. Got lots more to write about, but, it will have to wait. Got a pair of young fresh female hands downstairs waiting to explore old doc's environs. Time to get into trouble. Trouble as only I can get into. Doc trouble.
We call her Bing Bing
There's a little restaurant across the street from the hotel that I stay in, that always seems to do a good job of catering to us. So, we go there. We get this little room, and this little Chinese girl stands there, and looks after our meal. They're all programmed, you know. Kind of like computers, progammed to do what they've been told to do, and completely unable to think for themselves. They're responsible for the set up and maintenance of the table, which, if you haven't figured out already, I've taken the responsibility for completely making a mess of. The dish goes there, the little cup goes here, the chopsticks go on the chopstick holder, the napkin gets folded under the dish and lays on your lap, and everything, so primm and proper, has it's own little place, which it has to stay in.
I don't eat that way.
To me, the food goes from the dish to my mouth, and to hell with the rest of it.
It all becomes very comical after a while, as I move things away from me, or, put things where I want to have them, as I spread out over two seating places. The little girls, all around 18 years old or so, eventually slide over, ever so gently, and try to, oh so discretely, put things back where they should be.
And I, of course, move them again.
Now, some of these girls, are just basically horrified of me as it is, mainly because they've just never seen a guy as large as me before. The shaved head probably has something to do with it also. So, the response that I get at the dinner table from these girls, is highly variable. Some, will return, ever so slowly, to try to rearrange my eating place. Some, just kind of stand in the corner, and watch me, wide eyed, as I constantly drop shit from my fumbled chopsticks into my waiting lap. When I leave, I usually have a bunch of rice sticking to my thighs and my crotch, which, I just leave there, much to their amazement. You just never know when you're going to get hungry in Shaolin.
Let's face it. I terrorize these poor little girls. And most of them love it.
Especially Shao Hong. Now, Shao Hong was quite unique among the girls that worked in this restaurant, because, not only did she constantly rearrange my eating place, but, because she yelled at me while she was doing so. I haven't the slightest idea what the hell she was saying, but, the chopsticks went back over there, and she yelled at me in some sort of incomprehensible Chinese. I know she was yelling at me, because, I've been around far too many women in my life, not to know when one is yelling at me. Hell, they all do, at one time or another. Ah, Shao Hong was great. She gave me shit, and she wasn't afraid of me. I had to rearrange my eating habits just to keep her happy.
Shao Hong stood out in other ways; not only did she not put up with "doc shit", but, she had breasts. Rather large ones for a Chinese girl. Large to the point that she didn't wear one of those usual padded bras. Now, that bra, well, that's another story. It provided me with many hours of entertainment. For, not only did that bra contain some very wonderful imagined flesh, but, that bra, had little animals printed on it. And, through Shao Hong's white shirt, one could barely make out these little animals, which were imprinted all over those lovely little curves. My Chinese friends, once I made mention of this little menagerie that I certainly wouldn't have minded becoming part of, thought the little imprinted animals were elephants. Hell, they certainly did look like elephants, but, I just wasn't sure. To me, they looked like rats, but, hey, I'm from New York. So, I made it my mission, last year, to find out, what those little animals were.
I started messing up my eating area. I just had to get a closer look.
She kept rearranging my plate, and, for being bad, she started whacking me on the head with chopsticks.
I tried, and I tried, and I got beat, and I suffered. But I never, ever found out what those little animals were. This trip, the restaurant changed the uniform, to something with a vest and coat, and the lovely little bra that we all enjoyed watching during dinnner, disappeared from our universe forever.
Oh, the pain.
But it wasn't to last for long. Bing Bing was quite the other story. For, once the uniforms changed in the restaurant, I felt slighted. And, there was no reason to terrorize Shao Hong anymore. So, one day, when we entered the restaurant, I picked another. A rather small girl, with very long and very thick black hair, all bundled together, all hanging down to just below her waist, with a cute little face, and a completely nondescript little body, all hidden by the damn new uniform. I looked at her, gently grabbed her by the shoulder, and said "Come on. You're feeding me".
She came. And, she became our new waitress.
Her name was Bing Bing. Kind of had a nice ring to it. I'd walk into the restaurant, and yell, "Bing Bing!", and soon thereafter, all the girls in the restaurant would start running up and down the hallway, yelling "Bing Bing". It was quite comical. And then, she would appear, two small slits for eyes, and a faceful of teeth. Sweet little girl she was, not really representative of what her name described her as. "Bing" in Chinese means, "ice". "Bing Bing", means, well, "pure ice", or, "ice cold", a moniker more representative of some of the women I've dated in the past, provided that the term "bitch" was appended to it. No, Bing Bing was pure sweetness and love. She always brightened our day.
She always enjoyed when I walked into the room, because, she came to expect every word that came out of my mouth. I would enter the room, look at her and the other helper girl, and say "Xi Gua! Xi Gua, NOW!". Which, meant, I wanted watermelon. I always like to eat watermelon before the meal, as opposed to the usual, after. It rehydrates me, and fills me with the necessary fiber to keep things, well, moving, something you just have to think of at my age. Again, having watermelon before the meal was out of the sphere of the typical programming, but, after a while, they got the point. So, I'd walk into the restaurant, put my cap on Bing Bing's head, and she'd dutifully follow me into our little room, at which point I'd say "Xi Gua now!", and, she, in her dutiful little way, with her slanted eyes turning into tiny little slits as her face turned into one huge smile of rare beautiful teeth, would say "Mei yo", which means, we don't have any watermelon. And I would turn to her, as she was still wearing my baseball cap, and I'd say, "Xi gua!", because, I wanted watermelon, and, because it was the only Chinese words that I could pronounce correctly.
But, there just ain't now watermelon in November. There's snow, and there's cold, but there ain't no xi gua.
The routine continued every day. "Xi gua NOW!" "Mei Yo" (smile). "Xi gua, xi gua, xi gua!"
I never got my watermelon. But, I did get little Bing Bing.
Bing Bing and I carried out this little lovely relationship, where I would yell xi gua at her, and where she would turn into slits and a smile, for many days. She was 16, and I was, well, let's see, hmmm, well, if I had lived my life in a normal fashion, like everybody else in the world, she would be younger than my daughter, if I ever had one. Hmmm. OK, so what. Perfect. We carried on our little go nowhere affair, for many days. Many, many days. And I knew, that there was a little place in her little heart just for me, just as there was a little place, in my burnt out and ripped apart little heart, just for her. But, it was never to be, and I knew that. So, I told Lu Yong, who, is a bit younger than me, that he should go out with her. "Yong, marry this one". Yong would reply, "She's too young".
"We'll come back in two years. You know what, the hell with you, I'll come back in two years..."
So much for planning. It became the usual doc's little world once again. One day, I noticed, that she noticed, that I noticed her noticing Lu Yong, who, always sat at dinner right next to me. Bing Bing became Lu Yong's little love affair, I became unnoticed, and I ate, undisturbed, "sans xi gua", and with rice in my crotch, for the rest of the trip.
And to further round out my day, PS got pissed and stopped talking to me. Not that I understood her anyway.
Doc's world continues. Nothing changes. More to come....