Monday, March 11, 2013

RED SPLOOGE by Doc Sigerson (Part 2)



Part One

The last thing I should have done was proffer any notions that might
inspire a harebrained stunt, least of all to Mr. Keith “Sippy” Cullen,
that mook. At first it seemed out of character. The man practiced a
pathological frugality, pinched his pennies until they squealed like
pigs. His porn sessions were his version of a cheap date. Sure, he
was a natural introvert, but it was parsimony mostly that prevented
him from pairing up. Now, The Red Splooge Boogie had him
high-stepping to a different tune as he betook himself to The Joy Luck
Rub, a tidy emporium of tug jobs tucked into a strip mall not too far
from his favorite 7-11 store.

Middle-aged Chinese women, originally from Hong Kong, operated the
massage parlor. Though they possessed but a smattering of English,
they moved him from lobby to massage room in a manner businesslike and
brisk. The women wore plain blue hospital scrubs and though far from
matronly frumps, they were certainly not the China doll ingenues of
desire’s imagination.

Mother naked, he stretched out on the massage table, his arms dangling
rubbery and loose off the sides of the table, his face firmly in the
cradle allowing him but a hemmed view of the floor and sometimes a
glimpse of a sensible workshoe. The masseuse set to manhandling
whatever muscles he had achieved through a regimen of role player
video games and internet porn. She directed him to turn over onto his
back and as he turned, she placed deftly a small pillow beneath his
head before he even realized what she had done.

“Little Brother need massage?” she asked.

“What brother?” he started, “I don’t have a ...”

“Little Brother.” and she pointed.

“Oh ... oh, yes, please,” said Sippy. “Please, take good care of him.”

The woman stationed the bottle of lotion between Sippy’s knees,
applying liberal amounts to her hand and began slathering Sippy’s
loins. She proceeded in circular motions on his abdomen, sweeping
lower, lower, and then working the inside of his thighs. The circle
was closing in. Then running tentatively her fingers along his shaft,
with the other hand she kneaded the scrotum. Grasping his balls with
increasing pressure, she started stroking his penis. Sippy felt the
grumbling and flexing gland exert its power. A sudden inner
convulsing,and like a damburst, the woman was drenched. Sippy moaned
and the woman gasped.

“Aieeeeeeeeee!” she cried, “Ugh! Ugh! Oh, no! [something in Mandarin]!
You ugly defective white man! [something more in Mandarin]! I might
be contaminated and die of a horrible disease!
[something-something-something in Mandarin]!”

She wiped frantically the blood from her face and jetted from the
room, down the hall. Sippy heard doors slam and could discern several
excited voices but could not understand the words in Mandarin. Then
more slamming of doors. He toweled himself dry, then dressed and made
his way to the front desk. Seeing no one there, he slipped out the
door, hastening homeward with many a backward glance. The woman had
not collected money before the massage and Sippy had failed to leave
payment on the desk. When it became apparent no one pursued, he
slowed, breaking into a saunter and a shit-eating grin.

* * *

As if no one wanted to play cards with a man called Doc, pigeons were
scarce in the card room that next day when Sippy showed up, a spark in
his eye, a spring in his step. I motioned him over and asked how he
fared.

“I took your advice, Doc,” he said, “been trying things out, seeing
what’s exactly my new normal.”

“Your hemospermia condition - still erupting red?”

“Yeah, Doc. It’s a dang mess.”

“Vesuvius, Krakatoa, Sippy Cullen.”

“Doc, sometime I don’t get you at all,” he said. “So it’s funny. I
thought this brouhaha with the burst blood vessel would check my
action but just the opposite - it’s jumpstarted and turbo-charged my
whole sex drive. I’m in full-on horndog mode. All the time.”

“Well, that’s surprising,” I said. “I ‘d have guessed it would have
let the air out of your balloon.”

“It’s like I have an animal down there below my gut” Sippy said,
“purring away all the time, then when I get going, the animal is
roaring like that talking tiger on the cereal commercial. I’m about
to shoot my wad and the animal feels like it’s trying to explode out
of my body. It’s more powerful than anything I’ve felt before.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a good thing going there,” I said.

“It’s like when you absorb a power booster capsule, you up your energy
and your firepower increases tenfold.”

“Sippy, for the sake of my reputation, I’m going to pretend that I did
not understand what you just said.”

“Hardy-har-har,” he said, “You just like to pretend that you don’t
know as much as you really do. So let me ask you about something
that’s come up.”

“Tell me what’s itching your brain,” I said.

“I’m thinking of going to one of them massage places I see around
town. Seems to be new ones popping up every month and I don’t know
which one would be really right for me, if you get my drift.”

I gave him the eye and thought oh ho, once more he’s the man of gelded
dreams and stillborn schemes.

”Well, Sippy,” I said, “there’s legit ones and then there’s not so
legit ones where you can exercise your animal, if that’s what we’re
talking about. But seriously, you need to take care of your problem
first.”

“It’s getting better, actually,” he said, “should be cleared up in a few days.”

“Just like finding the right plumber or barber shop, it’s trial and
error, or you rely on word of mouth. You might try doing some
searches on the internet. I understand there’s chatrooms and websites
where the ‘patrons’ discuss and rate the different establishments.
I’ve heard that if you’re interested in a superb by-the-book working
over, then steer yourself to the Asian joints.”

“Really?” he asked. “Why’s that?”

“Regular massage has been a part of their culture for centuries and
unlike run-of-the-mill American-operated massage parlors, those run by
Asians make a practice of rendering service before receiving payment,
leaving the amount of the gratuity, if any, to the gentleman patron,
which is one their ways of sidestepping the snares of Uncle Leo.”

“You mean the crazy uncle from Seinfeld?”

“That character’s name has been hijacked by the criminal subculture so
that here LEO stands for Law Enforcement Officer.”

“Jiminy Christmas! No kidding!”

“And try to avoid anyplace that advertises ‘hot stones’ therapy,” I
said. “According to my sources, that’s the piss-poor substitute
provided by sleazy incompetent joints that don’t have trained massage
therapists and any extra services they might offer are usually
substandard, as well. So you think you want to sample the skills of
one of our local service providers?”

“Nah,” he said, “probably not.”

“I didn’t think so for a moment, Sip. We are who we are.”

“Guess so,” he said.

In hindsight, he’d laid enough cards on the table for me to suss out
the situation but, you see, I had never taken Ol’ Sippy seriously, not
even halfway, and so my mind skated over what otherwise would have
been evident.

* * *

Tuesday, March 5, 2013

RED SPLOOGE by Doc Sigerson (Part 1)



RED SPLOOGE
by Doc Sigerson

Sunday morning, porn session in progress, and Sippy Cullen was never
more alive, his synapses percolating merrily along as he mouse-clicked
from image to image, pausing at certain almost familiar faces as if
there were a faint possibility that she and he could have met sometime
in Sippy’s mostly uneventful life, leading to an even more implausible
fantasy of an intimate encounter. Progressing from merely teasing his
prick to a full-fisted grasp, he fell into a rhythmic pumping. He
leaned back in the chair, his eyes closed, the pressure mounting, and
visualized first that zaftig middle-aged dyed-blonde woman at the 7-11
store where he buys his banana-flavored Slurpee each afternoon and who
often seemed interested in his small talk, then that Asian newsbabe on
Channel 6 with the flashy smile and infectious laugh and whose
signature cleavage was always sweetly center screen, and finally that
slim fresh-limbed blonde cheerleader on whom he suffered a forlorn
crush in high school. The urgency was burgeoning, building and
building, a potent pressure aching to burst free. He released into
his left hand. He took a long breath. He opened his eyes. His heart
stopped.

His surroundings were spattered and scumbled with a surfeit of fluid,
not just the modest amount of jizz contained easily within the palm of
one hand, not just a skosh of overflow, not just the scattershot of
erratic aim, but an inundation of King Kong proportions, and lest you
think I exaggerate, a Jackson Pollack pattern covered the computer
screen, random shots had scored the wall and speckled the ceiling,
larger drops had begun sliding or dripping downward, obeisant to
gravity, moving toward the growing puddles on the floor between and
around his feet. Only it wasn’t jizz. It wasn’t semen. It was
blood, dark red and thick and gloppy.

“...eee ...” he squeaked. And he sat there a long while trying
desperately to make his brain work harder, to think faster, to wrap
his mind around what just happened. Sippy Cullen decided finally that
the blood was real. He wiped clean his hands with the tissue he had
set out and then examined systematically his private parts,
ascertaining that there was no external injury or wound. His relief
lasted only a moment as he realized that no external problem could
only mean that an internal problem existed. He mulled over the
possibilities.

“Jiminy Christmas ... now what?” he muttered.

* * *

“Damn it, Sip,” I said, “I’m a poker player, not a doctor.” He had
found me laired up at Whisperin’ Lanes Bowling Center where, in the
cocktail lounge and card room, one is isolated from the din of the
alleys, the whoops and banter of bowlers, the clatter of colliding
pins, the jarring clunk and rolling schadenfreude of other people’s
balls in the gutter. We go way back, Sippy Cullen and I, back to our
early days, grade school, then high school where we both were involved
in sports. I ran cross-country and track, while Sippy was the team
manager for whatever sport was in season. I ‘m one of the few to know
that his legal name is Keith and perhaps the only soul to remember
that he acquired the nickname of Sippy because his family came from
Mississippi before relocating to the Northwest. He’d always been
weedy and scraggly, his mouth hung open in perpetual disbelief, his
eyeglasses in constant need of adjustment, and somewhere over the
unkind decades he had acquired a strange compulsion to unburden
himself to me.

“They tested me at the free clinic,” Sippy said after a prelimanary
explanation. “Told me no infection, probably a blood vessel that had
burst.”

“Ain’t that a kick in the pants? ” I said, “It’s called hemospermia.
So you had a little blood in the semen?” By the time a man gets to a
certain age he’s apt to have more than a nodding acquaintance with the
hazards and mishaps of the male plumbing.

“No, Doc,” he said, “it was a hell of a lot more than just a little!”

“Was it,” I asked, “like a little ketchup mixed in tartar sauce?”

“Jeez, Doc,” he said, “I said a lot. More like a murder on CSI:
Miami. Everything covered in blood.”


“A crime scene and you got caught redhanded!” I chortled.

“Doc, you a real A-hole sometime,” he sniffed. “gotta look for the
joke in everything. But dang it, why? What was I doing wrong?”

“Could happen to anyone,” I shrugged. “Even a brand new Goodyear can
have a blowout.”

“The clinic P.A. said it was common problem but dang if I ever hear of
it anywhere.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve heard that about a lot of various conditions and
maybe it’s because guys are embarrassed to talk up their shortcomings.
And you have to remember, Sippy, those medical professionals only
come in contact with luckless souls afflicted with problems and
looking for help. Their view of the world is necessarily skewed.”

“There was one thing he didn’t tell me and I was too mushmouthed to
ask. And this is the real question. Do I stop for a while or can I
go back to ... you know ... normal activities?”

“I don’t know, Sippy,” I said, thinking for a moment. “There are two
possibilities, it seems. One, the injury will be aggravated every
time you ejaculate and there will always be a copious amount of blood
in your spew. If so, this will be your new normal.”

“Jiminy Christmas! I hope not!”

“The second possibility,” I continued, “the injury was a one-time only
affair and that by ejaculating you are actually flushing out your
system. Tell me, Sippy, was there any pain?”

“No, Doc,” he said, “nothing at all.”

“Well, you ought be able to take the little fella out and show him a
swell time. See how it goes and if you aggravate the injury, then
take a break for a few days and try again,” And I added. “You know,
it ‘s a damn fine thing you weren’t with some actual gal. She’d been
thoroughly freaked out.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, “totally freaked out.”

* * *

Monday, February 18, 2013

Tingle In The Netherlands



Tingle In The Netherlands' debut album 'Why Can't You Write Something Nice For A Change?' is now available as CD or download!


Read what one motherfucker said:

"I am listening to and loving ...Tingle in the Netherlands 'PROSTITUTE's HANDBAG' remixed by Atomizer !!!! Best line of the Decade .. 'made in China ..paid for by Vagina ' I promise to play it Twice at REHAB Tomorrow Night !!!!"
Goo Bee - DJ at REHAB Bangkok

And another:

"Listening to Tingle In The Netherlands is better than putting tin foil into the microwave and doing a weird yoga position."


And another:

"Shagging the milkman is a six o'clock Saturday buzz on a Monday morning ...marvelous."
Miserable Old Bastard - Fan and muse



Check it out here!




Friday, February 8, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 5)


Her earnings increased exponentially and she now had enough money to move into her own apartment.

Though she could have afforded a decent one bedroom, she instead rented a suitable studio. That way she was able to send more money home to her family, save more for the future, and even give a little to her cousin for the baby.

With the amount she was making, she figured she only needed to work another two to five years. Then she planned to return to her hometown and start her own small business, probably a little shop or restaurant.

She also began to chat on QQ with a cousin of one of her old friends from high school, a boy only a couple years older than her, by the name of Huang Mo Zhe. Mo Zhe was working on his family’s farm, which was turning a respectable profit.

The more they talked, the more she envisioned returning to her village and marrying him, starting a family, and forgetting all about her current life.

***

Ying only worked nights, so most of her days were spent sleeping, watching Thai soap operas, and playing on QQ.

But mostly she went shopping, since for the first in her life she had disposable cash, and she liked to use it to buy all sorts of clothes, shoes, and make-up, especially the Korean style stuff her favorite K-Pop singers wore.

She and Di often met up in the afternoons or early evenings before work and would wander arm in arm around any number of different shopping malls in Guangzhou or Shenzhen, buying whatever they felt like, sitting next to each other in restaurants, playing on their cell phones, and talking about anything other than work.

Sometimes Ying went to the mall by herself, just to walk around and window shop or sit in a cafĂ©, where she’d sip coffee and surf Weibo or QQ on her cellphone...

When shopping one balmy afternoon, Ying came across a sale for the newest iPhone.

Excitedly, she purchased it, and remembered the long hours she’d spent in that hot and sticky factory and those berating Cantonese shrieks that spewed from her old boss. Ying couldn’t help but wonder if maybe one of her old colleagues had assembled the phone she now held in her freshly manicured hands.

She rushed it back to her apartment, tore open its packaging, powered it on and began to fiddle with its features.

She’d been so ecstatic to see it in the store and to buy it, but as she played around with it and clutched its cool, shiny silver body, she didn’t really feel anything at all.


PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

Monday, February 4, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 4)



The man got up and Ying reluctantly followed him into a room at the end of the hallway. The room looked like a hotel suite. There was a queen sized bed, small bathroom, mirror on the ceiling and TV atop a small dresser.

Ying’s heart began to pound. Her boss then entered the room and produced a syringe and quickly stuck it into her arm, saying to her it’d prevent “any infections.”

The boss then left and the man undid his suit and undressed. Ying tried not to look at him and slid off her miniskirt, bra, and panties, and joined the man on the bed.

Her heart beat faster, and she lay flat on the bed, spread her legs, gritted her teeth and closed her eyes.

The weight of the man hovered over top of her and she smelled the stench of his strong, musty body odor and awful breath. Then she felt the prick of his warm, short and thin penis as it entered her. He only pushed into her a handful times before pulling out and ejaculating onto her stomach.

The man got up and hurriedly dressed and left the room without saying a word. She then got up herself, went into the bathroom and took an especially hot shower.

She’d been terrified at the start, but now, as she got dressed, she didn’t really feel anything. It had happened so fast that she’d gone kind of numb.

Though she didn’t have much emotion, she definitely knew she didn’t feel like seeing that man again, ever.

Fortunately for her, when she got back to the singing room, neither the man nor any of his colleagues were there.

***

Following the first night she’d slept with a customer, Ying no longer was mere scenery at the KTV. Every night she’d be whisked to the room down the hall, on occasion two or three times.

There the same routine would always take place. She’d get an injection (before the first customer), then would disrobe and have sex.

The men were usually in their 40’s, though sometimes 50’s and occasionally 30’s or late 20’s. Mostly the sex was missionary and fast.

Some used condoms. Some didn’t. Some paid for her to come back to their hotel rooms. Sometimes she’d even spend the night with them…

The sex to her was completely without feeling. It was simply an action, and she derived no pleasure at all from it- however convincing she eventually became at faking it…

Most of her customers were Chinese, but there were a few foreigners. She liked the Western ones most because they treated her kindest and tipped her handsomely, which the Asians never did. They never tipped at all.

She did refuse certain requests, though, mostly made by foreigners, especially for French kissing or those for non-standard sex. And she flat out refused to be with any dark-skinned foreign clientele. No matter how much they offered.


PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Prostitution in China - KTV Story (Part 3)



Her first night on the job and next three weeks were pretty much the same. She’d doll herself up, slip on a skin tight, shiny silver one piece miniskirt and matching 10cm heels, and basically just sit there looking pretty for groups of businessmen who’d belt out song after song and down beer after beer.

Occasionally one of the men made small talk with her, but not too often. Mostly the men just talked business and got filthy drunk. By end of the night many would be passed out.

Ying wasn't making the money she thought but still was making far more than at the factory. Plus, all she had to do was sit there, look pretty and pour drinks. Other than having to breathe in copious amounts of second hand smoke, it wasn't too bad.

Finally though, after about a month on the job, a customer took a liking to her and spent most of the evening talking to her while his colleagues drank and sang Westlife songs in a mixture of Chinese and broken English.

The man was mid to late 40’s and elegantly dressed in an expensive looking, navy blue three piece suit. He appeared to be the laoban of the group.

Ying wasn't entirely pleased by the attention, though, because from the moment she first saw him, the man flat out disgusted her. He was terribly short and had a tiny head and receding hairline that crested at a peculiar angle and an ugly, pock-marked face with virtually no chin.

His teeth were rotted and crooked and he had horrible breath. Besides his looks there was an additional something, too, something intangible, that nauseated Ying.

He seemed oblivious or apathetic to her thinly disguised disdain, however, and was surprisingly candid as he spoke to her about his family, his daughter, and the stresses of his job. He didn't ask her any questions except for her age, and when she told him she was eighteen, he called for her boss.

Her boss, the same young man who’d hired her, came over to the man and whispered something into his ear. Money was then exchanged and her boss whispered to Ying that the man wished to spend some time alone with in her in an adjacent room.


PART ONE

PART TWO