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Location:Texas, USA Naturalized US Citizen of Irish extract -   Fixed Wing and Helo trucker.Interests: "The Absurdity of Man". I am a proud supporter of Blarney, Nonsense, and Hooey. I enjoy being a chopper jockey, and trying to figure the world, people and belief systems out. I'm just not very good at it, so it keeps me real busy. I scribble, blog, run this website, mess with rental houses, ride motorbikes, and read as much as I can. I went solo 44 years ago, and I like to say I'm gonna get me a real job one day. When I grow up. ("but not just yet, Lord, not just yet") For my aviation scribbles see www.chopperstories.com.... enjoy! I wish you Peace in your Life. May you always walk with the sun on your face, and a breeze ruffling your hair. And may you cherish a quiet wonder for our awesome Universe. Life isn't always good. But it is always fascinating. Never quit.
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Series This Belongs To
A Blip on the Radar (Part 25) "Floored by a Russian Hooker"
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A Blip on the Radar (Part 25) "Floored by a Russian Hooker"



A Blip on the Radar (Part 25)

"Floored by a Russian Hooker"




I miss Steve.
Steve Hoffman. Tuna Pilot.
Owner, operator, of  "Hoffman helicopters, Guam" for many years.
He's long since dead now. Many years.  At a young age.
Poor old boy.
Steve ran a fleet of really fine Hughes 500 Tuna spotting helicopters.
And I worked for him for a while.   And…. Well, he got me good one time. Him, and my so-called "mates". Good and proper.
Good and proper…

*          *         *          *           *

If I hadn't been so tipsy, I could have smelled a rat. I could have seen it coming.
Everybody was being far too nice to me. We were in a bar in Guam, and I was being plied with drinks.
It was almost as if I had done something extraordinary, and I was being rewarded by grateful companions.
I couldn't actually remember anything of note I had done, but that minor detail didn't deter me from imbibing happily. After a while I was becoming decidedly... mellow.  And agreeable. And just...
Ripe for picking, I guess.
It was Steve, my buddy, my pal, who suggested, in a loud, perhaps somewhat theatrical voice, that we should ALL continue the night's celebrations in the local strip joint.
I wasn't that enthusiastic. I demurred.
They served alcohol there (ridiculously expensive) with old, wrinkly, sour faced Asian waitresses who never brought you any change.  (You soon learned not to pay for a three dollar beer with a twenty dollar note.)
It had the usual slippery pole, and some scantily clad female performing weird gymnastics up and down the pole, to the accompaniment of loud cheers and cat calls from the audience of drunks. Many were old lechers, the proverbial dirty old men, and there were few women watchers. It was all kind of seedy. I wasn't that keen, as in my mind, I associated these venues with shallow exploitation.  Massage parlors. Many of the strippers were illegal immigrants, Russian, Chinese, Latvian and Philippino, and few looked as if they were having a good time in Life. It was pretty obvious that the strip joint was a front for the oldest occupation known to Man, and a few hefty, low IQ, Neanderthal looking 'bouncers' completed what, to me, was a boring, stale, predictable dosshouse.
I'd been taken there before, and I had little interest in repeating the experience. But Steve and my buddies were all... Insistent.  And persuasive. And adamant.
In the end, I shrugged my shoulders. What the heck... I didn't have a car, and I sure didn't want to walk back.
It was three or four miles to the hotel, and in my advanced state, it would have been a six or eight mile "duck waddle". That's if I managed to avoid all the stupid lamp posts.  
I agreed. And, for some reason, that seemed to really,really please everybody...

*          *          *           *           *

     Once we entered "El  Casa", I went to sit down at the back, where it was quieter, and darker.
Away from the harsh glare of the stage lights. Maybe I could just sit through it patiently, sip my beer, and take my mind far away. To somewhere nice, and sunny, with plenty of Light. Maybe my cockpit, alone, high above the Pacific. With in the distance, shadowy, beckoning, a massive mist-draped mountain range, looming up out of the sea..
But no. Steve was strangely adamant. He insisted on chaperoning me right through to the front row. Right under the stupid stage. I wasn't too wild about that, but he WAS my boss, and he DID sign my pay check, an'... an'...
And I was still too thick headed to even remotely smell a rodent.

      How, you may ask, did this innocent ever survive on his motorcycle, alone, for months on end, driving around behind the Iron Curtain in his early twenties? Camping in fields and old barns?
Answer: I have NO idea…

      The strippers came on, and they were the usual sorry looking lot.  Too much make up, unsmiling, almost bored looking, going through the required motions. It was as if they assumed their bodies were so stunningly gorgeous and luscious that we were supposed to collapse in an orgy of admiration and erectional awe just by their very presence. They made no effort to appear charming, or interested, or even particularly awake.
To me, it was boring. And I stifled a yawn. I like my women sexy in a full bodied way. I like 'em nicely dressed,  with room for my rabid, lusty imagination.  With tight, tasteful tops, peeky breasts, and tight skirts. High heels of course, black stockings are a bonus. But above all, I like my women to smile, laugh, and be funny. I enjoy charming, intelligent, witty women. I'll even take frisky...

      But this parade of too-much-flesh, and way too-much-makeup, and here and there some puppy fat, and here and there too much under-arm hair... And never a smile, never a recognition that there was even an audience out there…
Nah... boooooring...
So I sipped my beer quietly, with my mind far away, roaming around distant worlds, longing for the Great Longing I have never understood, and just simply a hundred miles away, I quietly put up with the fleshy un-smiling un-sexual parade directly above me.
They were all mostly versions of the same.  One after the other...

***Here comes another one. Very little clothes on, no room for imagination, and (Lord!) would you look at those varicose veins...
*** And that one... must have dated a tattoo artist at some stage... no darling, the serpent on your left buttock looks like he's got indigestion…
*** Sweety, lose the biceps, and tuck your nipples in…
*** Honey, if you're gonna wear high heels, you need to practice walking in them, 'cause you are gonna hurt yourself…
*** Hey Missy, your false eyelashes are slipping…
*** Hey, Brigit, it's called "make-up", it's not called "camouflage paint"…
*** DARLING, nooooo,  next time, SHAVE YOUR PUSSY, for goodness' sake…!!


And so there I sat, a connoisseur of Fine Art and Good Wines, observing Vin Ordinaire and table wine with a polite composure.
Steve leaned across. Whispering softly, there was a certain odd excitement in his voice.
"Elena is up next! You'll like her!"
Was there a certain grim satisfaction in his emphasis on my liking her?
I looked at the stage door, and, sure enough, the redoubted Elena had put in an appearance. Russian. Leggy, tall, and very fit looking. It looked as if she worked out a lot, because I could see well developed muscles.  
A ripple went around the audience. Cheers. Some applause. My companions seemed very enamored with Elena. I wondered why.  Beside me, Steve, my boss, seemed to be smiling from ear to ear.

Elena was indeed, different. Firstly, she sprang onto the stage like a cat.  She didn't just waddle up the steps like the mutton and lamb that had gone before her. She positively uncoiled, and exploded onto the stage.
She also knew how to play the audience. Her gaze was direct, challenging, and she responded to the audience. Her movements were tailored to the decibel level, and a slyly slipping strap or zipper would pause in the action, if the cheering and the foot stomping diminished. Once the old men, the perverts, and the assembled helicopter pilots and mechanics had figured that simple "accelerator" out, you can imagine the ruckus. It positively hurt my ears.  Elena soon controlled the entire room, and it was indeed, mildly interesting, even for a cynic like me, how she managed to still look so sexy, when she in fact was wearing multiple layers of clothing. All of which had to be slowly, slowly, peeled off.
By now she had waltzed the entire length of the stage several times. That she owned the stage, and was totally in charge, was obvious to all.

A spotlight slowly moved across the audience. Slowly, it played over the assembled lechers and perverts. Some waved, some cheered, some flashed... signs with their fingers. The light slowly moved on.
At first, I didn't take much notice. Just silly stuff.  What the hell…
Then the light swung closer to me. Closer. Closer…
All of a sudden I was bathed in bright light that I wished wasn't there.
Cheers, cat calls, foot stomping…
Oh, gawd...  
I waited patiently for the spot light to move on.
(Yeah, yeah, yeah… very funny…. Now bog off and leave me alone…)
Oh, gawd...
Elena had now paused in her strutting, and was standing directly in front of me, towering above me on the stage.
   (Gulp)
Now she was looking directly down at me, one eyebrow raised quizzically.  Suddenly it seemed as if the chairs around me had moved slightly away. I looked over at Steve. He suddenly seemed to be sitting a few feet further away. What was worse, it was obvious that he was in hysterics. I looked to my other side. Sure enough, my buddies over there had also moved their chairs away from me. And, surprise, they were also in hysterics. Coiled up,  like school boys peering through big sister's bedroom window.
What the fu-fu… is going on…??
It got worse. Elena was now crouching down, blowing kisses at me. Manfully, I tried to pretend I was totally un-phased by this, and blew one back.
Loud cheers, cat calls, foot stomping…
Now she was getting OFF the stage…
   (Double Gulp)
Now she was standing right in front of me, lightly squirming her hips, and running a gloved finger across a silk latticed breast. You could see the ripple outline of her hard nipple, and she was playing with it.  She was pretending to be breathing hard, and succumbing to an intense feeling or passion for my unshaven, bearded, unkempt Irish persona.
    (GO aWAY! Please…?)
Closer she swam, and I was now transfixed in her hypnotic gaze. Too late, too late, to puzzle what lewd mischief my comrades had organized for me. I was trapped, trapped by the spotlight, trapped by her presence, now inches away from me, trapped above all by her powerful gaze. How I wished for an escape!  Slowly she moved towards me, until her stockinged legs touched my knees. Instinctively, I flinched back, to which she threw the entranced audience a triumphant look. Now she was bending over me, her lips puckered, and her claws stretching out towards shirt buttons. I yelped, but it was too late.
A split second later, she had sprung on top of me, like a tiger, smothering my face with massive, hot ruby lips. The rickety wooden chair I was sitting on, of the fold up variety, almost instantly gave up on the unequal task, and collapsed us both onto the floor.
Now I was struggling, with her full weight on top of me, but in my advanced state of alcoholic stupor, and given her phenomenal upper body strength, all I could manage was the occasional quick surfacing for air.
"HELP!", I remember mouthing to Steve, through the glare of chaos and confusion. But no help was forthcoming. On the contrary, the events unfolding were clearly entirely to the satisfaction of my comrades, as none would render assistance.

     And thus it was, that I spent a truly extraordinary amount of time, lying flat on my back on the wooden floor of a Guam strippers' club, with the buxom Elena on top of me, easily pinning me down. Her mouth and fingers, and her various curves and appendages went into and around unmentionable places, and I know I lost a few shirt buttons. These were sacrificed -unwillingly-  trying to defend -unsuccesfully- my left nipple from Elena's mouth.   I struggled and gasped and squealed (especially when she was trying to pull my zipper down) and manfully attempted to preserve what little was left of my dignity.   In this noble purpose I was not entirely successful.
It turned out, of course, that my companions had parted with a substantial sum of money the night before, leaving specific instructions for Elena to follow.

     I consequently can state, from my close and personal observation (and experience), that Russian strippers are powerful to look at, but when they open their mouths, (believe me, they do) they sure do flash a lot of gold. At today's prices of Gold, at fourteen hundred bucks an ounce, I wonder if they still do that?

     Or do you poor unfortunate Tuna Schmucks today just have to "slum it" with plain ordinary PORCELAIN teeth wrapped around your unmentionable….

unmentionable…

Thing…?




Francis Meyrick
      (c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 8, 2011, 11:35 am
We little humans, hurtling through the Universe on our tiny, pale blue dot, will find few answers to Life's great mysteries. But we should at least find many of the questions. To write is to ask. To seek. To grope. With humility, and humor. Peace.
 
katie

Too funny for words, Moggy.  Clapping I had to read this twice...because you know how I am.  The images conjured in my mind were actually taking me away from the reading of the thing.....and it took more than one read to get it all in. Grin  Now...whenever I know I need a laugh, all I have to do is rewind the tape...and see ya pinned to the floor with a big Ruskie woman on top of ya...raping away...er, but ya can't rape the willing, eh?  Applaud

Poor innocent you...led to the sacrifice for the benefit of your friend's humor. It might not have been 'good for you' at the time..but I reckon looking back now, you surely see the humor in it all, or ya couldn't have told the story with such....realism. Speaking

I reallly, reaaallly liked this story.  It made me laugh and giggle so hard...but ya know what I was waiting for, eh? Laughing I really thought that might have been one of those impersonators...and so I was waiting to the cue that it was a man in drag.  Just think, Moggy...it coulda been worse!Laughing

PS>>> That picture at the top bears a striking resemblence to my cousin, Mistress Tartella.  She has one of those whips, too...but funny thing, she doesn't even ride a horse?

Last edited by katie on March 8, 2011, 2:35 pm


It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it. ~ Anais Nin ~
Posted on Tuesday, March 8, 2011 at 14:34:39

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