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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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A Blip on the Radar (part 29A) The Hookers are coming

Photo:  Jorge


A Blip on the Radar   

Part 29(A)      "The Hookers are coming  "




           I remember one night, in port, in Guam.
I was standing quietly alone, away up on the helideck, above it all, just taking in Nature. The dark sky, the lights of Guam, the hustle and bustle on the working decks below, the noise of the generators, and the swish and clanking of unseen cables, pulleys and anchor chains.  The odd, muffled, barked command via the impersonal medium of the public address system.  There was an air of expectation below. The crew was excited.

The hookers were coming...

          As was not an uncommon occurrence, the ship owner had come down from Taiwan, visiting the ship. He had made a mint from months of good catches. A few million, give or take. The crew, most earning a basic of $200 a month plus a (small) (tiny) share of the catch, were receiving a bonus. A gaggle of comfort girls were on the way in a bus. The sailors, randy and over excited, had spent unusual effort on their own make up. They were mostly showered, carefully dressed, and occasionally you could smell a most unusual odor for the Tuna Fields:  eau de cologne...
    
          It was not the first time I had been asked by the captain, quietly and in private, if I wanted my own comfort girl for the night.
"I get you nice girl, Moggy, very high class..."
I always politely declined, the captain would nod understandingly, and the matter would rest there. On one occasion, after a particularly successful run of good fishing, and some good (ahem!) helicopter support, both the ship owner and the captain had offered me a trip to Taiwan. All expenses paid. ALL... expenses.

"You come to Taiwan, Moggy, we take care of you. We get you many beautiful girl. Very nice, Moggy, very nice..."  

I had politely declined again. Gravely, understandingly, they had nodded once more, and left the matter there.

      The mini bus pulled up alongside the ship, and I watched the doors being opened. Presently, here they came, trotting along, maybe six or seven of them, escorted by two minders. All wore high heels, on which they walked uncomfortably, as if they lacked practice. Their dresses attempted to be black,  slinky and tight, but there was something just not very elegant about them. Their blouses, and the cheap jewelry, and the required ample slits and open buttons, combined to create something tacky, un-classy, and mass produced.

       But it was their expressions that struck me the most. Underneath the caked make up, applied indelicately, with a shovel instead of just a trowel, the actual face that stared ahead, zombie like, was devoid of emotion. No joy, no curiosity, no anticipation, no light.  No humor, no sense of self, no spirit.  

       Onto the deck they were paraded, like dumb mutton, and the hard staring sailors, silently, formed a hungry circle around them.  Alone, unseen, I watched from the shadows above.  It was like a mime. A play. Little was said. Selections were made. I worked it out that the ratio was about four or five sailors to every hooker.  Four or five... severely frustrated sailors, for every...  comfort lady.  I wondered what it could be like, being one of those girls, and arriving at yet another ship, facing yet more sexually rampant sailor boys, walking down into the bowels of yet another impersonal, noisy, steel, bolted cage. And being grabbed, roughly, stripped, groped, maybe beaten and violently entered and taken. I could imagine the laughter, the jeers and cat calls from the onlookers, and the competitive urge of the male species when showing off his prowess to his ship mates. That had to be ugly...  It was a helluva way to make a living.

        I had seen enough of the world to know that different cultures are different.  I don't judge, from the heights of some self assumed position of wisdom and magnificence. The world is the world. And what that means, is that we look and we see, and we make our own choices. We choose how we live, if the world leaves us that choice. Sometimes, it does not...

       And I wondered about the stories I had heard of girls illegally transported into Guam and the USA, to satisfy the demands of the sex industry. I wondered about the girls without papers, without a passport, without roots, without an identity. I wondered if they aged prematurely in their spirits, and shriveled up, becoming robots, zombie-like, plying the oldest trade known to Man. I wondered about the massage parlors, and the strange -for me - atmosphere of unreal relations. Being a licensed US driver, I had on occasions obliged the captain by playing cabbie. And in that role, I had found myself sent to different addresses, to pick up some of the ship's officers. The privileged ones, who were allowed to leave the ship in port, and take comfort where ever they wished. I would find myself in the reception area of some massage parlor, and always there would be gentle flowers there, and pretty prints of pagoda's, and kimono clad geisha girls wandering some carefully manicured Oriental gardens.

       I would ring the bell, and out would walk a creature of comfort, dressed elegantly, more or less, with make up applied, and some kind of silver and gold accoutrements. With never a smile. Just that blank, mechanical face. And I would ask politely for the ship's Navigator, or the Radio Operator, or the Captain. In due course, said person would put in an appearance, putting the last touches to his hair, or straightening his collar. Unsmiling. Never, ever a smile. Hardly a goodbye. And I would drive him back to the ship, and puzzle about this joyless, mechanical love making.

       That night, a few hours later, the hookers trooped off the ship. They staggered a little more than before, on their high heels. Tottering along, their make up smudged, mascara running, and their hair unruly. The odd button appeared to be missing, and the odd skirt appeared to have suffered a mishap along the way.  But what I remember the most was the complete absence of smiles.

No waving, no laughter, no goodbyes.

*                *                  *                  *                 

       There were the lighter moments, occasionally.
There was the massive party we had in the Windjammer Hotel, in Wewak, Papua New Guinea. I describe the whole evening's bizarre entertainment (including my attempt to stick my head in a crocodile's mouth) in Blip on the Radar (15), Beautiful American Film Star.   And our cook will probably never forget his ordeal when he lost all his clothes, and was left naked, penniless and alone in a foreign port where nobody spoke his language.   I describe that little affair in Blip on the Radar (9) Deck Boss have big problem.

          And then there was the time my girlfriend came to visit Guam, and we met up with the Captain and his high class hooker. This one had real class, perfect make up, and spoke really good English. Her Oriental features really suited the under stated make up she wore, the gentle shading, and the soft lips. She was beautiful, and intelligent. Her figure was perfect, and her smile refreshing. I couldn't help wondering how much she was costing our experienced connoisseur captain.

       Soon he and I were absorbed in our usual intense conversation about fishing, the best use of the helicopter, and the finer techniques related to herding fish into the nets. My girlfriend seemed to be hitting it off just fine with his companion, and was engaged in animated discussion. It was only afterwards, as we left the diner, that I noticed a slight frown on her face. Did she like the girl, I asked? Oh, yes, she said, and relapsed into a thoughtful pose. It was just... Well, she said to me, you should have warned me.
Warned you? Warned you of what?

      It emerged that my girlfriend had enjoyed the conversation, but had apparently assumed that this was the captain's WIFE. Accordingly, she had asked, innocently:
"When are you going back to Taiwan?"
The conversation had then followed this delicate path.
"When are you going back to Taiwan?"
"Oh, no, I stay in Guam."
"No, but when the captain sails again, when are you going to go back to Taiwan?"
"No, I stay in Guam."
"But... but... oh, I see..."
(sound of penny dropping... CLINK...!)

*                *                  *                  *                 *     

          There was the time I came off a boat on some small island somewhere in the vast Pacific. It was late in the evening, I was tired, I was hungry, and I was lonely. As I trudged my weary way up the hill from the port, intent on finding a bar and some good brandy, I was met by a truly beautiful island girl. She wore a shimmering white dress, which was made of a very light material. You could almost see through it. In the slight sea breeze, that ruffled her dress suggestively around her supple, sun tanned figure, with her long slender legs, all set off by the setting sun behind her, I was struck by her wonderful silhouette. When she spoke, softly, her voice was gentle and coy, unassuming and almost submissive.

"Good evening, Master, is there anything I can do for you...?"

And with that, she dropped her eyes, and almost bowed. And my heart stopped.
I am a creature of flesh and blood, and I groaned in my spirit. Part of me wanted her, intensely, passionately, and without any other consideration. I tried to ignore a part of my anatomy, that was suddenly stirring violently and recklessly.

Sigh...

Junior was now in full mode of combat, and there was nothing I could do about the little devil. He has a mind of his own. I remember studying her, the perfect picture of sensuality and femininity, with the rays of the setting sun gently caressing her lithe body...

What... was I to do?



Francis Meyrick
       ©

(to be continued)     




Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 27, 2012, 7:07 pm
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

Well, from oystercatchers to hookers...that's some transition.  Oystercatchers was sensitive, insightful and without the intrusion of anything but the cares of life (surely that's enough).  This one, well it's also sensitive, insightful and also full of the cares of life - just different kinds of cares.

I can't wait to see where this is going...Laughing

At least, Moggy - I give you credit.  Not too many men ever stop to think what it might be like to be one of those unfortunate, unhappy women - cheated of all of life's best pleasures by the line of work in which they find themselves.  Or, men think those women had a choice - that they chose that line of work because it was 'easier'....say than slinging hash or cleaning hotel rooms.  (Sigh, deep sigh)

Nice story.


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 Sunday, June 19, 2011 at 12:21:30

 
Francis Meyrick

[url=http://stopvaw.org/How_Common_Is_Trafficking_in_Women.html[/url]




Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 19, 2011, 2:35 pm


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.
Posted on Sunday, June 19, 2011 at 14:34:02

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