Dirty Does It

People start treating you differently when you're an adult. Responsibilities start mounting, bills start pouring in and soon you'll find your back strained under the combined weight. It's not all fun and games being an adult.

Seriously. Even the folks on the street start seeing you differently, especially if you're a single adult male. The seamier side of city life - previously shielded from innocent eyes - starts to bubble dangerously to the shiny surface.

These days as I walk the streets of the city, I find yourself approached at all sides by dubious gentlemen with smarmy mustachioed grins waving their glossy namecards touting massage girls of every known race, religion and caste who give discreet service even after hours with added... benefits. Have yet to be offered some spicy, sexy Myanmar beef so I haven't found it difficult to brush off their indiscreet pimping attempts.

While the brassy ladies I once thought were just tacky, badly made-up street trash hanging about the seedy backlanes actually see fit to make brazen approaches offering their questionable services. Obviously I seem to be quite the worthy chump. They don't seem to notice that I've only turned to look at them to criticize their poor sartorial taste.


Tits and ass again?! Bloody hell can't they send me Huang Xiaoming?!
Turns out it's not that easy refusing their unwelcome advances without broadcasting one's sexual proclivities. Some do take pride in carrying the banner of the world's oldest profession so just flatly declining their clumsy overtures only seems insulting to their... varied skills / performances :P

The things you learn as a man.

Just like today when I had the friendly neighbourhood dvd pirate dropping into a seat beside me, furtively looking about the environs and then shoving a stack of dvds my way, giving a quick salacious wink as he does so.


Take a look, sir!
Doesn't happen all the time for me but just a brief glance down at the stack assured me that he'd dropped a stack of straight smut - cleverly disguised in between Pixar and Disney animations - into my lap. Fortunately for me, my aggressively feminist pal had just slipped off from the food court to make a run for the pharmacy. Otherwise she'd have been shocked by the suggestive array of feminine flesh paraded for my lecherous perusal. Think The Sexual Attack of the Love-starved Asian Lesbian ( hitherto virginal ) Nun.

Pirate : Oh, was that your girlfriend, sir? Sorry.
Paul : No, that's just a friend. I don't do girlfriends.
Pirate : Well, you'd do these girls. Really hawt.
Paul : I don't think...
Pirate : Well, I see your friend's coming back. If you want some of the... steamier titles, call this number.
Paul : Whoa, a namecard.
Pirate : The name's Warren.

No doubt my lusty horn-dog look ( or my cunning eye-patch ) must have translated easily across the aisles. Though the titles he'd handed me weren't much to my taste - after all, raunchy girl-on-girl action just doesn't rock my boat. What part of I don't do girlfriends didn't he understand? Then again in Warren's rabidly heterosexual mind, he probably thought that I was a faithless playa who didn't do commitment.

Of course if Warren - the robust pirate with the tiger tattooed on his tanned bicep - had offered me similarly libidinous favours instead, I'd have been tempted.

Still I do have his number.