Chapter 14 – The Night I Made Love to an Ugly Malaysian Midget
Following six or seven hours of rain, the weather cleared up. Tim and I started drinking at a table in an outdoor courtyard between the bathrooms and the dorm rooms of our hostel where we were joined by a girl from New Zealand named Jamie. Jamie was born of Maori descent, possessed a fine set of capital knockers and, having an overall Halle Berry thing going on, had been certifiably hotter than morning breath. Spending the last couple days of her vacation in Kuala Lumpur, Jamie had just gotten in from two weeks of adventuring down in Borneo.
While chatting and getting accustomed to our animalistic drinking habits, Jamie told us we reminded her of her brother who’d recently gotten his ass beaten in a Japanese bathroom. The way she tells it, her little bro had gotten fall-down drunk at a bar in Tokyo and after rushing to the restroom had been so disoriented that he could find no better place to expurgate than on the back of some Japanese guy’s ass while he’d been pissing in a urinal. Unsure of what to do, he apologetically thanked the guy with a bow and a heartfelt “domo arigato.” This turned out to be a gesture that’d earned him a can of whoop-ass and a free night in jail. I had no idea the way Tim and I carried ourselves made people think that we’re likely candidates for a bathroom beat-down in “The Land of the Rising Sun,” but I’ll definitely take it as a compliment.
Jamie then started telling us all about her Malaysian friend who she planned on meeting up with later that night. The picture she painted of her friend made her out to be the ultimate party chick – someone who’s super laid-back, down for whatever and, overall, a blast to hang out with. In my mind, I’d also imagined her to be as attractive as Jamie. Going by what we were told, it was only natural that Tim and I were pretty excited by the idea that there was “one for each of us.”
In the meantime, two snotty American girls who’d been living in Shanghai for the past two years joined the party and killed the vibe. The laughter that filled the courtyard five minutes prior had been replaced with forced conversation and groans of discomfort. Not worth the effort of describing in detail, these were two of the most miserable, stuck-up bitches I’ve ever met in my entire life – one of whom should think about getting her googly-ass wandering eye fixed before continuing to talk to people like her shit don’t stink.
I excused myself from the unpleasant company and went to expel some urine. Upon entrance to the large single-room facilities, the women’s showers and toilets had been to the right and the men’s had been to the left. The sexually segregated shitters had been divided by a wall in the center of the room which hoisted mirrors and sinks on each side. Perpendicular to the dividing wall had been a back wall – or lack thereof – that looked out into a damp, dark, disgusting alley where some bums laid on piles of garbage and pissed on the side of the building across the way. This Kuala Lumpur poverty exposition had been made possible by an architect who decided that the holes of the cinderblocks on this exterior wall were better off facing in and out instead of up and down the way they do on normal cinderblock constructions. This unique design made it more like a fishbowl than a restroom and what a treat it was. I feel like a more worldly person for having shared my shit, shave and shower routine with back alley bums in the capital of Malaysia.
I returned from the facilities and not too long after the original pair of bombs had been dropped on the party, Jamie’s friend Abeera – a local girl – showed up and was the one-hundred percent polar opposite of what I’d been expecting from the description we’d been given. The erection I’d had for her image fell from ten o’clock to six when exposed to the real-life version. The girl had a lame sense of humor, was unbelievably annoying and looked like a muskrat. On another note, she had also been what some people might refer to as a “midget”…not that there’s anything wrong with that.
While I sat there next to Abeera listening as her terrible laugh clashed with snooty, condescending commentary from those holier-than-thou on the opposite side of the table, my head began to pound. I know that in my life I haven’t been a saint, but I also know that I hadn’t been so awful a person that I deserved to be subjected to such vile company while on vacation.
Eventually there was a break in the shit storm. After telling their life stories and not waiting around to hear anyone else’s, the two Debby Downers retired to their quarters to go paper-cut each other’s clits one last time before catching an early morning flight back to Shanghai. Although reducing the bullshit factor by two thirds had been a great relief, the worst of it was still to come.
“I really think you guys should come to Sky Bar with us tonight,” Abeera said in her strong British-school accent with her hand caressing my knee and an unmistakable “I’m gonna fuck you tonight” twinkle in her eyes. “It’s gonna be really fun.”
“Aw, you know, I’m pretty tired and shit. Like, I don’t even have that much money either, really…”
“It’s alright,” she smiled an awful, Grinchy smile. “I can pay for your drinks. It’ll be a really good time.”
“Yeah, let’s do it,” O’Shaughnessy chimed in as I gave him the death-stare of the century. “It’s our last night in Kuala Lumpur, dude. We need to go out.”
I knew damn well that we needed to go out, but I wanted to cut our losses with Jamie and ditch those broads because Abeera had foreseeable disaster written all over her. He, with his ulterior motive, wanted me to play a midget-boning wingman while he got some of that sweet, sweet Halle Berry goo. As much as I wanted my man to get it in, what I was up against felt like too daunting a task – like the evil outweighed the good. It just felt like a cross too burdensome for me to bear.
“C’mon, don’t be a party pooper,” Abeera said.
“Yeah! Yeah!” all three of them coaxed.
I sighed, agreed and sold my soul.
The gang and I hopped in Abeera’s car and took off for Sky Bar. Drunk and barely able to see over the wheel, Abeera swerved from lane to lane like the ninety-year-old woman who’d impeded Mr. Bueller’s commute home towards the end of Ferris’s infamous day off. Following several close calls, we made it to the bar in one piece.
Sky Bar turned out to be a refined establishment where Malaysia’s social elite meet to dine and drink. Sitting atop one of the taller buildings in downtown Kuala Lumpur, the all-glass exterior walls offered a stunning view of the futuristic Petronas Towers which had been glowing in the night like some kind of alien spaceship. In the center of the lounge had been a long rectangular swimming pool surrounded by swanky round booths occupied by sharply dressed socialites that looked like they belonged in the Malaysian version of Gossip Girl.
As promised, Abeera ordered our drinks and had them delivered to our private booth. The girls got wine, Tim got Johnny Walker and I – reasoning that if this midget girl expects me to put out, I’m gonna make her pay for it – had ordered the most expensive cognac offered on the menu. While Abeera eye-fucked, leg-touched and aimed unwarranted sexual innuendos in my direction, I’d pounded about three or four of these drinks on her tab and began buzzin’ pretty hard.
When Sky Bar closed around midnight, the party moved over to Reggae Bar. Once again barely making it alive due to Abeera’s increasingly brutal driving, this place had been a little more raging than the last. The dance floor was packed with all sorts of Westerners as well as a small group of Malaysia’s young, rebellious crowd drinking heavily and gettin’ down to the sounds of a live band. The area around the bar was quite crowded but I began weaseling my way to the front and eventually found an open spot. There I pulled out my Ringgit and awaited service. Abeera had followed.
“Hey, Tim,” she said while tugging on my shirt, “forget about these drinks. Let’s go dancing.”
The suggestion caused my penis to become inverted.
“Uh, no thanks, not right now,” I desperately waved my money at the bartender. “I’m in the mood to get wasted.”
“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll go find us a table.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
Minutes later, the bartender produced my order. I ripped a shot of whiskey and lit up a cig. Without even bothering to ask what anyone else wanted to drink, I grabbed my beer and recompleted the foursome at a table right across from the bar. Tim was bothered by this selfishness but the girls didn’t seem to mind. Abeera and Jamie had already been pretty tanked at the time. The former decided to stop drinking so she could focus all her attention on molesting me while the latter wandered off to the bathroom and mysteriously disappeared for most of the time we’d spent at the bar. She’d later be spotted in the crowd making out with some hillbilly in all orange, Tennessee Volunteers gear.
After getting himself a beer, Tim started talking basketball with a group of Scandinavian bros in NBA jerseys. I tried my best to listen up and get in on the conversation, but fending off the cock-fiend in the seat next to me had been a full-time job. More than once, when I’d let my guard down, she began to make out with the left side of my face. Disengaging the bad touch, I leaned back to a distance unreachable by the clasp of her busy little hobbit claws.
“What’s wrong?” she’d asked after one of my many aversions.
“Well,” I felt like saying, “I’d rather have my head held in a toilet and go bobbing for turds or be on the receiving end of a chainsaw enema than to make out with you right now.”
“Awww, you’re a shy guy, aren’t you?” she said while petting my shoulder. “You don’t like to make out around other people? That’s so cute.”
Yes, the kid who’d once shit off a fire escape in front of a crowd at a party had suddenly become intimidated by a little public necking. The concept was laughable, but I kept my lips sealed and nodded my head in agreement, not wanting to hurt her feelings – that is, if that horny troll even had any feelings at all. At the very least, my compliance to the falsehood had been enough to hold the line against the steadily advancing troops for the time being.
Somewhere along the bumpy road to drunken sloppiness, some shitfaced guy in his forties came up to our table and started talking at us about pussy.
“The sexiest girls in the world are from Uzbekistan,” he’d slurred to no one in particular with a far-away stare on his face.
This dude was a total fucking creep, no doubt about it. We wanted nothing to do with him or his Central Asian fuck stories. Accordingly, Tim, Abeera, the jersey boys and I pretended not to hear a word he’d said. Eventually, he got the hint and left the table but only walked about five feet away and stood teetering to and fro at the bar. As the night went on, I’d catch him drunkenly looking around the barroom, zoning in and drooling over pairs of tits while occasionally glancing back at our table. For the most part, the guy seemed harmless and struck me as just another aging loser who travels to Southeast Asia to pay young women to alleviate his loneliness. At the same time, however, this guy had been indirectly posing a different kind of threat.
“Come here,” Abeera pulled me in as if really frightened. “That man is going to rape me. Pretend you’re my boyfriend so he goes away.”
I couldn’t believe she’d played that card on me. Utilizing that perv’s presence to go back on the offensive was a dirty, dirty move. I’m not a rapist, but if I were that dude and had been looking to get my rape-face on that night, there were probably about thirty other girls there that I would’ve drugged and plugged before going after her. Although insensitive yet true, the point was moot. The ambush had caught me off-balance. She had the upper-hand and it was my turn to make a move.
With her arms around me, I knew I was fighting a losing battle and needed some outside help. I started kicking Tim’s foot, but he’d been too busy bullshitting about basket hoops with some kid in a Garnett jersey to be of any assistance. With few options left, I flipped the script on her and excused myself for a piss break. Regrouping in the bathroom, I splashed some water on my face and then headed right for the bar. After ordering another Jame-O shot and a tall G & T to wash the whiskey down, I stepped back in the ring, put up my dukes and faced my opponent.
As soon as the referee wasn’t looking, Abeera hit me below the belt. Escalating from a simple dick grab, it wasn’t long before I was receiving a full-on over-the-pants-hand-job under the table. Her highly unorthodox decision to publicly touch my penis in a conservative Muslim country proved devastating to my resistance effort. I was down for the count. Knowing I’d lost the fight, I lit a smoke, sipped my drank and did my best to enjoy the tug.
Stinking of Tenn’see inbred, Jamie rejoined the crew as the bar came to a close. I pounded what was left of my drink and staggered toward the exit.
Outside da club, Tim and Jamie talked to a few British blokes and a Swedish kid named Paatrik while I stood to the side, wasted outta my mind, doubled over, making out with Abeera. She was so short, from the others’ point of view, the scene must have looked like a gay version of Manute Bol sucking face with a twink Muggsy Bogues. I have no idea how long I’d been swapping spit but, after a while, I took notice of Tim’s cackling. Pulling my face away from the problem, I looked over in time to see the lot of them pointing and laughing at us.
“Now, I ain’t no midget-ist,” said one of the British guys who’d been wearing a pair of Shutter Shades, “but what in the world is your mate doing over there with that midget?”
It doesn’t happen often when I’m that drunk, but I was embarrassed. Yeah, sure, I still had a boner from the OTPHJ I’d been getting on the inside of Reggae Bar, but by no means had I been enjoying myself. I stood there in shame with someone I couldn’t stand, hanging and rubbing herself all over me as the laughter continued to echo from afar. My excessive intake of alcohol had drowned out self-esteem and brought to surface my inner animal. I could do nothing to fight off the biological need to blow my load in a female, even if it was an atrocious one with a dog-shit personality.
“Let’s go to my car.”
“Okay,” I nodded in obedience.
Abeera and I walked to her car about a half-block away and resumed making out in the back seat which, in retrospect, gives me the chills. She repositioned her hand on my gear and I reciprocated to expedite the process. While initiating an over-the-pants-bean-flicking, I felt something I wasn’t supposed to – something that felt like a tube of Chap Stick protruding from where a hole should’ve been. I withdrew my hand and used it to shove her away. Traveling in an area of the world known for its immense lady-boy population and I, after years of hearing that Asians are notorious for having small penises similar in size to what I’d just felt, had feared the worst.
“What the fuck is that!? You’re a fuckin’ dude! Get the fuck outta here, what the fuck!”
“No, no,” she giggled. “It’s only a tampon.”
I was equally disgusted. Because my demeanor hadn’t changed, she felt the need to elaborate.
“Uh, it’s my period…”
I took a deep breath and shook it off. I’d been too drunk and had already lost too much self-respect to not, at the very least, cash in on a goddam BJ. With my game face back on, I hinted at my interest in oral sex. She obliged. I sat back and let her go to town. It felt good to not have to look at or kiss her awful face and, of course, to be on the receiving end of a blow task.
It was at this time that I noticed we were not alone. Fifteen feet in front of the car had been a really dark-skinned Malaysian Indian sitting on a stoop and staring at me through a crazy set of unblinking peepers. With all intention of blowing my load right then and there, I knew that if Abeera saw this guy that that would be it for the hummer and I’d be stuck with a blue-ass pair of Avatar balls. I’d gone to hell and back that night and wasn’t about to let that pervert spoil my sucky-sucky. As such, I locked eyes with the man and we engaged in the most intense, high-stakes staring contest ever initiated. Through sheer determination and with laser beam vision, I won the battle of wills and sent the strange man walking off into the night with his half-erect tail tucked shamefully between his legs.
After less than a minute of basking in the revelry of my triumphant victory, Abeera put a pause on the pleasure.
“I think we should walk back over there,” she said as if she were using my penis as a microphone. “What if they come and see us?”
“Well Abeera, I could give less of a shit. Some creep’s already been watching us for the past five minutes and, if I recall correctly, you’re the one who’s been pushing for this the entire evening. Now finish what you’ve started,” is what I felt like saying while putting my hand on the back of her head and forcefully guiding it towards my crotch. “Yeah, I guess so,” is what I managed to eke out.
Jamie, Tim, Paatrik, Abeera and I went back to the hostel, sat at the same table we’d started the evening and cracked open a bottle of rum. Jamie had been super tired, didn’t have much to say and snuck off to bed but Paatrik, Tim, penis-breath and I kicked it ‘til the morning light. Paatrik was a cool dude a couple years younger than us who knew a lot about the NBA and could recite Dr. Dre’s 2001 album verbatim. Strangely though, our new friend had been unfamiliar with the concept of a poo-dollar. I couldn’t let him go without being enlightened.
“This dude back home named Serb,” I warbled the message, “he and like six of his Iowa buddies got this girl’s purse that she left at their house after a party on a Friday night. So, Saturday morning, before goin’ to the bar to watch the football game, they fuckin’ emptied the thing out, passed it around and all fuckin’ shit right into it. I respect the effort but would’ve hated to be the sixth guy shitting in there, ya know? So, anyway, they take the purse, close it up, put a five dollar bill sticking out of it and then throw it out on the sidewalk in front of the bar. From the inside, at a table right by the window, they just drink beer all day and watch as Good Samaritans go down to pick the purse up, maybe checking it for a driver’s license or some other form of identification and instead end up touching a massive pile of logs and getting shit all over their hands.”
Taking a small rectangular piece of paper with a president’s face on it that could feed an entire family in Africa but not using it to do so and instead slathering it in human and/or dog feces for a prank is probably why so many people don’t like Americans. Nevertheless, Paatrik the Swede had been a huge fan of the concept and promised to spread it like wildfire once back in his home country.
Around 6 in the morning as the iPod continued to crank out The Chronic, Tim, Paatrik and I polished off the rum and a handful of beers that I’d stolen from the fridge in the lobby. I’d been in such a haze that, until that point, I hadn’t even noticed Abeera left the table. Figuring it’s about time to get to bed, I got up and hobbled to the restroom in a zombie-like fashion for one last piss. Standing above the wall-mounted urinal, I began fiddling with my zipper when I was groped from behind. Much to my chagrin it was a rabid Abeera foaming at the mouth and fiending for a second helping of Irish sausage.
I still to this day cannot believe that that diabolical bitch had been staked out, waiting for that exact moment to prey on me in my vulnerable state. I really, really, really, really didn’t wanna exchange fuck faces with that girl but found it impossible to say “no” when she took me by the hand and led me to a stall on the women’s side of the facilities.
Wishing I had a brown bag to slide over her head, I sheathed my sword with one of the jimmy hats I’d purchased pre-trip for situations very much like this – only when I’d bought them I imagined the magic transpiring with a much more attractive partner on the receiving end and in a much more romantic setting than a shady-ass bathroom that looks out into a disgusting alley full of piss-on-the-wall bums. Hoping for a quick in-and-out procedure but not getting it, I engaged in what had to have been the most drawn out, awkwardly positioned, sloppy, period-dripping bathroom stall sex to ever transpire in the history of humankind.
As a few early risers began to hit the restroom to handle their daily maintenance, I finally blasted off. Not lingering a single moment, I stormed from the loo, blew past the pair of nauseating, Shanghai-dwelling American broads who’d been brushing their teeth and retreated to the sanctuary of the men’s shower for a full-body clean-up. I peeled off the bloodied raincoat and chucked it on the floor. Soapless, I bare-handedly scrubbed myself from head to toe, wishing I’d had a piece of steel wool to scrape a layer or two off my willy to ward away any midget-borne genital afflictions. The last thing I wanted to take home as a souvenir from this trip was any kind of crotch rot that I’d have to describe to a doctor while trying not to use the words “dick,” “nut sack” or “ball bag” to convey the symptoms of my condition.
As the test of time has told, I didn’t catch anything from that nasty little demon but am still altogether upset by the evening’s chain of events. I wish I had an excuse for this incident and could tell people that some cold-hearted monster had simultaneously slipped me a sleeping pill and a Viagra then had her way with my tender young body while I’d been incapacitated, but I don’t. I can piss and moan all I want about how I was raped that night but the cold hard truth is that I, although extremely intoxicated, willfully had sex with an ugly, menstruating, Malaysian midget.