America's Finest Ambassador Chapter 44 – I’m Wasted and I Can’t Find My Way Home

Chapter 44 – I’m Wasted and I Can’t Find My Way Home

Once I’d gotten myself away from that crazy ranting bitch who’d yelled in my face in front of that 7-Eleven, I pulled out the directions I’d printed on how to get to the hostel. It was called Dragon Hostel and was supposedly on the seventh floor of a building somewhere near the intersection of Nathan and Argyle. I looked around and of all the flashing lights and neon signs raping my sensory perception, not one of them mentioned anything about a Dragon or a hostel. At least in English they didn’t.

All the buildings around Nathan and Argyle look very much alike. They’re all massive, they’re all old, all their facades are dirty and stained and each one of them has randomly located main entrances that can be found on any given side of the structure. On top of that already confusing-ass bullshit, I struggled to make sense of their address system. I knew what address I was looking for but none of the ones on the buildings seemed to go in order and it was giving me a massive headache.

Since the task at hand seemed too big a fish to fry on my own, I decided to get some outside help and began asking any and every local I came across to lend me a hand in finding the address on the slip of paper. The majority of the people I asked didn’t speak English and either shrugged or shooed me away. Most of the few people that knew enough of my native tongue to communicate didn’t know where the building was and told me so up front. Two of the English-speaking people I’d asked for help told me they knew the building I’d been looking for but straight-up sent me to the wrong places. To this day I can’t decide whether they’d been nefarious, ethnocentric individuals who got their rocks off from pointing the stupid foreigner in the wrong direction or if they were just people that were so nice and so eager to help a guest that even if they hadn’t known the location of the building in question, they’d gone ahead and pointed to a random one because, hey, the wrong kind of help was better to give than no help at all.

Once I’d found out the hard way that I was on my own, I started going up and down the block as well as through all the surrounding dingy alleyways with leaky pipes, scurrying rats and fans blowing around the innumerable pieces of clothing suspended from the lines above while checking every door on every building to find, through the process of elimination, my hostel. After close to one long frustrating hour of fruitless searching, from some side entrance in one of the aforementioned rape-me-in-the-butt alleyways, I entered a cubicle of a lobby in one of the many identically Communistic high rises of Mong Kok where “Dragon Hostel” had been listed as being on the “7^th floor.”

In the lobby there’d been two elevators – one that served even numbered floors and one that served the odds. I picked the elevator that was right for me and rode it up to floor seven. I then checked in, was given a key and went over to my room.

The Monk Kok district of Kowloon in Hong Kong Special Administrative Region is one of – if not the – most densely populated areas in the world. After having one look at the size of my six-foot by five-foot “room,” I had no problem understanding how they’d managed to jam the approximate 130,000 people into the surrounding square kilometer. With just enough floor space to open the door halfway before it hit the corner of the bed, my sleeping closet also included one drawer and a tiny television perched up on a shelf.

After throwing my bag on the bed, I headed to the community bathroom down the hall which turned out to be the size of a phone booth. This clown car equivalent of a restroom included a sink, a toilet and a showerhead all piled on top of each other in a way that would make shitting, shaving and showering at the same time an attainable feat. In fact, judging by the amount of people who need to use those facilities every morning, I’m guessing the simultaneous Triple-S is more common than I’d previously imagined.

After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I retired to my humble quarters where I chugged a bottle of water, laid down on the bed which was too short for my long legs, jerked off to some of the ladies in a Hong Kong soap opera that I’d found on the tiny television, jizzed in a pair of dirty underwear and passed out shortly thereafter.

Following about twelve hours of Koh Samui recovery sleep, I woke up feeling hungover and homesick. Figuring that spending any more time lying around in that coffin of a room wasn’t gonna help me none, I got up and decided to have a walk around Mong Kok. Unlike the evening before when there hadn’t been too many people out, during the day there was hardly an inch of unoccupied sidewalk. I stepped out, allowed myself to get swept away by the crowd and started walking in a random direction.

No more than two buildings over, on the same side of Argyle Street which my hostel had been located, was something I failed to take notice of the evening previous when I’d been wandering around. It was a large trash receptacle that had different holes at the top for differing kinds of disposables. Of course, there’s nothing unusual about that, but what stood out to me was the sign atop it that read “LITTER CUM RECYCLABLES COLLECTION BIN.” Since my friends and I had been using the phrase “cum dumpster” for years to describe slutty ho-ass nut-gobblin’ chickenheads in the greater Chicagoland area and presented right in front of me had been an actual real-life cum dumpster, I needed to take a photo to send back home. After capturing the sign on camera, I continued along in the same direction.

Since it was lunch hour, urrbody and they mama was out on the streets, scurrying in and out of all the local restaurants and bumping into me so often I felt as if I were in a fucking mosh pit at an Insane Clown Posse concert. Before going to Hong Kong I’d been excited to try the local cuisine but on that day in my vulnerable state, I felt overwhelmed and intimidated by the lack of personal space and was so worried I’d make an ass of myself in front of everybody while trying to order from a non-English menu that I ended up pussing out and kept walking.

Up ahead, I spotted the golden arches of a McDonald’s and decided to take refuge there for a little lunch and an at-home sense of familiarity. And as I sat in the corner of that crowded-ass Mickey D’s stuffing a Quarter Pounder with cheese into my yap, I tried to think of how I wanted to spend the rest of the day.

Although I didn’t feel like doing anything other than going back to bed, I realized how shitty that would be considering I may never make it back to Hong Kong. After giving it much thought, I made plans to take a ferry across Victoria Harbor, then to catch a tram to the top of Victoria Peak to see the view and would finish off the daylight hours by spending some time walking around Hong Kong Island. Afterwards, since I’d been a good boy and didn’t just go to bed all day like a lazy piece of shit, I figured I’d reward myself by taking another ferry over to Macau to do some gambling and to get fuckin’ wasted off my ass.

Relinquished in 1999 by Portugal and just like Hong Kong, Macau is another Special Administrative Region in China. It boasts a unique blend of culture, architecture and most pertinent to my current situation, lots and lots of casinos and the promise of debauchery. So, after getting all the touristy stuff out of the way and following an hour-long ride on a watercraft known as a TurboJET, I arrived at the Vegas of the East, breezed through immigration and encountered several bus drivers who were more than happy to offer any and all tourists a free ride to the casinos of their respective employers. I ended up climbing into a shuttle that’d had “The Venetian” written on the side.

Once there, I grabbed some dinner and pounded three beers with the meal. I then moved right over to the blackjack tables and posted up at an open seat. A nearby waitress took notice of my arrival.

“Hello sir, can I get you anything to drink?”

“Uh yeah, I’ll take a beer. But before you go, uh, how much does it cost?”

“Drinks are complimentary, sir.”

“Really?”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, well, in that case make it two beers.”

While the waitress was away, I played a quick couple hands of blackjack.

I’ll say straight-up that I am not a gambler. I hate leaving what little hard-earned money I have to chance. Simply put, I fuckin’ hate gambling. But the thing is, I didn’t know how much I hated gambling back then. Back then I saw it as something cool that real manly men do while they’re drinking and getting eye-fucked by beautiful exotic women in tight dresses the way it’s always depicted in James Bond films. Oh Hollywood, how you’ve betrayed me over the years!

By the time the waitress returned with my drinks, I’d already lost the equivalent of one-hundred US dollars.

“You don’t play blackjack too often, do you?” asked the skinny, forty-something-year-old Asian guy in the seat next to me.

“It’s that obvious, huh?”

“You seem to me like you have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Well, that’s because I don’t.”

“If you don’t even know how to play, then why are you wasting your money?”

“I don’t know. I thought sexy Chinese women would think I’m cool and start having sex with me or something.”

He laughed.

“Here,” the guy said, “put down some money and I’ll teach you how to play.”

I soon learned that the dude had been from South Korea. His English name was Justin and he’d received a degree in engineering from some school I’d never heard of in Atlanta, Georgia. He’d been on vacation with his wife in Macau and told me he played blackjack every night he’d been there in addition to the several times a week he plays on the computer back at home. While in Macau, he told me he’d won enough to pay for his hotel, his airfare and then some. In summation, Justin might’ve been as good at blackjack as Dustin Hoffman had been while counting cards with Tom Cruise in Rain Man.

Round after round we played, I got six beers drunker while doing exactly as I was told by Justin. Although I didn’t really learn jack shit about the game, I quickly went from being down seven-hundred Hong Kong dollars to being up seven-thousand. I was totally undeserving of every penny I “earned,” yet I couldn’t help but feel like such a fuckin’ boss. I was teeming with a false sense of confidence.

“Alright,” Justin said after about two hours with a massive mound of chips piled up in front of him, “I’ve had enough. It’s time for me to go see what my wife is doing.”

“Aw shit. Really dude?”

“Yes, really,” he stuck out his hand for the shake. “It was nice meeting you Tim. Don’t stay at this table anymore. It’s going to get cold.”

“Okay, definitely. I trust whatever you say.”

“Good. And one more thing,” I was too drunk to catch on that he’d been hinting at how much I suck and that I should just cash in and stop gambling immediately, “be careful with your money Tim.”

“Oh, will do Justin. Thanks for showing me the ropes.”

I did as I was told and left the table. I even went so far as to leave The Venetian and ended up at a place called The Grand Lisboa where I sat down at a blackjack table and started off on a streak nearly as cold as the one I’d began with at the previous casino. I lost one hand. And then another. And then another. And then another and then decided to step away and chug a couple beers “to help me get back on track” as I told myself, before switching tables. I did just that and when I returned to the tables, I continued to lose. This ugly pattern repeated itself until all the money Justin had won for me was completely gone and I was completely fuckin’ trashed.

Pissed off, I finally quit and pounded a couple more beers by the bar before hopping on the TurboJET back to the Kowloon side of Hong Kong SAR. It was probably around one in the morning. Since I was so frustrated with myself for losing all that money, I decided to walk back to the hostel in order to save the cash that I would’ve spent on a cab and so that I could pound three or four more beers before going to bed. From the shore of Victoria Harbor to the intersection of Nathan and Argyle, it’s a straight walk north that takes about half an hour. After popping into the first 7-Eleven I could find and stocking up, I began the intoxicating trek back to Dragon Hostel.

By the time I got back up around the aforementioned intersection, I’d pounded the beers and was fall-down shitfaced. After turning down Argyle, walking up to the building that I was so very certain had been the one in which my hostel was located and entering the lobby, I found out just how wrong I was. So, I went to the next building. That wasn’t it either. Then I went to the next one and the next one and the next one until I’d completely circled the block. None of them contained Dragon Hostel.

Figuring I’d had the right building the first time but was maybe too drunk to read the indicator I’d seen in the lobby the night before that said “Dragon Hostel 7^th Floor,” I decided to check again. Again it wasn’t there. So, again, I went to the next building and the next and the next until I’d went around the block for the second time. It was about two-thirty in the morning and I had no fucking idea where my hostel had gone.

I began to doubt myself and started asking the locals if they knew where Dragon Hostel was. Unlike the night before, I didn’t even have an address to present them with. Much like the night before, none of them could help me. Like an OCD patient who makes sure the same light has been shut off twenty times over before going to bed, I went through each of the previously checked buildings one more time. When Dragon Hostel was yet again nowhere to be found, I started seeking answers at the bottom of San Miguel bottles I purchased from the local 7-Eleven. This unnecessary application put me over the edge. I blacked out and judging by where I was when I came out of said blackout several hours later, I must’ve been doing some aimless wandering. Nothing ever good happens when I wander aimlessly during the wee hours of the morning, especially in foreign countries.

Aside from one of those bullshit-ass all-inclusive Apple Vacation  deals to Cancun where I’d never strayed more than a mile away from the resort, the first time I’d ever left the US had been to do a three-week stint with my buddy Clough through Spain, Andorra, France and Italy back in the summer of 2010.

After a short layover in Amsterdam, we arrived in the Spanish capital about ten hours after we’d left Chicago. We took the Metro de Madrid, got off the train at a station called Tirso de Molina and walked a block or so over to Cat’s Hostel. It was easy enough to find. By the time we’d gotten to the hostel, it was about nine in the morning local time. We threw our bags on our respective beds in the dorm room and went to hang out in the lobby.

“Yo, what’s this?” Clough said, standing in front of a vending machine that’d said “Estrella Damm” across it. “Is this beer?”

I approached the mystery machine in awe.

“No way,” I said, “a vending machine that serves beer? Get real.”

“Yeah dude, that’s beer. And they’re only a Euro apiece. You want one? Get this little trip started off right?”

“Yeah, fuck, why not?”

About ten hours and an uncountable number of Estrella Damms later, we headed into the basement of the hostel where a bar had been located. After doing their sightseeing for the day like reasonable tourists, the majority of our hostel-mates had only been starting to drink just then. We approached the bar for another round.

“Two Estrellas please.”

The guy began filling a glass behind the tap.

“Are you guys coming on the pub crawl tonight?”

“There’s a pub crawl tonight?”

“Yeah, there’re flyers all over the walls. Haven’t you seen them?”

“No, we just got in.”

“Ah. Well, yeah, there is a pub crawl and it’d be a great way to start off your time in Madrid and meet some new people.”

So, we end up going on this pub crawl and getting completely Schaivo’d. By about two-thirty in the morning when everyone was starting to get riled up for going to the clubs, Clough and I were done for. We stepped out into the street, flagged down a cab and put our high school Spanish to the test.

“¿Conoce un lugar se llama Cat’s Hostel?”

“Sí, sí,” he said he knew the location of our accommodation and kicked the gas pedal.

The buildings and streetlights blew past in a blur like the rest of the evening had. About ten minutes later, the guy stopped driving.

“Okay! Cat’s! Okay!”

We looked out the window.

“I don’t think this is it,” Clough said.

“Yeah, this doesn’t look familiar at all,” I looked up to the driver to make him aware of his mistake. “Uh, perdón, no es el lugar corecta. Necesitamos Cat’s Hostel.”

“This Cat’s,” he pointed to a sign above the door.

“Oh shit dude,” Clough said. “This guy took us to some place called Cat’s Nightclub.”

“Okay!” the driver said. “Money!”

“Dude, I don’t wanna pay for this shit,” I said. “What should we do?”

“Well, fuck him. Tell him to take us to our hostel. He said he knew it. I’m not paying until we’re there.”

“Um, uh,” I struggled to convey the thought into my second language. “Me dijó que conocer el lugar se llama Cat’s Hostel. No es Cat’s Hostel aquí. Es un club. No nos gustan pagar hasta llegar a Cat’s Hostel.”

Upon being informed that we weren’t going to pay until he’d taken us to the right place, the guy started shouting at us to give him money and get the fuck out. Since we were quite intimidated by being in a foreign country for the first time and figured that the guy might just stab us because we were stupid white Americans, we decided to do as we were told. As such, Clough and I were left curbside, drunk as fuck in a strange part of a strange city in the middle of the night. And of course, before going on the pub crawl, neither of us amateurs had even considered the possibility of getting lost so neither of us had written down the address or even bothered to take a business card from the stack that’d been sitting on the front desk of the hostel. We were straight-up fucked.

Instead of directing our anger towards the cab driver as we probably should’ve, Clough and I began arguing with each other. As if we knew what we were talking about, we quickly developed starkly contrasting routes we could take to get back to the hostel…wherever it was from wherever we’d been.

“Dude, I’m telling you it’s this way,” I pointed in one direction.

“No dude,” Clough pointed the other, “it’s this way.”

“Fuck that shit dude. I’m going this way.”

“I don’t give a shit what you do, the hostel’s this way.”

“Well, fuck you then.”

“Fuck you too,” he concluded. “Enjoy getting lost.”

With that, we went our separate ways, both of which would lead to nothing but trouble. While staggering along, I’d ask everybody from partygoers my age to middle-aged bums laying on the sidewalk if they knew where Cat’s Hostel was. Inevitably, they’d had no idea.

I then flagged down a few cabbies and asked them if they’d had smartphones on which they could look up the location or phone number of Cat’s Hostel and then take me there. None of them did and none of them could. So, I kept wandering.

At some point I came across a Metro stop. It’d been closed at the time but, although I couldn’t remember offhand the name of the stop we’d gotten off at that morning when arriving to Cat’s Hostel, I knew I’d remember it if I saw it. I stood in front of the station and waited for the next person to walk past.

“Perdón,” I called out to a dude in his thirties. “¿A que hora abre esta estasción del tren?”

He informed me that the trains start running at six in the morning.

“¿Y que es la hora, ahora?”

He told me it was only three-thirty at the time.

“Gracias,” I thanked him.

With two-and-a-half hours to kill before I could find my way back to the hostel, I was at a loss for what to do with myself. After wandering around for about twenty minutes to keep myself busy, I ended up in a park where I saw a few homeless guys had been sleeping on benches. I decided that that was the thing to do at the time so I found one that hadn’t been “occupado” and laid down. I tried and I tried but the sleep wouldn’t come.

“Fuck this shit,” I thought to myself as I laid there in sleepless agony. “I hate Clough and I hate drinking and I’m never gonna travel again. In fact, as soon as I get back to the hostel, I’m grabbing my bag and heading straight for the fucking airport.”

After an undetermined amount of time spent at the park, I, like some wretched being doomed to spend all of eternity in a restless limbo, resumed my wandering through the streets of Madrid. Somewhere along the way in my drunken journey, I ended up stumbling down some dimly lit cobblestone corridor. A little bit up ahead of me and to the right, I could see the cherry of a cigarette glowing from beneath the perch of a dark stoop. As I got closer, I realized the creature lurking in the shadows had been a woman.

“Hey baby,” she said while pushing her ample bosom up to her chin and making a kissy face at me, “you like?”

I stopped walking and had a look at the woman. There were two of them actually. The one sitting on the stoop hadn’t been attractive and wasn’t actively pursuing my business but the one who’d been standing and calling out to me was actually pretty hot.

“Comb here, baby,” she said before miming a penis going in and out of her mouth. “You want suck?”

I hate the idea of paying for sex not because I think it’s morally wrong or any gay shit like that, but I feel like I’m selling myself short. I mean, if you like a pay-as-you-go no-strings-attached roll in the hay and can feel good about yourself afterwards, I think that’s awesome. I respect and salute that. I’m not against renting hookers because I’m ashamed of what other people might think, rather I don’t like it because I feel like when I pay for sex, I’m determining myself incapable and unworthy of getting it on my own from being who I am. As a narcissist who holds himself in such high regard that gets off not so much from having my junk jacked around as much as I do from the fact that a living, breathing, (hopefully) attractive female is willfully and enthusiastically engaging in sex with me, these mechanical cash-for-twat exchanges often leave me suffering from a complex existential crisis that inevitably leads to a weird-ass, hollow-feeling, post-ejaculatory depression. On that night however, I was feeling so desperate and so lonely that I couldn’t say no.

As I walked up the stoop past the other prostitute, I remember feeling quite guilty for choosing the more attractive cum dumpster instead of her. I felt like I was hurting her feelings or something. I don’t know, I can be weird like that sometimes. I do the same sort of thing when I’m out, talking to normal groups of girls I just meet too. Instead of going for the one that I find myself most attracted to, I’ll start flirting with the ones I don’t like because I feel guilty going after what I want and think I’ll be hurting the others’ self-esteem, as if they could read my mind and/or gave a shit whether or not my strange ass found them less attractive than I did their friend. Perhaps I should start seeing a psychologist to get these fucked-up problems sorted out.

Anyway, after I’d handed her a twenty Euro note, this curvaceous Spanish chick led me up to her apartment where she told me to lay on the bed and to take off my pants. So, I did just that. She proceeded to kneel at the side of the bed before taking my wet noodle of a sweaty flaccid dick and putting it in her mouth. Soon enough, after watching her inflated set of full-ass lips gobble up my Irish sausage, the blood started flowing where it was supposed to. I then put my hands behind my head and posed like the guy on the Krazy Glue logo as I laid back and let go of all the evening’s problems.

I’d soon find out that, after whatever excitement I’d felt upon initial penetration, the woman I’d decided to do business with might’ve been the laziest prostitute on the face of the planet. During most of the service her hands sat limp at her sides as she gave an uninspiring blowjob that I can only compare to an indifferent peck-on-the-cheek someone might give to a distant cousin they only see every few years at the funerals of mutual relatives. It was super lame. It was giving me a boregasm. It’s hard enough for me as it is to cum when I’m wasted and fucking someone who’s really hot and really into it, so here I pretty much found blowing my load from this cold, empty, passionless, going-through-the-motions interaction to be an insurmountable task.

About ten minutes into the sucking, the chick took my D out her mouth and gave me a disgruntled look.

“Comb for me baby,” she said while tugging at it a little. “Why don’t you comb?”

“Oh yeah, I’m almost there,” I lied. “Just keep going. Take your top off. That will help me finish.”

While she pulled off her shirt and unsnapped her bra, I sat there and played with my ding-a-ling to retain its level of hardness. She soon picked up where she’d left off.

Five minutes later when I still hadn’t cum, she did and said the same thing. I gave her a similar answer in return. She sighed and once again put my dick back in her mouth.

About three minutes after that, she’d had enough.

“No comb, more money!”

“C’mon, I already paid you twenty Euros!”

“More money!”

“No!”

She stood up and started putting her clothes back on. I feel like this is probably how most stories I read in the newspaper about how guys kill hookers start off.

“Are you serious?” I added.

Once she was fully dressed, she opened the door.

“Let’s go,” she nodded outwards.

I put my shorts back on and sulked. With shoulders slumped, I walked out of the room. After locking the door to the apartment, she followed right behind. I felt strangely hurt by her decision to stop derbing me before I’d had the chance to nut and I wanted to get back at her somehow. So, in an attempt to make this woman who sucks penises for a living jealous, once we were back outside on the stoop together, I pulled out another twenty Euro note and gave it to her less attractive competition to finish the job. Just for the record, the uglier one was way more enthusiastic and way better at what she did. Sure, one could argue that the hot one did all the hard work and the other chick just put the icing on the cake, but I don’t see it that way.

After having my pipes cleaned by that Spanish vacuum, I went back out onto the street feeling more empty and desperate than I had before getting domed. Although I could not yet see actual sunshine, the sky had begun to lighten. I made my way back to the train station where I’d waited for another half-hour until it opened. Inside, I found the Metro map and started looking for the name of the stop that sounded most familiar.

“Tirso de Molina!” I said when I finally saw it. “Son of a bitch!”

I can’t remember what station I was at or in what part of town I was, but after making two transfers I finally got back to Cat’s Hostel around seven-thirty in the morning. Outrageously, Clough’s bed had still remained empty and would stay so until he returned around ten a.m. after a wild excursion of his own.

In Hong Kong I was in no mood to have a repeat of Madrid. So, as soon as I came out of the blackout and found myself stumbling around a totally unfamiliar area of town, I made my way over to a main road and flagged down a cab.

“Nathan and Argyle please.”

“Nathan, Argyle?” the old “uncle” grunted.

“Yes. Nathan and Argyle.”

He nodded and started driving.

No more than three minutes later I was back where I should’ve been. I paid the guy before once again returning to the same buildings I’d checked, rechecked and checked again pre-blackout. I don’t know why I was so surprised, but I quickly found out that while I was gone, Dragon Hostel hadn’t magically reappeared in any of those buildings and it infuriated me.

“Ah! What the fuck!”

I kicked a plastic milk crate, picked it up and threw it against the wall.

“God fucking dammit! Fuck!”

By this time it was already light out and people were on their way to work. Feeling ready to give up on life at that point, I walked back to the same 7-Eleven from where I bought those San Miguels I’d blacked out on a few hours beforehand. Instead of buying beer this time however, I bought a porno magazine and ended up walking over to the same McDonald’s at which I’d had lunch the afternoon previous and ordered a sausage egg McMuffin. While eating breakfast, I sat in the middle of that busy-ass restaurant flipping through the bush-laden Hong Kong porno.

Before I’d travelled to Asia, Clough, a few of our other buddies and I had stopped off at a McDonald’s in Skokie, Illinois, for breakfast before driving up to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for a weekend drunkfest at our alma mater. As we ate there, an old out-of-shape bearded man had been drawing naked women in a notebook with colored pencils. I thought it was the most ridiculous thing in the world.

“That guy has hit rock bottom,” I remember thinking. “Kill me if I ever sink that low.”

But then, not even a whole year later, I became that sad lonely pervert. I was the freak with the naked pictures – albeit mine weren’t homemade – that no one wanted to sit by in McDonald’s. The thought was so depressing that I ate my McBreakfast as fast as I could and headed back towards Nathan and Argyle. I slouched as I walked along until on my left hand side, towards the street, I saw a familiar sign.

“LITTER CUM RECYCLABLES COLLECTION BIN.”

“Oh my god,” I thought. “The cum dumpster! That must mean my hostel is only two buildings over!”

With my porno in hand, I scurried two doors down, found the entrance to the lobby of the building from the damp, disgusting alleyway and looked at the sign in between the even and odd-floored elevators.

“Dragon Hostel 7^th Floor.”

Although the sight had made me happy, I couldn’t make any sense of it. I ran back outside to see if I could find out how I’d missed the place again and again all night long.

Once outside, I took a good hard look around and the buildings all looked so much alike, I really couldn’t figure out what I’d been doing wrong. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. To put my alcohol-soaked mind at ease, I rationalized that I must’ve been across the street circling those buildings again and again and again.

“Yeah, that must be it,” I said and hustled back inside before Dragon Hostel had the chance to disappear on me yet again.

Once back up in my cubicle of a room, I laid on my too-small bed and started masturbating to my Chinese porno mag. When I was ready to bust, I ripped one of the pages out of the publication, blew a load on it and passed the fuck out.

Photos…