vinny bombora

I’m standing pissing into the squat. It’s dark, one of those bathrooms in China that’s as small as a cubicle with the shower above the hole in the floor. As the bladder empties he’s there behind me. Feel him first, then his breath…

Awoke after a night of drinking baijiu with locals I couldn’t hold a conversation with… avoiding the laowai joints. Out the window in the mid-morn alcoholic haze I saw him across the way on the roof of a guest house. Hanging his clothes after wringing them out; washing them in a plastic bucket. He was lean with no shirt on.

I look over my shoulder. There’s a shaft of light straying in from a grate in the wall; highlights his dark eyes and moist lips. Heavy breathing catches, now heaving out my chest. He wants yet I don’t go for that.

I spent my days caressing hangovers down near the river amongst the limestone karsts; fishermen, geese flapping, wallowing buffalos… they were all high on chi whilst mine was burnt out.

As the afternoons crept in I’d make my way into the bars. I already had a reputation for being a long haul drinker with the backpackers who’d spent a few weeks in the tourist trap and considered themselves locals. There were a few women hovering in like wasps but they were the girls of the rock climbers. Others available weren’t so tempting.

I’d see him walking down the street.

Back towards the squat pulling up my fly; the moment ethereal like I’m not here. I hear a movement then his palm rests firmly upon my shoulder; my sack tightens.

Late on a Sunday, all the bars with hard wood furniture had turned off the tinny speakers churning out trip-hop and thrown out the drunks. Staggering about, no one else but a drunken Chinese tourist being hassled by security officials.

I spotted a light down the end and continued. A bar but not the usual: an air of sophistication. He was out the front playing a board game with a local girl who kept cackling.

He waved me in.

“Are you Portuguese?”

I shook my head.

He slapped a seat and I sat down beside them. Honey, that was her English name, kept up the inane laughter. She was cute, rosy cheeked but I didn’t want to pop her.

He was Spanish, owned the bar. He was some sort of artist or other. He’d fitted out the place.

We drank a bottle and more. I was back the next afternoon and the one after that…

The other palm on my shoulder, he pushes me towards the side wall; no resistance. He reaches round and rifles at my belt. I push his hands away and undo it letting my pants drop to my ankles. I assume the position: hands pressed flat upon the wall, arse pushed outwards, legs slightly splayed.

He’s fidgeting about. Turning back I see him pulling out his cock. I’ve never seen one coming like that in my direction.

Jesus Christ, a voice in my head.

Back to the front I look down… it’s shrivelled like a squashed slug petrified.

After all the bars in town had closed it became the centre of action; the Labyrinth it was called. All the transient Westerners who’d broken free of the constraints of their consumerist selves would turn up.

We spoke of our gallant journeys through realms that no one could understand when we returned home to find nothing had changed and everyone still sat in the same chairs we’d left them in on the porch. We dreamt of a world without supermarket chains, insipid advertising and the pursuit of the dollar.

He sat to the side, the silent holder of court, while I spun around with a loud tasteless drone.

It was as the sun began its lift one night that I asked for a job.

The next afternoon I arrived to find Honey and him playing with a cat that had appeared.

He told me my job was to sit in the bar, attract customers and entertain them while they drank. All the booze and food I consumed was my payment. He had a spare room on the floor of a family’s house that he stayed in where I could crash. I should pay my own rent.

I accepted.

He stroked the cat and looked toward Honey.

“It seems I have two strays turn up today,” he laughed.

I hear him spit ever so lightly; I imagine onto his palm and then rubs it on. He grabs my hips and moves in. He thrusts at the cavity but it’s a clenched fist. It keeps sliding off to the side until it gains entry.

A deep groan as it penetrates and then out… My arms slackened, my face presses further into the wall with each invasion.

His movements become frenzied as he continues. A hand moves round my front trying to grasp at what has all but retreated from battle.

The job was none too demanding. I’d sit at one of the tables out front of the bar and await my prey. They never failed to show.

Personally I preferred my victims to be women but whatever came my way was fine. It was my job… I couldn’t be choosy. I had to be personable; relate an interesting tale and make sure they kept up with me in the rounds.

The peak of the art was when they actually offered to pay for my drinks not knowing that they were on the house. I was a model employee.

He started asking me to show up earlier in the day.

“Vinny, I think you should maybe come tomorrow at two,” he’d announce with his Spanish lisp at the end of the night.

I’d show up on time only to find him arranging a few things while I sat there listless. This scenario was repeated for days and I couldn’t work out to what gain.

He pulls out, he hasn’t come but we’re not going to get that far. He grabs me and spins me round. We’re both face to face staring at each other but there’ll be no kissing… there’s no passion here.

He drops to his knees before my cock like it’s a crucifix. It’s beginning to awaken: a lotus in the wanton sunlight. His lower jaw drops.

I was seated at a table out front of the rock climbers’ bar. I was taking the day off work. It was half way up the road from the Labrinyth.

I saw him coming.

I had one hand gripping either side of the table. He leant in with his hands upon the table and he pressed his bulge in against the back of my hand.

“Vinny, what are you doing here?”

The question puzzled me along with the fact that he must’ve had no feelings in his nether regions… denial is a favourite pastime of mine.

“Just having a drink.”

“Well you should drink at my bar… that’s what you do.”

Hours later we were seated out the front of his bar alone. No one had come because there was a party up at the rock climbers’ bar. He suggested we close up and go there.

I was seated amongst the girlfriends of the rock climbers wishing they were single.

He was tearing up the dance floor, moving like a stallion. At one moment he was spinning a woman and yet turned to finish off another’s move. Everyone on the floor revolved around him taking their call from his moves.

I couldn’t take my eyes of the spectacle in a mix of awe and jealousy.

My cock’s crying in the dawn with head thrust into the air. He draws close… none of this womanly flicking of the tongue, he just devours in one swoop.

So deep with such a grip… true what they say about a man giving the best blow.

He draws up, my breath halts; feels like he’ll suck it off.

I double over; he continues to rip at its roots.

It spits forth as he draws the thread of jism connected to my heart chakra; it explodes in my chest sending white light in all directions, annihilating everything.

I awake face down on the bed. The whole of my body taut with dehydration, can hardly open my eyes, a tremor breaks out.

Then it hits me… I stumble out of bed and start shoving things in my bag.

I make my way out the door.

image by wonton soup

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