We all have our routines when we’re drunk or tired. My friend Drew recently introduced me to the idea of visiting spas. It’s a terrible idea. It can’t be good for the body, especially one as horribly abused as mine, to endure further dehydration in a steam room after 10-plus-hours of drinking. But there we were one night, half-naked in a wooden room, flambéing as steam filled the metal box around us.
We recounted the night that had just passed. It started off at Tairyo, the epic all-you-can-stuff-your-face place that I’m positive every foreigner in Beijing knows about. We were rolling about 10-deep or so that night. Drew and I insisted on everybody taking sake shots or bombs at least every three minutes. By sushi time, we had each downed two flasks; by the beef, five were empty; by the shrimp, seven or eight. By the time the chef was lining up the bananas to do his banana-in-flame act, the grand finale that everyone loves, I think Drew and I had outdrank the rest of the table combined. We were sloppier than a Jackson Pollock painting.
The chef kept asking if we were full (“Chi baole”) and if we were done eating (“Chi wanle”). If we said yes to Chi baole?, he kept going; if we said yes to Chi wanle?, he stopped. Drew and I started getting antsy. What did the chef mean, and why did he act differently for each response? For no particular reason, we began really going at it. With machismo and testosterone flowing – and because of some minor physical contact – I ended up finding a half-eaten sushi roll and shoving it in Drew’s face. He found some shrimp and threw it at me. Before we could hold ourselves back, we were rolling on the floor of Tairyo choking and punching each other. Tiny female waitresses surrounded us, arms extended, hands flailing, trying to cordon us from the other patrons. I think it was Freddy who eventually got up and pulled Drew off me, separating the two of us. We both stared at each other like a final Dragonball Z fight. Others glared at us as if we had just caused a car wreck during rush hour on Second Ring Road.
We hugged it out (“Hug it out, bitches!”) and walked out laughing hysterically. I don’t think we paid.
The rest of that night was honestly a blur. I remember going into Fubar because I wanted a drink in one of their special Buddha glass cups so badly just so I could smash the cup outside; we might’ve also gone to George’s for a hot minute before trying to sneak into Vics without paying. Not sure which one of us got caught, but we were gently (forcefully) escorted out. Finally, Drew pushed me in a cab and directed us to the spa.
I felt like complete doodoo sitting in that sauna with Drew, so I decided to order a massage. A comely local girl came to escort me to a private room, where I removed my robe and laid down, only wearing boxer briefs. I was falling in and out of a certain state of conscious limbo, aware of my surroundings but not of my own body within it. All of a sudden, the lovely masseuse flipped me over and started rubbing my upper shoulders, pressing down hard, then moved down to my chest and stomach. It felt fantastic. I kept my eyes closed, just enjoying it all. Her fingers pushed against my skin so hard that my muscles burned; I gave a pleasurable shrug in my still-drunk state. Then she moved down to my midriff and hips. I wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, but at the same time, I knew exactly what she was doing. In a flash, before I could even register the act, she found the crotch opening, stuck her hand in, and started pumping like a jackhammer. Pistons don’t even function this fast. The movie I’m thinking of is The Fast and the Furious. I was more panicked and concerned about the aftereffects; I mean, chafing’s a serious issue, people. Plus, whiskey dick was taking over, and let’s just say she wasn’t the most sensual handler.
At some point, mind dominated matter. I don’t know how I did it, but I willed myself to finish over her hands. As she walked out, I turned onto my side to see her hands out to her sides, gooeyness dripping down. I smiled.
I put my robe back on and walked out at the same time as Drew. We packed up our shit, laughing tiredly, struggling with the mental image of our respective beds. I looked at my watch. It was 7 AM.
Drake Moreau can be reached at drake@beijingcream.com. |Drake Archives|
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