Two Heads Better Than None

I went to the Taiwan because I wished to live lasciviously, to put into motion all the facts of life, and see if I could not learn what they had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not fucked as many women as I possibly could. I did not wish to live what was not life, for living is not to be wasted; nor did I wish to practice moderation, even if it were to become quite necessary. I wanted to fuck hard and suck off every woman to orgasm, to straddle every pussy so sturdily and Viking-like as to put to shame all who were not doing the same, to cut a broad swath and drive deep, to back reluctant bitches into a corner, and reduce them to their lowest most cowering terms, and, if I proved to be too mean, why then to go after the whole and genuine meanness of it all, and publish my meanness to the world; and if all were sublime, to know it all by experience, and be able to give a true account of it here, for all to read. For most American men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about where and how often to fuck, confused as to whether fucking is of the devil or of some god, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of America's men to hold back, look at others like me, and say, "God damn it, I wish I were that guy!"

(With apologies and thanks to H. D. Thoreau)

----------------

I

My apartment had been arranged for me. There was to be no discussion about it, nor could there have been. I didn't speak Mandarin (then), and neither did the landlord speak a syllable of English. It cost an extra penny or two to have it done this way, but the finder's fee was worth it. Rental contract, on the table, next to the pen, and the envelope, with a stamp. Sign, insert, lick, stick, mail... done.

You lose a day when you leave the American east coast and head for Asia. I departed New York at ten p.m. on a Wednesday, making it ten a.m. Thursday in Taiwan. The flight lasted twenty hours. When I landed near Taipei, it was six a.m. Friday. My entire Thursday had disappeared while I was in the air. And since I never sleep on planes, my Friday was about to go away, under the covers of my new bed.

I awoke just past seven-thirty. The sun was already down. The apartment was warm, maybe too much. I hadn't turned on a ceiling fan or an air conditioner. I did now, and I opened the tall windows in the living room. I went into the kitchen and opened the windows there. Angel, the woman who arranged the apartment, had also stocked the place with food. Coca-Cola, milk, bread, a refrigerator full of sandwich ingredients, cereal in the cupboards; I was getting my money's worth. I made a sandwich, opened a Coke.

The living room was darker than it had been fifteen minutes before. It took a minute or two to slide my fingers over the walls to find the light switch. It was next to one of the windows I had opened. Lucky me, I took a glance out the window before I flipped the switch. The switch stayed off.

The living room had no view, which made sense. I hadn't specified one, nor had I paid enough in advance to get one without asking. Oversights, what can I say? They'll hurt you every time. Or, they can bless you in small ways.

Instead of a scenic view, the windows opened to a narrow space, an alley. The apartment across from me seemed closer than it probably was, but it was close enough for me to see clearly through one window, level with mine. As I was fumbling for the light switch, I saw a chubby, middle-aged man sitting on a sofa. He was in profile to me, but I could see he was wearing a tank top t-shirt and some kind of loose shorts, maybe boxers. He was paying attention to something I couldn't see. From the flickering color of light in the room I guessed he was watching a television.

A woman -- his wife, I guessed -- walked past him a few times. She was middle-aged looking, maybe even a little older. She was short, thin but with a body that was heavier on top and settling toward the middle. Her hair was short, in natural loose, black curls. She walked quickly but she was not in a hurry; she had the gait of someone doing work that was familiar and that she wanted done soon.

The first time she went by him she carried a broom and dustpan. She came and went, disappearing from view without him paying her moment's attention. She came back with a small garbage bag in her hand and passed him again, and again he never showed that he even saw her go by. Then she came back a third time, carrying nothing but moving just as quickly, except this time he reached up and grabbed her by the wrist. His head never moved, and his eyes never left the television. He just grabbed her arm. She froze in place. His other hand made a move across his lap. She looked down, and without a split second's hesitation dropped down to her knees in front of him.

He let go of her, and she reached up with both hands and grabbed the waist of his shorts. He lifted his heavy ass off the sofa cushion, and she slid the shorts down and let them sag over his feet. She then used her hand to grab his cock, which I really couldn't see, and then she raised up off her haunches and started sucking him off.

He had no reaction at first. I, on the other hand, left the light switch off and leaned against the wall, an interested bystander grateful for this welcoming committee.

She sucked slowly, and I could see her arm moving just enough to tell me she was stroking whatever length of cock he had over there. His belly was just big enough not to be in the way, so her head moved up and down easily. Gradually, she got faster, and, with his eyes still locked on the television, he raised a hand and started pressing down on the back of her head. When he did this, her rhythm increased automatically. She was really going down on him now, eagerly.

Since I couldn't see his cock, I concentrated on her. How easily she fell into sucking him when he wanted it. How submissive. He hadn't said a word, I could tell that, and here she was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. And there on the floor she was so... attentive, passive, willing. This was a wife, in the truest pre-feminism sense. I raised my Coke, gave a nod, and silently toasted the man.

She was really moving now, and I could see him start to shift his weight around on the sofa. He was breathing harder now; I could see the chubby stomach heaving up and down inside that undershirt. Her head was moving more deliberately now, in longer, slower, more nerve-provoking strokes. Then suddenly he stood up.

The woman's mouth never came off his cock. She simply shifted with him, like a dancer following her partner. They had done this before, obviously, in the most realistic of rehearsals, which are what sex always offers. They remained in profile to me, with the wife taking baby step backwards on her knees. The husband took a stance, his legs spread a little, between her and the sofa, and his hips were now thrusting forward, meeting her head as he was using his hand to force her down on him. He was really fucking her mouth now, and she was steadying herself with her knees and legs.

Then things got even faster. His hips were moving as fast as this old guy could probably get them to go. The wife's head was all but still now; it was his turn, this was his show, she had done her part, and she had but one act left. Both his hands were on either side of her head now. He was holding her steady until.... He sent his cock deep into her mouth. His hips locked forward. His head titled back and his jaw opened. The woman reached back and grabbed him behind both thighs, pulling him even deeper into her mouth. He was cumming. His body quaked. Her head did, too. I could see her throat. I concentrated on it. Every ounce, every drop, of his cum was going where he wanted it to go. She kept her mouth right there at the base of his cock and milked all she could.

I wasn't surprised when it all ended just as abruptly as it started. The wife stood up exactly as the husband sat down. His eyes went back to the television. She walked past the window and disappeared just as quickly as she had before. I waited a few seconds for him to pull up those shorts. He never did.

I left the light off and decided to finish my sandwich in the kitchen.

II

It's nice to have money. It's great to be gorgeous. It's terrific to have talent. I have one of those things.

I got lucky and published a book, once. It did well, but it was a niche book, and a once-in-a-lifetime, a blind shot from half-court for a million bucks. Swish! I didn't quite make a million, but I made enough to leave teaching behind – for a while – and try to get a second book done.

So I have the money, but the talent is still in question. Anyone can hit the jackpot once, right? It's the second book that makes the man, or the writer. That's why I'm traveling. For the sex, too, of course, but I need to find something new to write about. I figured a few trips around the world would give me enough to get started.

As for being gorgeous... we're all someone's cup of tea. I'm just not sure who likes my flavor. I'm not particularly tall. I'm linebacker solid, with more muscles than some women enjoy. I'm bald, and I wear a goatee and sometimes a beard. The blue eyes help (sometimes), but I also wear glasses. I have no tattoos to turn off the squeamish, but a rather generous mat of chest hair doesn't exactly drive all women crazy. So I'm a short, stocky, bald, hairy cup of tea. Form an orderly line, ladies.

Unfortunately, no ladies did on my first night out. (I had been warned. Bald men with beards were not going to go over well in Asia, I was told by an ABC – American-Born Chinese – woman on the flight from New York.) After the free peep show across the alley, I ate, showered, and dressed for a night out. Nothing overdone; a shirt, a jacket, a dab of cologne. I checked out cab drivers until I found one who spoke English. Find me a place with lots of local girls, a place where western guys might hang out.

Big mistake. Every western guy there was six feet tall, give or take, and tried hard to look like George Clooney or Brad Pitt. Most missed by a country mile, but enough of them pulled it off well enough that the local ladies didn't give me a second look, or a first, in most cases. But the tequila was good. I had my limit, three shots in an hour, and I got out of there.

Every cab was taken. I was walking streets I had never seen before looking at signs printed in a language I didn't understand. Add in that I was being stared at as if I were a walking, two-headed circus exhibit, and I was about as uncomfortable as I could be.

Earlier I mentioned money, talent, and looks. Let's add luck to the list. I usually have none. I had some once, with the book. I had none in that pub the first night, but out walking the street, luck showed up again.

"You want taxi? Where you going?"

It was a woman's voice. I turned around. She wasn't the wife from the peep show, she was taller, but she was in the mold. This woman wore glasses and smiled. And at least she spoke English.

"I'm going home."

"I take you now. Let's go."

We went. I showed her the address slip I had torn off the lease in my apartment. "Far away," the driver said, smiling at me in the rearview mirror. So I settled back for a long ride across town.

"You come from where?"

"America."

"Oh, America very good!"

"Yes, thank you."

"How you like Taiwan?"

"This is my first day here. I'm not sure Taiwan likes me."

"Why you say?"

"The women, I don't think the women like me."

"Ha! You very handsome. Someone will love you, I know!"

A kind lady, if nothing else. I smiled and thanked her and we drove through the city. She tuned into a radio station with American songs. Pop music. I wished she hadn't bothered but I couldn't tell her that. I suffered... but it was pop fucking music. Enough was enough. I decided to talk to her, but kept my voice low. After three tries, she turned the radio off. Money, looks, talent, luck... brains. (If I may pat myself on the back.)

But now I needed something to say.

"You have problem?" She was looking at me in the rearview mirror again.

"No, no problem. I, uh.... Do you like American men?"

"Ha! Ha! No, I never know American man."

"You should meet one. Maybe you will like."

"Ha! You want meet Taiwan woman, I think."

"Yes, I do, very much. But now I meet you."

She blushed and tried not to look at me in the mirror again, but she looked back three times. I was doing the smiling this time.

"Come on, you know me. Get to know me better. Maybe you'll like me."

She waved a hand at me and went back to driving, watching the streets. I had gotten three looks and about a half-dozen smiles. I decided to get bold.

I sat back and started making uncomfortable noises, moans, and started twisting my head around as if I had a stiff neck. She looked back at me again.

"You have hurt?"

"Just a little sore. I had a long airplane ride from America yesterday."

"You want massage? I take you to good massage girl. She very good, young and beautiful. You like."

"Can you do massage for me?"

She shook her head. I pressed on.

"You can take me home, massage my neck. I can pay extra money."

"I'm not massage woman."

We were stopped at a traffic light. She was looking in the mirror again. I went all the way. I started rubbing my crotch. "Hello. Look."

She turned her head. I rubbed my crotch faster, suggestively. She looked at my hand there, watched me rubbing, for a while. Then she looked at me. Her smile was gone. She turned around. The light was green. She took off.

The cab felt eerily quiet now. No music. No talking. No smiles in the mirror. Shit, had I gone too far? I started looking out the window for police stations, wondering if she was going to drive up to one and report me as a molester.

We turned off the main street into a dark, narrow alley. Oh, no. Even worse than a police station she's going to drop me off in an alley... where? Some shithole in a part of Taipei where they hate Americans? Her brother's house, where six brothers come out and beat me over the head with clubs?

No. A few seconds into the alley and I recognized the wall of the building on the right. I had spent ten minutes looking through is a few hours earlier. My building was on the left. I was home.

She pulled the car up to the building opposite mine. She turned.

"You want massage?"

I looked her in the eye. Did she mean it? One way to tell...

"Yes. I want your massage."

She opened her door and got out to open the rear door behind the driver's seat. I was already on the other side, so she slid into the empty seat next to me. Then she sat there. Looking at me. We had come this far. I was in no mood to slow down. I took her hand. I put it on my left thigh. She tried to take it off, I held it tighter. She fought another second, then relented. Her fingers relaxed and she started rubbing my leg.

I looked at her and we smiled together. Still looking at her, I pulled the hand nearer my crotch. She stopped smiling and looked down at her hand. It reached my cock, already hard as could be from the cat and mouse of the massage conversation. She squeezed the head. I let go of her hand and moved my own to my zipper. When it was down, I moved her hand inside. She pulled it out.

"Oh! Da-de! Wo shihuan!" It was big and she liked it. (Of course, back then I had to get clarification on her Chinese. It was big... and she liked it.) She stroked it.

"You like to massage a man's cock?"

"Mmm-hmmm! I like cock!"

"Show me how much."

I reached up and pushed her head down. She knew what I wanted, and she opened her mouth. My cock went inside and she positioned her head and hand to give me a good, long stroke as she blew me. I twisted to the side and sat back against the door, giving her all access to my fat, throbbing cock.

Her head went after my cock like I never imagined it might. She was slobbering, moaning, stroking, licking the head and then diving down for a deep throat. I was thrusting up, and she was taking me as deep as she could.

"Oh, fuck! Oh, shit! Goddamn that is good! Suck me, honey! Suck me more!!?

She was coming on and off my cock, deep-throating with every downstroke. I had both hands on her head now, stuffing her down, pulling her up, doing what I could. And she was doing what she could to make me cum, and it was coming soon.

Did she know the English? Who cared...

"I'm going to cum! Can I cum in you?" CAN I CUM!!??"

She came off my cock for half a second. "Cum okay!"

She dove down again, and I jammed myself as deep as I could, and then it came.

"AAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!"

A gusher hit her in the throat and she swallowed hard. She started going faster. I shoved it deeper. The cum jets were pouring out.

'YESSS! YESSS!!! AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

I wilted back into the seat, and she drunk as deeply as she could. She kept my cock in her mouth a long time, sucking, slurping, babying my cock as it went limp.

When it was all over, she sat up, smiling as she had been all night.

"That was great."

"You like? Maybe I do again next time."

She took a business card out of her pocket and handed it to me. I reached into my own pocket. I hadn't mastered the money here. I showed what I had. She took two blue bills. (About $65 in US currency.)

I got out of the car after she did. We said good bye. She drove away, and I walked to the front door of my building.

Up in my apartment, I made a sandwich. I took it into the living room and sat near the window again. Across the alley, everything was dark. I took my sandwich to bed and started writing in this journal as I ate....