Surf's Up

by Tironius, created Sunday, August 30, 2009, with permalink

Satisfying sex with Surf Girl comes full circle

Sexploit#14: ‘Surf Girl’ in Wakayama, Japan

This one has a background to be told. You see, it all started (flashback effect, screen goes wobbly) in the fall of 2003. I was studying in Japan at the time and was in the clutches of a vicious long-distance relationship with a woman who must never ever be named again. Ever. I took a day-trip out to a beach in Wakayama. I had this idea in my head that I needed to try surfing. I got to Wakayama city and I noticed that there was a girl in the station who had dreadlocks and a giant surfboard under her arm. “Perfect!” I thought, “I’ll just follow her, she is obviously wave bound.” I rode the trains to the very remote town of Isonoura. Couldn’t have had more than 3,000 people in it. When I exited the train I approached the surfer girl and struck up a conversation with her, and she taught me how to surf. Now she was very sexy. Very curvy and beautiful little body on her. Nice gams, nice legs, and a darling face like an Eskimo. But, being the pussy-whipped dork I was, I stayed devoted to my evil bitch girlfriend back in America. So, the surfer-girl and I had a harmless day of fun at the beach.

That day in the sun would turn out to be the bain of my existence for the pain-stricken remaining six months of hell I spent with the American girl. Every damn day it was “well, why don’t you just go back to your little surfer slut..” or “I bet it’s not as good as your little surfer whore can do it…” or “Maybe you would like me better if I could surf like what’s her name…” Thanks to a good friend, Tironius, and strangely said girl’s best friend’s advice I got out of that hell-hole, and my cock was free to run wild again.

She said “Oh no, I could never do that…I’m just not that kind of—” Then we were fucking.

Now, like all of my sex stories, this one is dripping with irony. I was crucified everyday for a completely benign, one-day relationship with a friend at the beach. I did nothing, and to be honest hadn’t really thought about doing anything. I spent day and night convincing the American that I was innocent! But then the universe has a way of bringing these things to be.

Skip ahead a year or two and we find me back in Japan. This time working. I got in touch with the surfer girl and we decided to hang out somewhere—get some drinks. We went to a local stir-fry joint in my neighborhood and got smashed after work. I told her she could stay at my place since her sister’s place was so far away. She said “Oh no, I could never do that…I’m just not that kind of—” Then we were fucking. Oh man, it was like this woman’s anatomy was custom built for mine! It was like a perfectly fitted glove. I rocked her several times, and it was really rather stellar. She was 27 and in her prime. Gorgeous body, the product of all that surfing and the softest tits you could ever imagine. I took her to pleasure town over and over again.

And while I was banging into oblivion, a wry smile came over my face. Ah, at last it had come full circle. The irony complete. Here I was, banging the very girl that I had so vehemently argued that I wouldn’t. If only she (the American) could have been there to see it. If only there were some way she could feel the burn of that one. I mused about writing an email off to that effect, but my mind wandered to other things.

There were later encounters with the Surf-Girl. There was the trip to Hakone. We went to a “Spa-World”—an indoor fun park of baths and hot-tubs of all different types. At the traditional Japanese hotel, we partook in some of the most passionate love-making of my career. Again, the fit was amazing.

Cowabunga!

Labels: Asia, Best of, How to Seduce, Sexploit

Kurippi in Korea: Going to a cathouse

by Chris Maupin, created Saturday, January 19, 2008, with permalink

The Shadowy
Underside of Korea

Experience with the oldest profession, in South Korea

It’s a March Friday and I have been pacing for an hour in the cold night outside a nondescript stairwell between two empty buildings in South Korea. Twin red-white-and-blue barber poles spin furiously just outside the black corridor between the buildings. I have circled this block ten times now, still lacking the courage to walk down those stairs.

What if it’s just a barbershop? Nonsense. Barbershops aren’t open at 12:30 A.M.

The brothel:

What if it’s expensive? — What if they don’t cater to foreigners? — Finally, I’ve never done this before. Round and round the barber pole in my mind spins, only to end up again at What if it’s just a barbershop?

I circle the block once more killing another ten minutes.

The stairwell again. My heart is a rib-ramming fist. Inside: a pungent cocktail of terror, teen-ish intrigue and curiosity. Outside: two barber poles and a taunting stairwell.

I’m inching my way sideways down the stairs now—my back to the wall and my palms soaked. My heart is an earthquake. I crane my neck to see the bottom of the stairwell. A glass shop door stands completely opaqued by a pink vinyl decal save for a five-by-eight inch rectangle. I knock softly with a trembling hand. At first, nothing. Then, like a magic-eight-ball , a woman’s ghostly face floats through the inky black to the small pane. She examines me with a polite smile before letting me in.

In the dim parlor I see her murky apparition. She is frosty pale with hair just blacker than the rambling catacombs of the brothel. * Visage (‘vizij) » noun [usu. in sing. ] poetic/literary » a person’s face, with reference to the form or proportions of the features. She is maybe 38, but her visage* seems older. Painted toenails in cheap flip-flops join two frosty white legs that disappear under a pair of pink silk shorts ringed with black lace. † Camisole (‘kameh-sole) » noun » a woman’s loose-fitting undergarment for the upper body, typically held up by shoulder straps and having decorative trimming. Above a matching camisole† hovers her face, punctured by two completely black, mascara encrusted eyes.

Almost apologetically she motions to the slippers by the door and then disappears behind a curtain to a nearby room. Two low whispers carry through the womb-like brothel. In a television’s flickering blue light I can make out a large space filled with random furniture covered in bed sheets.

“Zing!” the curtain slides back revealing the whore in pink leaning over a sofa talking with an obese woman in a huge T-shirt. The fat woman glances over her shoulder to size me up, mutters something to the whore and then returns to watching her soap opera at a near-mute volume.

“W60,000,” ‡‡ $60 USD the soft-spoken prostitute informs me on her return. She counts the bills and then hands them to the sow behind the curtain.

“Do you want a massage or — (crude palm fist gesture indicating sex)?”

I mimic the palm and fist gesture.

“This way.” She motions.

A chilling thought enters as I follow her through labyrinthine underground brothel: Is that woman her pimp?

We pass two dark, curtained rooms with doctors’ tables and hand showers. The rooms appear completely water-proof with drains in the floor. How large is this place? I wonder. I trail her, adolescently gawking at her trashy shorts shifting in the dark. My cock is hard with fear and lust when she stops. There, at the end of a shadowy and narrow hallway is a small ten-by-ten foot room with a weak red incandescent bulb and a short curtain door.

She utters something in Korean and motions for me to undress. How much do I undress? Is this where we have sex? But before I can ask she has already disappeared again. Lying naked and paralyzed on a cotton floor mat, I gaze at the office-like drop ceiling in the pale red glow. In another room, I can hear her rummaging through cabinets and boxes. A sink runs then stops. I can’t help but be reminded of that awkward wait between assistant and dentist.

She closes the draw curtains behind her and kneels into the room. This time she brings with her a couple of plastic tubs similar to the ones in the shower rooms. Two steaming white towels accompany a condom and two plastic bottles. Frozen, I listen to her alien chit-chat.

“‘I like Americans — they are kind to women.’ The comment’s irony isn’t lost on me.”

Squatting near me, she begins to scrub my cock with the hot wet towels. For me it’s an awkward elephant in the room; for her, an occupational hazard. Next, she removes her flimsy dime store lingerie with an almost masculine crudity—unabashedly exposing her brown anus as she bends over to step out of her pantyless shorts.

I endure a joyless blowjob, while examining her soft body — soft from a life of lying in a cot and waiting to be bought. § Warren » noun (also rabbit warren) » a network of interconnecting rabbit burrows. • a densely populated or labyrinthine building or district : a warren of narrow gas-lit streets. • Brit., historical an enclosed piece of land set aside for breeding game, esp. rabbits. A ceaseless existence, spent here, in this warren §, sleeping and being slept with. A condom package snatches me from my daydream.

Now underneath me, she spreads her limp legs revealing a hairless cunt. Her breasts slide limply over her bony ribcage. My mind drifts to an old lover who had a rather loose yet shallow pussy. The whore’s pink eraser nipples are rubbing my chest. Before long, I am filling her with jets of semen.

We attempt some limited small talk while dressing. In a dreamy opiate haze, she tells me she wants to see America someday. I tell her she should do it — but somehow we both know it’s fantasy. But who is the trick to call the whore deluded?

Back at my shoes she compliments me on my penis-size. “I like Americans — they are kind to women.” The comment’s irony isn’t lost on me.

At a different stair, she pats me on the rear and tells me to come again. I exit the plain metal door at the top and step outside to find myself in a completely different building on the street above—nothing to suggest that I just emerged from a brothel.

How clever. How thoughtful.

Labels: Asia, Best of, Sexploit

Visiting the North Korean border

by Chris Maupin, created Sunday, August 12, 2007, with permalink

Day trip to the edge of forever: North-South Korean border a creepy place

digg story

“This is the ‘bridge of no return…’,” the US MP informed us. “Cross this bridge and you will be stripped of all freedoms and will be forbidden to ever enter S Korea or the US Again. Cross this bridge and you are in N Korea’s hands.” The bridge was little more than 8 feet wide and and perhaps a hundred feet long or so. In the days of the Korean war, war prisoners were told to choose which side they would live the remainder of their lives in. Some chose wisely, others didn’t.

Hello everyone!

Cross this bridge and you will be stripped of all freedoms and will be forbidden to ever enter S Korea or the US again.

Yesterday I visited Panmunjeom [1] 1. The United Nations Joint Security Area and the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) a 4 mile wide ribbon of land that divides the two Koreas along the 38th parallel. The DMZ is perhaps the most militarized border in the world. Both sides are heavily walled and fenced. The DMZ itself is infested with landmines and anyone trying to make it across would not make it very far. Covered in guard towers on both sides, you often find yourself being watched by N Korean soldiers.

We started our tour at “Camp Bonifas” which was formerly known as “Camp Kittyhawk.” The once US military base is now under the Republic of Korea’s command and is the largest installation near the DMZ. We were briefed by an American MP on the history and background of the DMZ and Korean War. Then we signed UN waivers and got made the short drive to the JSA (United Nations Joint Security Area.) The JSA is the place where the DMZ narrows around a cluster of buildings and the two sides meet without fences. On the one side there is a large S Korean Building used to house officials, dignitaries and for other administrative purposes. Across from it is it’s N Korean counterpart - dubbed the “monkey house” because of the rude behavior of it’s N Korean Guard. In between there are no fences, no walls, nothing - only a series of portable type buildings used to hold negotiations and talks. Between the buildings the two sides soldiers stare eachother down and try to intimidate one another all day long. It was intense.

In the days of the Korean war, war prisoners were told to choose which side they would live the remainder of their lives in. Some chose wisely, others didn’t.

So there, at the JSA, I saw them.. The North Korean soldiers - just like on TV. Wearing their olive drab uniforms, gaunt, cold looking. They watched us through binoculars the whole time we were there. 2 from the Monkey house steps, and one from a guard tower. It was an eerie feeling knowing that all that separated us from those brainwashed fascist soldiers was an imaginary dotted line in the sand. The guide told us that when president Bush met with the S Korean president a while back, 2 N Korean soldiers entered the meeting room (illegally) and proceeded to polish their boots with an American flag on display. yikes.

After we left the JSA, we headed to a high hilltop observation tower on the DMZ border. Across the forest you could see it — N Korea and it’s flagship village known to the locals as “Propaganda Village” because it used to blare loud propaganda messages slamming the US and S Korea and enticing people to defect into N Korea. When S Korea erected a new flagpole which was some 300’ in height a few years ago N Korea responded by erecting what might be the largest flagpole ever built by man. It waves a massive 660 lb N Korean flag that measures some 60’ in length and requires 16 people to raise and lower it. I took some good shots of the village and the flag so you can see them below.

We then passed through more ‘gaza-like’ checkpoints with anti-tank traps and gun turret posts to ‘Dora Observatory.’ Photography from the wall of the observatory is prohibited, but of course I don’t believe in rules, so I smuggled out some photos for you! Sensitive and classified! Don’t turn me over to the UN please!

After the observatory we headed to the ‘3rd Infiltration Tunnel’ site which was discovered in 1978. The N Koreans have attempted several times to dig a series of tunnels from which to invade S Korea from. Sneaky bastards! Cameras were not allowed in this area.

The last stop was the Dora-san Station. This is the new train station that has a line that goes from Dorasan (S Korea) to Pyongyang, the N Korean Capital City. After years of negotiations Kim Jong Il (N Korean Dictator) allowed the train from S to N to be built - then of course at the last minute he refused to allow any trains to enter N Korea. So the station sets, ready and manned to send travelers off into the North. Schedule boards and waiting chairs all anticipating a train that will never come - at least not for now. I took a photo of the sign that says “Dora -> Pyongyang” and got my passport stamped there.

Well, Hope you enjoy these photos and the candid peek into the bizarre and secretive North. It was a great tour and I recommend it. Special thanks to the USO who booked and organized it for me - what a great organization they are.

That’s all for now,
—Kurippi 19

Labels: Adventure, Asia, Best of