You’re Peeing on Me!!

This is a love story.  Between a Vietnamese girl’s small tiny mouth, and the thing I wanted to stick into it.  Wondering what that might be?  Oh, you’re gonna find out.  Because this is not a story about subtlety.

She was in Saigon, and I was in Tokyo, where I had just moved to from Saigon.  We never had coitus, which was discussed too late—now—and over a Skype call.  One of us (could’ve been me) said, “Yo, why did we not fuck?” and the other was like, “Because my pus-ee too tiny fo’ large American COCK!” (That could’ve been me too.)

But it wasn’t gonna happen, now that I was in Tokyo and…not thriving, unable to work, broke, and about to do a bukkake video for cash.  I managed to scrape enough cash together to leave before that happened, and it was just enough to fly back to Vietnam to get myself back on my feet.  I thought about Quan (the girl) and sent her a Skype message that said, “Bitch I’m coming back to Saigon, get that pussy ready I’m coming to SMASH YOUR OVARIES.”

When I got back to Vietnam, I needed to find a place to crash temporarily.  I sought refuge in the domain of a Chicago homey I had known from way back in 7th grade, a time when you could say “Who da bomb??” and merely sound like a big silly faggot, without getting arrested by Homeland Security.

Well, my second or third day back, the homeowner was out and it was the first chance I was alone at his place with the keys.  I rang up the girl and I was like, “QUAN, GET OVER HERE!”  And then I played the sound effect from Mortal Kombat, and she was like, “Excuse me?” and I played the sound clip again and there was a long silence, but then from the other line I hear “Fatality!” and I KNOW we are on the same page now.  She hung up, drove her motorbike over to The Domain (located right next to The Pit and Goro’s Lair), honked her horn outside, and she drove the bike straight into the house.

(Because that’s what you do in Vietnam. You park the bikes in the house.)

After she removed her bike helmet, I believe it took less than three minutes and were fucking each other’s mouths, or our vaginas.  I mean, her vaginas.  I mean, I was fucking her vagina.  I didn’t have a vagina.  I just wanted to clear that up.

The sex was sweaty and hot.  Both hot in the temperature sense, and in the “would a group of people in robes and animal masks stand around and jerkoff to this?” sense.

This is the part where I make a little disclaimer.  When I lived in Saigon, I became a big enthusiast of cumming on girl’s faces.  In my year there, I came on every single girl—minus one—’s face.  So me cumming on Quan’s face was already a lock. Also, she said, “I want you to cum on my face,” so that just killed any ambiguity.

I took out my man cannon and she dropped to her knees.  Her tongue rolled out to me like a red carpet at a movie premiere.  She looked up at me with the eyes of someone… retarded? Someone… you know those slanty sideways eyes.  What is that? … Asian?  What the fuck is that?

She started to lick my thunderballs and the moment was fast approaching.  I grabbed the back of her head.  Squeezed her hair.  Slapped my own ass.  And then I took a short step backwards and I pointed that thing at her face.  This was gonna be a big explooge-ion.

I closed my eyes and gave into the sensation.

Ladies, what I want you to understand about penises, is, first of all: How to suck them.  I swear, the next one of you to bite me down there, I’m biting back.  And I’m taking an ear with me.  Second of all, when a penis is cumming, the sensation is felt most with each subsequent squirt.  Everytime a load of semen passes through the peen pipes, THAT is when we feel it.  So if you have a ton of cummie building in the peen pipes, you’ll have a more intense orgasm every time one of those thick splooge missiles gets fired outside of the hole.  Hope I didn’t get “too technical” there.

And so, with my head arched back, and the image of Quan’s face burned in my mind, the squirt party started.

At this moment, there was tranquility in the rainforest; there was peace in the Middle East; all was good in the world.

And then: “You’re peeing on me!”

I snap my head down and Quan is down there on her knees and blinded in the eye.  I MUST have misheard her.  I try and see what is wrong with her eye, but then a second squirt flies out of me and blinds her in the other one.

As it traveled through the air, I tried to observe it, the texture, the viscosity—the volume was the only thing I noted, and there was A LOT of it.  “Oh no,” I think.  I am filled with dread.

My eyes flickered and another massive wad of WHATEVER it is flew out of my rainstick and splashed on her face.  She was gasping now, as if it knocked the wind out of her. 

It wasn’t pee—it couldn’t have been.  I wanted to tell her that.  But I tried to say this and I went, “NOT…. PEENYEAAA—” and then I squirted again, and this time I tried to see what color it was, and if it was yellow at all.  It looked closer to cum—although not by much.  I don’t know if I could tell you what color it was. I don’t think such a color has been invented.

Whatever it is, it is melting off of her face and going on the homeowner’s floor.  I noted the high run-off rate.

See, what we had here was a classic battle of pleasure versus pain. The pleasure of me cumming on a chick’s face, versus the pain of her thinking my mutant-like sperm was pee. Your typical dichotomy.

After the juice-of-the-body-bath was over—not immediately after, but after the “smoke was cleared” (the sperm cannon was done firing), my speech returned to quasi-complete sentences and I knew I had to defend my actions.  I cried out, “I don’t know why there was SO much of it, but that was just cum.  I… I promise!”

Can I tell you guys something?  I LIED.  I don’t think it was “just cum.” 

But I don’t think it was pee either.  I have a shy bladder and I can’t pee if someone is in the same room as me—girls AND guys included.  If I go to a public sporting event and they have those long troughs where everyone’s got their dicks out and they are just having jolly ol’ conversations while splattering pee right next to each other, I will either: A. pee my pants instead, or B. wait in the line for the toilet, then take a piss inside a stall sitting down.  Yes, I’ll admit it—I pee sitting down.

I don’t pee much standing up, and I don’t ever piss on people’s faces.  No, that honor goes to another Chicago black man named R. Kelly, and the golden-shower-getter was a classmate in my high school.  Safe to say that the “urinating on minorities” quota has been filled by my superiors.

I’m not really sure what happened that fateful day, but I can tell you the aftermath involved a lot of towels.  Of course they were my towels.  Are you insinuating that no fine they weren’t my towels.  Who cares!  How many times have you used a friend’s hand towel to clean gizz up?  Never?  Well okay then.

I don’t hand out money shots as freely as I used to.  They have to be earned now.  She has to be a girl I really care about.  A girl I would want to pee on.  Just in case I do.