부산 아줌마
Busan is my favorite city on the planet Earth.
Temperate, babe-loaded beaches lined with hotels, cafes, and bars, hilly hiking trails trekked by sweating, panting fitness femmes, high HDI, advanced infrastructure and clean, quick public transit, supremely walkable yet vast, 3.3 million people with good etiquette, trophy wives in sunglasses with their cleavage out smiling and waving when they catch you admiring, very near several other large cities and a short ferry ride to Fukuoka with its own abundance of promiscuous Japanese, bouncy college girls in their short skirts, fried-chicken bars, real seafood, Chinese expat rich-bitches with inattentive husbands, educated Western expats, domesticated moms pushing strollers side-by-side in their bikinis, intense port industry and commerce, mega-malls, a proper skyline with more towers than Beijing or Miami, a Pacific horizon crowded with immense cargo ships, just-graduated White women teaching ESL by day and fiending for cock by night, busy fishing vessels, sluts in so many forms, and intimidating naval assets.
And there are whores.
If you were in Korea in the old days, you’d be right to assume the whores are virtually all Koreans. That’s not the case anymore. The farm labor is all foreign. The factory labor is all foreign. The construction labor is all foreign. Young Koreans are all university-educated, and their parents would mentally implode if their sons and daughters did those jobs. Twenty-something Korean women are all on the campuses, in the offices, in the clubs, and on those beaches.
Busan is where I was repeatedly mistaken for a Russian, including by Russians, until I opened my mouth. There is a Russian and wider former-Soviet demographic in Busan that I must insist is twice or thrice the official numbers. Foreign women stand outside the brothels. Chinese, Southeast Asian, Russians, and other former Soviets fill the ranks. They line certain neon walking streets at night, where they have an agreement with the local law, wearing their hot outfits, a row on either side of ass cheeks and legs and tits and hair and sexy voices calling you “Mister Handsome!” and saying “I like you!” and sometimes just “Hello hello!” like beautiful prostitute parrots perched and pluming.
Night wandering. There is no more freedom a human can experience than to wander endless Asian streets at 3 a.m., night after night after night.
I wandered through Texas Street, Chinatown, and down into the blue-collar parts. Immigrant-rich, I didn’t look out of place with my White skin and work boots. In Busan, there are restaurants open at 3 a.m. I would work up an appetite walking, walking, walking in the summer night, in the ocean air, in the sand, in those hillside, colorful neighborhoods with all the stray cats and fish tanks, commemorative murals, past the K-rap delinquents in the parks, through the subway, crisscrossing that city and only heading home when the sky began to blue.
One such 3 a.m. I entered a restaurant in the Soviet neighborhood. This place was Uzbek. They had Uzbek everything everywhere. There was a painting of Tamerlane and his conquests on the wall. A lot of Islamo-Turkic vibe, calligraphy, crescent moons, horse iconography, that kind of stuff. A woman in her late 40s or early 50’s, in a hijab, sat at a table, not just a little pretty, but quite MILFy. She kept watching me. The menu: goat meat, lamb, alright… I did my usual near-random pick and raised my hand.
She approached, smiling. “Welcome back.”
I looked around the place more carefully. “Oh? Right. I’ve been here before?”
“Almost one year,” she said.
“You remember me?” I was stunned. I laughed.
She nodded. “I speak Russian to you, and you say ‘Huh? What? Hangook mal joosaeyo.’ but my English better than my Korean.”
“Cool! How’ve you been? Can I get the lamb in the cheese thing?” I was still hungry.
She gave me a limp-wristed flick across my shoulder, grabbed up my menu, and vanished into the kitchen.
I sat watching this Russian-language documentary on the TV they had mounted to the wall. All I could gather was that it was a behind-the-scenes documentary following these gorgeous Slavic models pursuing success in the fashion world, and the shots of them cat-walking and in the dressing room made me a bit horny.
Some minutes passed, my restaurant matron was out with my food, and she watched me eat every bite, peppering me with observational comments as I chewed.
“I guess you are American soldier but now I know you are not American soldier,” she said with vindication.
“Nope, not a soldier,” I affirmed.
“My name is Feruza,” and she told me my name. “You are Pierce.”
I felt bad that I didn’t remember ever talking to her. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to recall, but I just don’t.”
“You are single,” she sighed.
“Yes, mostly,” I agreed.
“You are carefree,” she sighed again.
“Yes, totally. You’re right about everything. How’d you know anything about me?” I smiled.
“Maybe I can see everything about man, maybe I read any man like book,” she said, more sure of herself.
I joked, “Were you born with a third sight?”
“Do you want to know how I do it?” She leaned in close, her eyes were sexy, and I felt an autonomic frisson tingle run through me to my groin to really lock eyes with her.
I nodded goofily. “Yeah. Teach me how.”
She paused as if she was biting her tongue, then said, “One day I tell you. I know why you are in Korea.”
“It’s a nice country, safe, fun, and…” I gave my usual line when people asked me the why-Korea question.
“Don’t say. I say. You like women here,” she interrupted.
I blushed and snickered. “I can’t complain.”
She tapped me on my thigh. “You like women here, I know. Beautiful women are everywhere in Korea.”
I shrugged. “They are.”
She rolled her eyes. “My husband looking Korean women everywhere we go, like this…” She mimicked him gawking this way and that, craning and twisting her neck like a tourist on a bus tour.
“Hey, so… where is your husband, though?” I was so curious to know.
“He sleeps. Upstairs.” She pointed. “Do you like my food?” She gestured open-handed at my empty plate.
“It’s the best. Meat is my thing, you put a lot in there. Thank you.” It was good food.
“Then come back?” She cocked her eyebrow.
“Yes, for sure. I came back by accident already, right?” and I was sincere.
She pinched my cheek like she was my aunt. I paid, and I was out of there.
I meant that. I would come back several times per week. I ate everything on her menu. And she almost always talked to me a lot. No, it was blatant flirting, and it escalated and escalated. She talked about her whole life, she dug into my story, she became increasingly handsy; pinching under my armpit faster than a ninja, walking behind me and running her hand down my back, shoulder to ass, taking me by my wrist to plant mints in my palm as I turned to go.
Her pretty daughter rolled her eyes at it. I saw her husband briefly. He didn’t manage the restaurant, speak English, or much Korean, so I didn’t get to know the guy. The most Feruza said about him was, “He is even more old than he look!” and yeah, sure, objectively the dude looked old. She was arranged-married to him when he was already greying, she told me.
There were a handful of times other customers, usually taxi drivers closer to her age, would watch, listen, and in Korean, of course, drunkenly tease her: “Are you going to absorb his youth? It doesn’t rub off.” A common local expression when they mean to poke at an age gap. And: “Be careful, you will catch the tiger’s tail and then what?” Which is another one.
There was a night I came in and saw Feruza was a little drunk; her daughter was waiting tables in her place. She started talking my head off. “My daughter is pretty. My more pretty daughter you never see. Before the time when I am pregnant I am more pretty than my daughters are today. They eat too much, have fat,” she poked at her daughter’s midsection as she passed carrying a plate to a table.
I guffawed. “No, Ajummah, you’re the prettiest still.”
I didn’t realize it as I said it, but looking back, that little comment must have landed in her ovaries like a match to gasoline. She got sultry in her tipsy talk. She came and sat beside me as I ate, her hip pressed to mine, her hand resting on my lap repeatedly, and she showed me phone photos-of-printed photos of herself when she was young, of her in her home city of Samarkand, with all the minarets, blue domes, and arches. She scrolled to some shots of her with her friends in those days, so I added, “You were the prettiest one then, too,” and so she seized me about my bicep and wrist, gently rocking me and chuckling.
She wasn’t lying. In her prime, she could have been a lead actress in a K-drama romance, and I told her so word-for-word. More gasoline to her fire. What she said next I couldn’t believe. No woman had said something like this to me before.
“I tell you now how I know about you,” In a low voice, turning into a whisper: “My mother is whore when she is alive. I am whore before,” she said. “Girls on the walking street, I am one of them when I come to Korea. I know everything about man.”
My pulse ticked up, and I lost the ability to speak. She just kept staring into me, eye-to-eye. That’s until a gaggle of customers came through the door, and her daughter had seemingly evaporated. Feruza took orders, and I popped out into the sunrise with a full belly and an unsatiated boner.
But, you already know, I came back. One morning, pre-dawn, with no other customers in the restaurant, I finished the last bite and reached into my pocket to give her my credit card. She caught the tiger’s tail.
I felt her foot brush up my leg, and down, and up. She smirked. “All the time. I wait. I wait. I wait. Why more wait?”
The leg touching was arousing, but that talk went straight to my dick. I knew exactly what she meant. I throbbed.
She stood slowly, ran her fingernail across the table in an S-line for my hand, took me by my index finger, and tugged me from my seat.
“Hey?” I thought I should protest, but I wanted to see where she was taking me and to find out what she was going to do with me.
She led me through the kitchen, and I saw her daughter on a plastic stool, absorbed in her phone. She looked up at me briefly and rolled her eyes for the hundredth time as I was led farther.
Feruza nudged me up a staircase at the back of the building, pinching my ass as I walked, and then into the second floor. My heart was thumping. “Hey? Hey? Where are we going?”
She gently pressed me into the apartment. “Come my bed.”
I was split between loving it and freaking out. “You said you have a husband up here, yeah?”
She slid her hands under my shirt and clawed my skin. “He stay in husband room. We go my room.”
Well alright! We go your room!
I obliged and she put me against a queen-size bed in a room so dark I could barely see her. She undressed me like she could see in the pitch-black, like she was a nocturnal hunter.
She found my hands and planted them on her body. I felt her warm, soft skin, her tits, and she climbed onto me.
Woah! I’d never been with a woman so eager, initiating, leading, handsy. In a hot way, I thought, this must be what it’s like to be taken as a woman, how women have felt being pressed, grabbed, and undressed by me.
I surrendered to it.
But I wanted to kiss her.
I traced her body from her tits up her arms to her neck, and I found her head. I was thrilled to feel a head full of long hair; her hijab had come off somewhere in all this. I pulled her face to mine. She understood, and she gave me the kissing I wanted. I got so excited at the thought I was kissing a mature whore’s mouth. A mouth that had been everywhere, on everyone, for years and years. Decades of cock-sucking professional slut pressed to my lips. Euphoric.
But somehow in a mystery of human biology, I wasn’t hard!? I had been hard as stone, but my boner had ducked out without me noticing. Not this shit! In my defense, or in explanation, the circumstances were so unlike anything I’d experienced that I probably had a bit too much cortisol in the blood blocking the brain-to-dick nerve chain.
She didn’t so much as pause for breath. Taking my flaccid guy in her palm, she lowered her head into my crotch and took the whole of it into her mouth. Her hair all over my lap, her head bobbing, and her mouth sucking, in a minute I felt myself stiffening and filling her cheeks until she was no longer able to get her lips down to my base. She got me over the performance dysfunction wall, and now she had a hard roll of cock in her hands and her tongue swirling around my hypersensitive glans.
She threw a thick thigh over me in straddling, her ass cheeks dimpled and jiggly as she adjusted this way and that, pressing and stirring my glans between her labia. I rested both hands on either side of her mountainous ass buns and pressed until her smooth skin pinched up between my fingers. I pushed hard against the full fat of her ass and massaged at the underlying glute muscle.
She rocked on top of me to her own beat, letting out high-pitched murmurings and erotic expressions, her bed creaking and squeaking, until she seemed to have an orgasm, though I’m not sure. She came to a stop and let out a long, moaning exhale.
With that, she lay beside me, and I rolled over on top of her. We did it belly-to-belly, her hands caressing up and down my back and ass, a lot of mutual face and neck kissing, and I said something to her like “How many men?” or “You’ve had a lot of men?” and she repeated, “Many, many, many, many…” trailing into a quieter whisper until she was merely mouthing the word many, slowly nodding.
Oh my fucking god, that made me crazy! I’m crazy to remember it now.
She reached under and pet my sack, gently pinching and tugging, and groping my testicles. She kept at that like balls were her favorite anatomy, and she whispered to herself in her language I didn’t understand but somehow sounded breathlessly appreciative, like when a cigar aficionado lovingly handles a grail.
With my balls firmly in her grip, I gave her what I could feel would be my final thrusts, hard and loud with wet claps, smack-smack-SMACK, and I stopped, pressed into her groin as hard as I could press, releasing pulse, pulse, pulse, gushing shots of my semen into her. I was in paradise.
We made out in her bed and exchanged vague compliments; she told me how long she’d been wanting to do that, I told her how readily I’d do it again. She placed her hand on her heart and told me, “You have go and go and go, you do not finish fast,” which I snickered at because it’s a recurring observation I’ve received in the course of my sex life.
I sucked on her tits while she played with my hair for a moment, and then, because we both heard from her bedroom window the sounds of Busan coming alive with traffic and pedestrians, I propped myself up on the foot of her bed and gathered up my clothes.
I turned to her and said, “Assalamu Alaikum,” to which she winced and said, “Wailakum Assalam. Anyeonghegasaeyo. Bye bye.” She smiled so sweetly, elbow to her ear.
In the 5 or 6 seconds it took me to fly from her bedroom door to the back stairwell, I glanced into their living room and saw her husband in there, listening to a recording of a slow, echoing nasheed, standing palms up, bowing, kneeling, performing his morning prayers.
