Editors note: The following text contains content intended for mature audiences. If you are under 18 or anticipate feeling discomfort or offense, we respectfully urge you to discontinue reading. Given its potentially sensitive nature, this material may not align with everyone’s taste or values. We strongly advise that you do not read this and risk being offended.
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It was my first time overseas, and the carrier pulled into Hong Kong, and I was kinda like Dorothy in Oz…we ain’t in Kansas anymore.
I still remember giving $5 cash to the Navy Federal rep so I could open up my account. Our shop chief made sure all the newbies got their accounts. To be honest, it’s a great bank. I still have the account all these years later, but I digress.
Back to the story.
Once pier side, like great US ambassadors of freedom, me and the guys skipped the cultural museum tour and headed to the local British pub keeping up the drunken sailor tradition.
I was going out with a hot MS (that’s the navy job or rather rating code for, “cook”) from Wyoming. She was a hot little brunette, and most of my friends were jealous I had a steady piece whenever we pulled into port.
I was a broke E4 at the time and didn’t have the money for a hotel room, so I was kinda frustrated as I was tired of pull-starting my unit for the last month at sea. But the reality of my banking account being smoking airplane wreckage was settling in. I had a few hundred to spend with the boys on beer, and that was about it. Like most junior military, by the 5th of each month, my paycheck had gone up in flames like a dumpster fire.
Editors note: The following text contains content intended for mature audiences. If you are under 18 or anticipate feeling discomfort or offense, we respectfully urge you to discontinue reading. Given its potentially sensitive nature, this material may not align with everyone’s taste or values. We strongly advise that you do not read this and risk being offended.
———-
It was my first time overseas, and the carrier pulled into Hong Kong, and I was kinda like Dorothy in Oz…we ain’t in Kansas anymore.
I still remember giving $5 cash to the Navy Federal rep so I could open up my account. Our shop chief made sure all the newbies got their accounts. To be honest, it’s a great bank. I still have the account all these years later, but I digress.
Back to the story.
Once pier side, like great US ambassadors of freedom, me and the guys skipped the cultural museum tour and headed to the local British pub keeping up the drunken sailor tradition.
I was going out with a hot MS (that’s the navy job or rather rating code for, “cook”) from Wyoming. She was a hot little brunette, and most of my friends were jealous I had a steady piece whenever we pulled into port.
I was a broke E4 at the time and didn’t have the money for a hotel room, so I was kinda frustrated as I was tired of pull-starting my unit for the last month at sea. But the reality of my banking account being smoking airplane wreckage was settling in. I had a few hundred to spend with the boys on beer, and that was about it. Like most junior military, by the 5th of each month, my paycheck had gone up in flames like a dumpster fire.
We’d been drinking all day at this pub, and someone mentioned we could go for a cheap massage.
Seemed like a great idea at the time, but I had no idea this would soon turn into a nightmare.
By now my girlfriend had joined us, and she was keen to get a massage as well.
In true, milk the foreigner fashion they separated our group quickly, and I soon found myself in heaven on a table naked, getting scrubbed head-to-toe by a beautiful young Chinese woman.
Then I was ushered to the massage table and noticed my girlfriend was being ushered into the next stall with her robe. She seemed giddy, and at this point I was just thankful to get a hot stone rub down.
It was a 5-star Yelp massage, but towards the end, I felt it was getting personal, real personal.
Fingers started roaming close to my chicken skin brushing lightly, then what seemed like an accident, I soon discovered, was a well-orchestrated silent upsell.
Soon my Irish seven inches was standing at full attention and ready for inspection.
The lights dimmed, and before I knew it, a slim female index finger circled my butthole like an eagle looking for prey on the river water below. I was doomed.
“You want?” she said, looking at my boner.
I just nodded, oblivious to the fact that my girlfriend was in the next room a few feet away, separated by a thin wooden partition.
If there was ever a hand job Olympics, this gal was Gold medal material!
I lasted a few minutes before my seven-gun salute, and to top it off, she pulled a hot towel from somewhere and cleaned me up like nothing ever happened.
WOWEE what a massage.
What came next shouldn’t have been a shocker, but I found myself in a tough spot.
The woman wanted a ten spot, and I had no more cash. I pre-paid at the door and, aside from a few dollars, couldn’t pay for the extra service, and this nice gal turned into a Bruce Lee assassin real quick.
I tried to eloquently explain that not only did I not have the money, she should lower her voice so my girlfriend would not find out about my additional service charge.
A lot of back and forth ensued until the spa mama came over and sorted the situation out with the grace and poise of an NFL Super Bowl referee making a tough call on the one-yard line.
She winked at me and waved me back to the locker room.
I didn’t look twice and bolted like a caged animal set free.
“What was that lady yelling at you for?” my girlfriend asked when we met in the lobby with our group.
“Oh, nothing; she was upset I didn’t tip her enough.”, I said.
We headed back to the pier to catch the water taxi back out to the ship but my girlfriend winked at me and pointed to the bushes near the pier.
I was spent, but luckily at 18, you have a big reserve tank.
Still one of the best massages of my life, but talk about a close call with the girlfriend!
Go Navy!
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