I woke up feeling reinvigorated. A creature of the night, I highly dislike seeing the world under the sun, but it was a sullen grey day and I thought it perfect for a wander around the city.
A sucker for a market or two, I decided to head down to the Silk Market. At first sight, it seemed fabulous in all the wrong ways. I was fascinated to see row after row of shoes, every shop sporting the same exact models. The Chinese may be known for a lot of things, but versatility is not one of them.
I now remembered the experience of a fashion show, although now I was the main focal point and the general smell and fashion sense were considerably more precarious than in Paris. Catcalls came my way like a tropical rain, but then again you can’t really blame them for succumbing to my curvaceous graciousness.
I got into the bags session and started feeling CFGTs (Catholic Fashion Guilt Trips) as my mouth watered at the sight of such well-made copies. I stopped in front of a perfectly invisibly fake Balenciaga and thought who after all would notice its Chinese provenience out there, and came to the conclusion it was a risk taking. I asked the shop assistant the price and she came with a ridiculous sum, to which I replied I would give a tenth of the price. At that point, I had already lost interest, as I am not the type to be seen begging for anything at all, but the woman persisted and I stayed out of politeness. A few minutes down the line, I wanted out, but little miss insistence wouldn’t let me of me, quite literally. She grabbed my wrist and wouldn’t let go of it, and by that point all I could think of was my safety and that of my heirlooms resting too close to her fingers. Another assistant magically appeared to block my way out, and they were ready to give me the bag for less than I had initially offered. By then I was so pissed off that I started screaming and a bunch of passers-by stood by us, watching the show unravel. The little woman shouted, “You make me angry now lady,” and I could see a Communist axe coming down on me anytime now. Somehow I freed myself from that grasp of iron and ran down the busy corridors, hearing men calling out for my sweaty although no less sensual figure.
As I stumbled out of the market, I bumped into a tall blonde man. He looked into my eyes and asked me if everything was ok. I tried composing myself but my knees felt weak. He took me by the hand and led the way, soothing me and telling me about himself, questioning me about my whys and hows and whatnots. No sooner were we sitting down having dinner, and what a blast we were having! Fredrik was Swedish and he had been here working for the Embassy for a few good years, could speak Chinese fluently and was adherent to sports. All was good and I was envisaging his member penetrating me in no time when the bill came. As an aristocrat, I’ve been taught politeness, so I asked him, “How much do I owe you?” His reply came in short Scandinavian form, “200 yuai”. Seconds later I bid him farewell – no man gets a peek of my precious without paying for something. He’d obviously have nothing in his wallet once he fell asleep on his bed – no good you see.
I met up with Chanel and we ended up at the A Hotel, housed in the Worker’s Stadium. A bunch of privileged kids had hired a room there and were having a bit of a party. Drinks and drugs mixed and the spirits were high. I started speaking to a Chinese girl who went by the name of Whitney and we hit it off from the beginning. She was a bit stupid bless her, but a Bimbo does the job when it comes to enhancing how gracious you are in comparison. A few drinks later, she offered me some coke, so we went to the toilet and had a line. As I lifted my head I noticed how she was looking at me with this little provincial, curious stare. I’d like to think that I am the Evita Peron of sex – I give to those lacking. So I gave her a good finger/tongue session and the girl discovered what lesbian loving was all about.
What an eventful day my dears! Let us hope tomorrow brings us more adventures.
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