My Korean Hottie Ch. 05

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“I did two enlistments, for a total of 4 years, learning a lot about how to maintain buoys in ship channels and search for lost fishermen after storms. I got my GED to make up for not having graduated high school. I spent the last half-year working in a Coast Guard base sewage-treatment plant, doing double-duty (nights and days), cause I wouldn’t do homosexual-sex with an influential 32-year-old lieutenant and his three chief boy-fuckers. I ‘dated’ Freddie-Feel-Good-and-His-Funky-Little-Five-Piece-Band a lot.”

“I opted out of the Coast Guard, my military service done. When I got out of the service, I bought an old Vespa motor-scooter and bummed around the USA, Canada and Mexico for a year or so, sleeping out a lot and just seeing stuff. I was just 24 years old by that time. I was alone, having no girlfriend, no wife, effectively no relatives, no friends, no car.”

“Now,” I explained more fully, “I did let both Dad and Mom know that I was still alive and well, and gave them my address, such as it was, at the ‘Y’ and then, later, at the various Coast Guard bases. Mom sent me lots of letters, smeared with lipstick kisses and soaked in perfume, to her ‘witto-baby-boy,’ who she knew would ‘come to his senses’ and ‘den wive wit his muddu and be her witto oochums-smoochums’.”

“I’d reply, asking that she just use English. Then, sure as clock-work, I’d get a hate-filled letter, with threats of her doing horrible things to me, with knives, whips and burning hot things. That seemed to get the stuff out of her system, and then I’d get another two letters, written in English, filled with local gossip. But next would come the perfume-dipped, lipstick-smeared goo-goo baby-talk letter, and it’d start up again. Eventually, Mom started mixing up her letter contents, then paragraphs, and then her sentences. Then she stopped writing altogether.”

“Dad sent me one brief letter while I was in town, telling me I was a ‘stupid kid’ … that he had really enjoyed taking my high-school girl away from me and that she loved his big cock … that she said he was 10 times the man I was … that I’d never amount to much … and lots of other degrading, mean things.”

“I had two other letters from Dad, later, when I was in my 2nd enrollment. One said that Mom had been diagnosed with a not-operable brain tumor, plus something about ‘temporal-lobe psycho-motor seizures.’ She was in a nursing home for the terminally ill, and I was forbidden to come visit because everything was my fault … blaming me and my ‘immoral behavior’ for causing all of Mom’s illness … and for his bad luck in business.”

“Also, he’d gotten Connie pregnant; that she’d had an abortion; that she was a now a porn star in L.A., doing coke, into BDSM and gang-bang scenes … that he was going to sell the home place and go live in Tijuana, Mexico, where ‘the little Latina girls really knew how to treat a rich American.’ “

“The second letter from Dad, some months later, when I was in the service for my 2nd enlistment, said that Mom was dead, cremated and already buried and that her illness, crazy-mad seizures and her death were all my fault … that she’d still be alive and well if I’d never existed. A really rotten letter.”

“So, pretty girl, by this time I was 24 years old, with no job and no prospects, just a few thousand dollars, plus an investment account earning interest. Plus one beat-up old motor-scooter. I was newly arrived back in San Diego. I couldn’t find Dad, since he’d moved several times in Tijuana.”

“Checking at the YMCA, I found one old message from him, saying that he was doing an import-export business from there … that he had a lot of real-young, hot, sexy Mexican girlfriends … plenty of ‘weed’ … and not to try to track him down. That was my last communication with him.”

“About five years ago, his body showed up at the border, minus his head and his genitals. I identified it, from scars and fingerprints, took possession, and saw he was cremated and buried next to Mom.”

“I took the old motor-scooter all over San Diego, and spent a lot of time here in Ocean Beach. Ocean Beach was a delightful mixture of old hippies, surfers, bikers, retired folks, you-name-it, all getting along pretty well. No one remembered me, or cared much who I was or about my family. Strangers were living in my former home, just over the ridge of the hill, in Point Loma.”

“I knew I really didn’t want to work for anybody else, but it was 1975, and the United States was in the grip of the worst ‘recession’ since the Great Depression of the ’30s. Nobody was hiring. I knew that my money wouldn’t last long.”

“So, puttering along on the motor scooter, near the end of the public beach, I came up to the old, rusty fence that divided Ocean Beach from the wasteland of the Naval Electronics Laboratory. The city had just opened a swimming beach there, and there wasn’t an on-street parking spot to be had for a quarter-mile back from the beach and ocean cliffs.”

“Then ankara escort I saw an odd thing, which everybody took for granted. There was a set of flat spaces, set to one side of the fence, and sectioned off in a square of old, rusty chain-link fence, with an equally old, rusty gate and an old, rusty padlock keeping the gate closed. Behind the gate, I could see, there were three flat terraces, pretty wide, with an old concrete bunker-thing at the top. Apparently, it was a heavy-machine-gun nest back in WW II days, when they expected a Japanese invasion of the West Coast. It had been a dumping ground for lots of useless stuff since then. The concrete on the ground was old and cracked, and stuff was growing out of the cracks.”

“I parked the motor-scooter near the fence, walked up to the gate, and tugged a couple of times on the old 1940’s-style padlock … which fell apart in my hand. So I opened the gate, got the scooter inside, closed up again and held the gate closed with a bit or wire that was lying on the ground.”

“I thought back to my time at the parking lot, with Max, in downtown San Diego … and grinned.”

My Asian Korean girlfriend, Boh, looked at me, almond eyes wide open, and giggled for minutes, eventually saying, “NO! You didn’t!”

“Yep, I did,” I said, adding, “back then, before the Big-Box Home Supply Stores, there was a paint and hardware store near downtown, called Standard Brands. I found 5 gallons of yellow highway-marker paint for not much money, and some small roller brushes. Working at nights, under the moon, I painted a lot of straight lines on the concrete, to give about 83 cars a nice, wide parking space. I painted out an ‘island’ for me to sit on, and arrows to direct traffic flow. The paint only took a day to dry hard and durable. I managed to drag some plywood and 2x4s out there, on a little wagon behind the Vespa, without anyone noticing, and I built a booth with hand tools I bought, too.”

“I killed off all the grass and plants growing out of the cracks in the concrete, with an old salt, vinegar and detergent formula I’d found. I went to a printer, and got a big roll of tickets, that I could stamp with the date and time, to give out. I was set.”

“Except that I was pretty noticeable, being young and strong. So I scouted around Balboa Park and found what the maintenance and grounds people were wearing, which were green overalls and cheap black shoes, plus bill caps. I bought three sets of these. Then I also bought some dark blue glasses, and found an old-style, busted hearing-aid, the kind that had a box in a shirt-pocket and a cord to a plug in the ear. I bought a gray-colored wig and a gray-colored mustache at a costume shop, that went on with spirit gum. Then I bought a set of suspenders, which I altered, to pull on my shoulders and keep me bent over a little. I learned to shuffle and take small, old-man steps. I wore flesh-colored latex gloves on my hands.”

“Finally, I bought a fake, bright red ‘sore’ that I glued to the side of my nose, so that anyone describing me would always notice that and not notice much of anything else.”

“The next day, a week later, in the morning, I opened the gate of the big square, and I became the Old-Deaf-And-Blind-Guy-At-The-Parking-Lot. I put out some signs: CARS $5 – MOTORCYCLES $2 – BICYCLES FREE. I figured I could last maybe a week or two, before somebody official came to put me out of business.”

My Boh, rolling around on my lap with laughter, said, “How you do?”

“Figure 83 spaces, with a full turnover of cars and bikes three times a day, about sunrise to sunset. That was 249 spaces to ‘rent’. I quickly found that I could fill most spaces about three times, so you figure 230 spaces per day at $5 each = $1,150. Each day.”

“I was still ‘in business’ at the end of a 7-day week, so that was about $8,000. I was still ‘in business’ a month later, so I’d put away $32,000. Nobody came to inspect and kick me out. Nobody asked for any taxes. By year’s end, I had $384,000, in ‘1975’ dollars.”

“For the first month, I kept the scooter just outside the fence, in a little place I’d cut from the underbrush, and all rigged out for a quick get-away, right beside a quick-pull-out opening that I’d cut in the rusty wire. After the first week, I took the money I collected out of the locking box on the scooter, and temporarily put it in a self-storage room, over on the other side of Point Loma, in the old section. I just counted it out, boxed it up and left it in a jumble of old boxes, furniture and toys I got from junk sales. I slept in a hammock, inside the old bunker, after I cleaned the bird, rat and insect shit out of it. I still pissed in bottles and shat into buckets of kitty litter.”

“Figuring that some ‘good deeds’ might give me more cover, I bought a heavy-duty battery charger, a battery and jumper cables. I also bought a container for 5 gallons of gas and a case of oil, plus a bumper jack and tools for antalya escort changing a tire. I bought a ‘slim-jim’ for getting into cars, when folks locked their keys inside, and an air-pump, running off the big battery. Every once in a while, somebody need a couple of gallons of gas, or a jump start or for ‘the old guy’ to help fix a flat and pump up the spare tire … something routine.”

“After the first month, I carefully checked around Ocean Beach and found that the ‘parking attendant’ was ‘the old deaf, blind guy from the city.’ A year later, apparently, the ‘parking attendant’ was a ‘real nice old guy’ and had ‘always’ been there and no one paid him any attention, ‘poor old guy.’ “

“Uh, there’s another girl in here,” I said, “Are you sure you want me talking about other women, Boh?”

My little Asian minx laughed, and said, “Is she here, with us, right now? No, she’s not! I’m here, and I’m your jism-loving hottie-sex-slut. What I have to worry about old girlfriends for, anyway? You tell me whole story, big, hard cock in drooling little pussy and all.”

Shaking my head in perplexed wonder, I went on:

“At the start of the second month or so, one day an old van, smoking, vibrating and chugging, pulled into the lot, and the driver paid her $5. She parked up at the top of the lot, away from the other cars. Driven by a deeply-tanned girl in a black two-piece bathing suit, she had a surfboard strapped to the top. She slammed out of the van, picked up the board and a beach towel, and ran toward the beach. That’s the last I saw of her until just before sunset and the lot closing.”

“Hers was the only vehicle left in the lot, and she re-strapped the surfboard on top, got in, probably turned the key. I heard a chug, a mechanical moan, and then a loud click. That’s all. Then a few more clicks. Then nothing. I remember sighing, as I pulled the emergency stuff up the hill, still acting like an ‘old guy,’ puffing for breath. When I got there, I saw that there was a lot more going on than a simple jump-start could do. The tires were bald, to the point where the steel cords were showing, and one of them was flat. There wasn’t a spare tire. Opening the hood, I saw that the battery had quietly boiled itself dry. The oil dipstick showed low level, plus thick and dark oil. She wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I said this, and, after introducing herself as Vicki, she cursed a blue streak. So, still in my ‘nice old guy’ role, I offered to let her stay overnight free. This was before I had the white van, so I walked up to the old bunker, and started to get out of my disguise.”

“Half-dressed, with my dick hanging out, and hearing a noise, I turned, and found Vicki, her top off, leaning on the old concrete wall, laughing hard enough that she slid down the wall and sprawled on the floor, legs and pussy open to my sight. I looked down at her, thighs spread open, and Old Faithful rose to porking condition. Vicky laughed louder, while pulling down the bottom of her black suit. Talk about tan lines! She was bronze above and below her suit and white ‘inside the lines’.”

“Then she pulled me down on top of her and we fucked each other on the hard concrete floor, there in the dusk, inside my bunker-shelter at my stolen parking lot. Vicky heaved and thrashed, groaned and moaned, and gave me obscene directions while we had sex. At the end, like she told me to, I pumped my seed deep inside her.”

“Staying nude and dripping come out of her twat, she walked me back over to her van, pulled out a squirt bottle and cleaned herself out, got us inside the surprisingly neat inside, and we fell asleep on her bunk. We had a simple dinner about 10 PM, did sex again, and a third time in the early morning. Then she gave me the keys to her van, told me to fix it up (please!) and started taking money and giving out date-stamped tickets for the parking lot, as the ‘replacement attendant’.”

“By this time, I had about $55,000 stashed away and so I could afford to be a ‘good guy.” I coasted the van out the open gate and onto the road, and then called for a tow truck (from a pay phone, ’cause cell phones were still in the future). Paying for fast work, I had new tires put all around and a new spare tire, plus a new battery, oil change, etc.: all the routine stuff that should have been done every couple of months … and hadn’t been. Major tune-up, sludge cleaned out of the oil pan, etc.”

“Vanless, I got a ride back to the parking lot. Vicki grabbed her surfboard and left at a run. Back in my ‘good old guy’ outfit, I collected money and waited for the sunset. In the evening, I collected Vicki, and stored her surfboard in the bunker, and then put her on the back of my old motor-scooter. We went off to Nati’s of Ocean Beach for a Mexican dinner, and then to a good motel for a couple nights of showers, sex and sleep.”

“That’s when I found out that some women just don’t come or climax. Vicki told me, very plainly, just gaziantep escort to slide in and out of her, and have my best fun with her tits and body. She loved to kiss and to be eaten out. She said she loved best of all to feel a hard cock inside of her, and feeling a guy cum and pump jism into her was a treat. She said she really liked the feeling. But she never climaxed, never had an orgasm. She’d do just about anything I asked her to do, in her 3 positions, except anal, moaning and humping, but she just couldn’t cum, she said. I could get her to have sex, bent over, tits swinging, in front of an opened picture window, with the cars driving by and honking, but she didn’t cum, ever.”

“It was when we got her van back, well fixed up, that the ‘rules’ started to surface. I’d do something, and she said that I’d ‘broken a rule,’ and then she’d get cool and distant for a while. Her slippers had to be paired, just so, under her bunk bed in the van. Her black two-piece suit had to hang on just one peg, and with the bottom on first and then the top. She would only walk around the van clockwise. The van’s back doors couldn’t both be open at the same time. She’d only eat her food on a plate starting at the bottom, and going around clockwise. That sort of thing. One rule piled on another and then another.”

“Then there were the sex rules. She would love my eating her out, but said that her doing it to me was gross, disgusting and broke her rules. She did just three positions: missionary, woman-on-top and doggy, with everything else disgusting, obscene and rule-busting. I could kiss her breasts and nipples inside her van or my bunker, but had to keep hands off (not even looking allowed) when we were outside; she ‘had a rule’. If my cock touched her anywhere except her pussy or her fingertips, she screamed that I was a pervert, trying to ass-fuck her, break her rules and went instantly frozen. She could talk dirty when we made love, but I wasn’t allowed to use the word ‘fuck’ anytime, ’cause ‘she had a rule’. She wouldn’t use condoms, due to ‘her rules’, but the instant my semen went into her, she was off the bed in a flash, to wash her cunt clean of ‘contamination’.”

“She said she was a free sexual spirit, but her actions demonstrated that she was more tied down by obsessive rituals and rigid thinking than most people leading regular lives.”

“About three weeks after I fixed up her van, Vicki came back from surfing, and, walking clockwise around the van, strapped her surfboard on it, got in, waved goodbye, and drove away. Heading down to Mexico to find the ‘perfect wave’, she said. I never saw her obsessive-compulsive self again, not even a postcard.”

“About the end of my first three months, I’d filled in all the cracks in the concrete with patching material. I started stealing a little electric power from a nearby pole (easy if you know how, from my Coast Guard days).”

“I figured I could afford a truck, so I found a little old, windowless, used van, had it painted bright gloss white, and got a magnetic sign that I put on both sides, which said, Environmental Protection Agency – Air and Water Mobile Testing. That meant I could park it just about anywhere, including overnight, ‘testing the air’. I put a little whirling-thing on the top ‘to measure wind speed,’ and a fake antenna and ‘dish’ to ‘transmit findings’.”

Then I parked it all over town, sleeping inside for free. I never stored food or cooked in the van, so it didn’t smell. I got a YMCA membership and used it for swimming, exercise and to take showers. I still ate cheap.”

“At the end of the year, I got an apartment-one of several places over the years-and lived pretty much like anybody else, ‘working’ days and sleeping nights. When I took in all my $1, $5 and $10 bills to the bank for deposit, I changed the van’s magnetic sign to SOUTHWEST VENDING CONSULTING SERVICES, so as not to have to explain why I had so many small bills of money. Then I changed it back to the EPA sign, after I left the bank.”

“Every morning, I’d park the van inside the parking lot, give myself an entry ticket, change into the ‘old guy’. In the evening, I’d change back, and go to whatever apartment or place I was renting at the time.”

“Midge came traveling through San Diego in her new motor-home, and found the parking lot … and me. My nights were pretty full of humping sex, at odd times, for the next couple of years. Then she finally found her multimillionaire and the both of them, she said when she left the last time, started an on-site swinging resort, for the rich and famous celebrity-types, near Santa Cruz. I still have the high-priority admittance card she gave me.”

“After the first two years or so, I installed an automatic ticket-printing, free-space-counting and money-taking gadget and had it rigged with an electric sign that said when the lot was full or had open spaces available. Then I only had to be there at opening and closing, and maybe a couple of other times per day. I put up a sign, saying that the attendant had only $20 in cash. All the cash money went into a big, heavy safe with a broken combination lock and handle that didn’t work: it opened by being tilted forward, on a hidden hinge and a hidden lock, but none of the thieves that broke in ever tried that.”

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