Gary II - just when you thought it was safe to go into the Blok The long-awaited sequel to the notorious Gary Report This is a slightly edited version of Gary's latest report - as before, a few personal references have been removed and all names have been changed to protect the guilty. Pete, Phil (a local Hawaii boy and Indo virgin) and I all arrived in Bali at 10:00 PM, exactly 24 hours after the Bali bombings. The departure lounge at Denpasar Airport was packed to the rafters and out the doors with cowardly Euros and Ozzies beating feet to get the hell out of what has now sadly become a prime target for the effing terrorist wankers who think that blasting innocent civilians apart will put them on a fast track to the promised 72 virgins in Valhalla. We are Christians........sort of........., and our philosophy is, "God hates a coward," so we came down anyway, even though we heard about the bombings four hours before takeoff and spent the morning frantically trying to call Ron to see if we should go through with this folly. In the end, we decided to roll the dice and board the plane. The lure of skinny, young, enthusiastic, sexy, happy, easy-going, affectionate, gorgeous and willing girls will overcome the fear of mere death any day of the week. Whoever said that the biological imperative for survival is stronger than the biological imperative to procreate either had his head up his ass, or has never been to Blok M. Mike had flown in the day before from Noumea, New Caledonia and had met up with Ron in Jakarta in order to help him recruit local female talent for our Bali adventure. Why we ever chose to come to Indonesia during Ramadan will always be a mystery to me, but the first week of October was chosen by Pete months before, so we just blithely penciled it in on our calendars and our vacation schedules at work, so we were pretty much stuck with it. At least we had enough sense to figure out that the first days of Ramadan would likely be grim at best in Jakarta, so Ron proposed bringing girls up to Bali to meet us there, where we would hang out, check in regularly with Ron’s contacts in Jakarta, and come down when things came back to life in The Blok. Meanwhile we would have the benefit of “Blok M pleasures” to tide us over while waiting. Terrorist bombing and Muslim martyrdom in general were big topics of discussion among us right away. We clever Hawaiian boys (no slouches at math we,) figured out that any reasonably good looking guy, with a few Rupiah, or Dinars or Rupee in his pocket and a modicum of charm and sociability, could probably have his 72 virgins in his lifetime if he started early, was diligent and had willing sisters. Therefore, the whole concept of dying for the cause by blowing Godless heathens apart for the promise of deferred gratification, is a pointless and stupid endeavor. Besides, half the girls you end up with in life say they're virgins anyway, and if you're drunk enough, you can believe it. The World According To Us. Good old Ron met us at the airport in Denpasar with four young cuties he recruited from 5+1 who, it being Ramadan, were more than eager to get the hell out of Jakarta, meet some horny Hawaiian bules and take a chance on an all-expense-paid trip to Bali, courtesy Mr. Ronaldo. We were never in any real danger. Taking our cues from veteran Ron, we never ventured into the tourist cattle pens of Kuta or anywhere else there were high concentrations of tourists in small areas. Rather, we spent our days nursing hangovers, sleeping in, eating late and leisurely free breakfasts at Ron's Restaurant The Lanai on the beach in Legian, then taking our two vehicles and one local driver out and about on sightseeing adventures around the island. To say that we pretty much had the place to ourselves would be an understatement. The whole of Bali was a ghost town after the mass exodus, so we enjoyed lots of discounts at retail shops, and were welcomed effusively by the locals as brave heroes (or fools) everywhere we went. An interesting side note: As Eni and I were puffing down the home stretch I employed a bit of Yank ingenuity by grabbing her ass and whispering urgently in her ear, “Eni! Eni! Dorong,! DORONG! It worked like magic. Eni suddenly increased the intensity of her pelvic thrusts in perfect rhythm with me, driving me into the absolute depths of her and resulting in a smashing, panting racehorse mutual climax. Dorong is Indo for “PUSH,” and I had seen it on the glass door of a restaurant earlier that day and had filed it away as a possibly useful Indonesian word. And you people wonder why America is the world’s Superpower… Let me assure you, it ain’t because of a bunch of avaricious, oil-soaked, Bible-thumping, hegemonistic, imperialist, White House hillbilly asshole politicians like George W. Bush and his posse. It’s because of desperately horny old bules like us who understand International Economics and Diplomacy at the street level. We’re all as clever as MacGyver, as handsome as George Clooney and as rich as Donald Trump. Yeah, right. Eni was probably the most “meaty” of the four girls, and by that I mean that she actually had more than 1% body fat, which is another way of saying that she had breasts you could get your hands and mouth around. She also had a comfortable but thin layer of padding in all the right places, which is another way of saying that she had something to hang onto in the clinch. In picking the girls for this adventure, Ron inevitably chose body types which appeal to him, which are skinny, sometimes cadaverously skinny. This is all well and good, and “Ron Specials,” as we call them, often look like New York runway models or your middle school sister, but when it comes down to it, some of them are so ectomorphic that rolling with them is like fucking a bag of antlers. Eni was the very pleasant exception. In theory, the arrangement was to have been "musical girls" with each girl rotating among us, and in fact that is how Ron had proposed it to the girls in Jakarta, with each one receiving an all-expense-paid trip plus $100.00 USD each per day for their efforts plus whatever else they could wheedle out of us in the form of tips or, as they call it, “Oli-Oli.”. Great theory. Anyway, with Eli out of the rotation on the second night, I elected to take a night off to try and muster my energy for the rest of the grueling week I knew was coming. It was a magnanimous gesture on my part which all the other guys appreciated. In truth, I was too damned drunk on the second night to have even pretended to make an effort, so it all worked out just fine. I was spared the embarrassment and everyone else got laid. It was obvious from Mike's foul mood on the second morning that something had gone tragically wrong the previous night. We soon found out. Mike had drawn Eni in the lottery, and was looking forward to a rollicking roll with her based on my report from the previous evening. Alas, when he went down on her to offer a little friendly carpet chewing, he discovered, much to his dismay and disgust, that Eni had been a little lazy, shall we say, about her personal feminine hygiene. Well, it was worse than that. Let's just tell it like it is and use Mike's description. According to Mike, her pussy “Reeked like a piece of limburger cheese left out on the Thames tidal flats for a week in August.” It was so bad in fact, that it literally killed his throbbing Cialis-fueled woody instantly, which is a pretty scary thought. And since Mike didn't know the Indonesian words for vagina, FDS Feminine Deodorant Spray, bacteria, fungus, limburger cheese or Thames tidal flats, he simply retreated, rolled over and wrote it off as a total loss. Needless to say, Ron was very upset by this bad news, since he bore the ultimate responsibility for delivering healthy, happy and hygienic vaginas to our rooms each night. He handled it like a pro, though. Instead of confronting Eni directly and causing her to lose face, he casually dropped the hint to Yani, who casually dropped the hint back to Eni, with very successful results, as you'll see in a moment. And so, with bitterness and cynicism still in his heart, Mike agreed to take a night off. Which left me with the now infamous and risky Eni again. Not to worry. Unlike the ever-diplomatic Ron, I was not about to suffer through a night of celibacy due to complications of fermenting vaginal cheese. No sir. I was totally prepared to wrestle Eni into the shower and scrub her like a prize hog at a County Fair if necessary. As it turned out I didn't need to. The message had gotten through, and Eni spent an entire ten minutes in our shower sluicing her crack with that wonderful European hand-held flexible shower head so noisily that she sounded like the McKinley Car Wash (the busiest and noisiest mechanical car wash in Honolulu.) I know she spent the entire time concentrating on her muffin because when she finally came to bed her hair was dry as a bone and her vagina smelled like Spring wildflowers on a Colorado mountaintop. I rewarded her diligence by licking her pussy until she experienced three thundering orgasms, the last one of which lifted us both off the bed. In the process I ended up suffering lockjaw and terminal runner’s cramp of the tongue, but it was worth it. By the third day in Bali it became patently obvious that Pete had gone completely, as you say, “Doolally” over Eli, and apparently she felt the same way about him, but who knows? As I mentioned, Pete is a very well-off guy, and he probably actually smells like money to a perceptive female. In any event, by day three the two of them were joined at the hip like the famous Siamese Twins Chang and Eng and were living, glassy-eyed in their own pheromone cloud. Fool that he is, Pete actually gave his personal cell phone number to Eli. She has called him several times here since our return, and the complications are just starting because Pete lives with a very charming Japanese-American girl here, but that, as they say, is a whole other story… Truthfully, I could have stayed in Bali the whole time, rotating the girls at night, lolling, half drunk, in our idyllic hotel pool, ripping off afternoon quickies with the girls, day tripping to the Monkey Forest, the charming artistic village of Ubud and the bucolic upcountry markets on Bali’s volcanic slopes, but on Wednesday the owner of D’s Place called Ron and said that it was back on in Blok M, so what could we do? Our friend Phil HAD to experience Blok M on this trip, so we reluctantly packed our bags jumped in our taksis and prepared to enter Phase II of this Indo adventure. The Lion Air flight from Denpasar to Jakarta is a short hour and forty minutes. After some hasty seat shuffling Ron ended up alone with his book and his thoughts, content with not having to manage this crazy international sex circus anymore. Pete sat next to Eli, Phil next to Yani, Mike next to Ana and I next to Eni. We were all utterly exhausted. When I managed to extricate myself from Eni’s embrace and got up to go pee halfway through the flight, I looked around to see all my friends cozily cuddled together, heads on shoulders, holding hands and dozing happily like a pile of kittens. Call me a hopeless romantic, but one of the things I love most about Blok M girls is their uncanny ability to express genuine affection and closeness in what, by its very nature, is a transitory and pragmatic romantic relationship. Western women are constitutionally incapable of this kind of seemingly paradoxical thinking. An American woman in this situation would be cynical at best and at worst insufferable. Each of our girls had her four million Rupiah in her pocket. Services had been rendered. There was no reason to expect any more from us, nor we from them, yet they all clung to us, kissed us, snuggled as closely as they could get and were content to spend our last minutes together at 31,000 ft. savoring the fleeting and ephemeral pleasure of our unlikely bonds. I would love to romanticize our parting with the girls at Hotel Losari Blok M and tell you it was like the wrenchingly sad scene in the movie “The Bridges of Madison County” where Clint Eastwood tearfully parts with Meryl Streep, but it wasn’t. The girls were anxious to get out of town with their money and back to their families in the kampongs, and we were anxious to get rested up and primed for our first night of debauchery in The Blok. Still, we all hugged and kissed goodbye like old and dear friends and promised that we would see each other again. Who knows. Our first bitter disappointment out on Blok M was finding out that not only 5+1 but our beloved Delta Fortuna Raya massage parlor were closed for Ramadan. The score, before the game had even begun: Locals-6, Hawaiians-0. Fuck me. For months we had been dreaming of those incredible 2-1/2 hour massages—not to mention the happy hand job endings-- at Delta, but it was just not to be. Still, it was good to be back in The Blok again, and we did the early rounds at Top Gun and D’s to shoot some up pool and shoot down some vodka tonics before heading over to My Bar. For months Pete and I had told Phil outrageous stories about Blok M, none of which he believed, so now it was time for show and tell. By midnight the first night My Bar was rocking as if Ramadan had been magically repealed. The alcohol was flowing, in real glasses, like a monsoon rain gutter. There was a large, loud and very good live band playing good old American rock and roll, and girls began to pour in the door like a tsunami. Pete and I grabbed stools at the disco bar and stuck to them like abalone. These seats are by far the best in the house since you’re centrally located, can hustle both sides of the narrow bar and the entire parade of young flesh passes within arms reach all night. Later on this area becomes a sardine can of deafening music, gyrating, writhing, humping, bumping, thumping thighs and asses, flirting eyes and gently grabbing hands. About ten minutes immersion in this sexual Mixmaster, and we had forgotten all about Delta Fortuna Raya. The miasma of testosterone and estrogen in the air was so thick you could spoon it like chowder, and Pete and I found ourselves increasingly surrounded by young sweet things, all vying for our attention. I found myself running my hands over and staring into the impossibly beautiful exotic eyes of Lia, who straddled my leg, planted her vulva squarely on my thigh and began to slam it in perfect time with The Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.” We kissed long and hard and I knew it was time to go home. On our way out the door I looked over my shoulder and there was Phil with three ABC’s, all clinging to him like seaweed. His eyes were glazed over, but it wasn’t from alcohol. He caught my glance and just gave me a stupid grin and a thumbs up. Do you believe the stories NOW, bule boy? Welcome to Blok M, Mr. Phil. Lia was taller than average and had short hair cut in a cute style and I’m a sucker for women with short hair. She was also slim and trim. Not a “Ron Special” by any means, but just right. I never asked her age, because you’re not going to get a straight answer anyway, and it really doesn’t matter. I guessed 18 or maybe 20, but you never really know until you’re in the shower, and even then it’s a tough call. And it took getting into the shower with Lia to pry my eyes off those incredible eyes of hers. They were more East Asian than traditionally Indonesian, and she had a happy, clear-eyed, unaffected sexy gaze that spoke volumes and promised heavenly pleasures that would drive the most dedicated suicide bomber to commit apostasy right now. And she had the perfect body to fulfill all those heavenly pleasures, which she did, in spades. My general philosophy regarding sex with a woman I like is, “Lick ‘em before you stick ‘em,” and Lia was delighted when we changed up positions and got down to some serious carpet chewing. By the time she had her beautiful shuddering orgasm the Viagra I had kept in my shirt pocket all night and had popped with my last vodka tonic at My Bar had kicked in right on time. Within ten strokes of sliding into lovely Lia it was obvious that she wasn’t in this just for the money. I’ve heard stories from guys who have gone home with what, in bed, turned out to be still warm cadavers with pulses so slow you had to read them with a sundial. Praise be, I’ve never been so unfortunate, and Lia turned out to be at the other end of the responsiveness spectrum on this, my first night back. Lia must have been a professional arsonist in a previous life, because when she wrapped her arms and legs around me she lit me on fire and burned me up like a heavily insured building. Welcome back to Blok M, Mr. Gary or, as Lia gasped it, “Mr. Giri!” God, I love this place. Earlier I mentioned “…our first bitter disappointment” being the closing of Delta Fortuna Raya. Well here comes the second one. Night two was pretty much like night one in The Blok with My Bar jamming as usual, and what seemed like a ratio of five-to-one girls to guys all night. Once again Phil, Pete and I grabbed our disco bar stools while Ron and Mike chose to troll the waters like pelagic predators. Phil had been rendered nearly senseless by his encounter the previous night with two of the ABC’s he took home. He was already trying to figure out some way to either live in Jakarta or figure out some business excuse to come down often, but that’s a typical reaction from first-timers. It happened to all of us, because no matter how many stories you hear about Blok M, it always turns out to be 10 times better than you could imagine. Except when you make the mistake of taking home a girl who is drunk. On Thursday night the high level of energy in My Bar was palpable. The place was packed earlier than usual because, as we found out later, they had been closing at 2:00 AM. It must have been my week for girls with short hair, because I ended up early on with Ina, another pixie-cut stunner who was so into the live music she insisted on dancing on top of the barstool while I held onto her leg to steady her. I had noticed that many of the girls who come to My Bar do not drink alcohol. Or at least didn’t on this trip. I’m not sure if this was due to Ramadan, or because they want to keep a clear head when it comes time to score a bule for the night. I remembered that Lia had drunk orange juice on the previous night. Not so for Ina. She was obviously lit up already, and when she asked for a drink I agreed. What the hell, it was on Ron’s tab. When the drinks came, hers was a double shot of tequila which she slammed back like an Australian rugby captain. I should have figured out right then and there that I had a problem on my hands, but complications due to numerous vodka tonics clouded my judgment. And she was soooooooo damned cute and sexy. Live and learn, fool. No sooner had Ina and I gotten out of the shower and horizontal in bed than she leaped up and headed for the bathroom making that horrible, deep, gut-rumbling, gurk-gurk sound that heralds the onset of a less-than romantic evening. In her urgency, Ina never made it to the toilet, only as far as the sink where the tequila and not much else made it up through her wracking paroxysms of dry heaves. Dutiful boyfriend-for-the-night that I was, I helped her up the two steps to the bathroom and held my arm around her tummy to steady her while she gripped the sink and let fly. Back in bed, after rinsing her mouth and heaving a huge resigned sigh as she lie back, Ina confided, “Oh Mr. Giri, I’m so sorry. I like you so much, and I think you don’t like me now because I’m drunk. Oh, I’m so sorry.” What the hell do you say to that? Let’s see…………… I’m lying here with an agonizingly tumescent, Viagra-fueled hard-on, you are one of the cutest and sexiest (I thought) girls I’ve ever taken home, and you’re utterly useless to me because you’re drunk and puking like a soccer hooligan. It was 2:00 AM and too late to find a replacement when up she jumped up again to go blow chunk in my sink. This happened exactly EIGHT times that night (I counted them- what the hell, I had nothing else to do…,) every time with me supporting the dead weight of her luscious body over the sink. At one point I looked up into the bathroom mirror and this is what I saw: A large frustrated bule standing behind a diminutive and beautiful retching young girl, my throbbing woodie, perched and confused on her smooth back, looking up at me accusingly and saying, “Hey! HEY big boy! You promised me some action with this little stunner tonight! HUH?? What’s up with this shit, ya soft-hearted loser??” This is how my dick talks to me sometimes. What could I do? I laughed, took the high road and told poor Ina that it was OK. I cuddled her and, as we fell asleep, told her that I still liked her. Turns out that was the right thing to do, because when she finally settled down and we had slept for a while, she woke up sometime early in the morning, and maybe feeling like she owed me something for the inconvenience, made love to me as if I were the Sultan of Brunei and she was auditioning for the post of head concubine. It was so good with Ina that we both agreed to meet at My Bar that night and stay together again. And I would have. I was dangerously on the edge of pulling a “Pete and Eli” over this girl. Because it was getting light out when Ina and I had finally satiated ourselves into exhaustion, I asked her if she was going to spend the day fasting in observance of Ramadan. She looked over to the now dawn-lit window and mumbled dreamily, “Too late now, Mr. Giri.” She would add this wasted day onto the back end of Ramadan. So I got lucky. Pete, unfortunately, had a similar experience, and he wasn’t so lucky. On our third and final night out we ended up again in My Bar with all of the live music, the overabundance of girls, the testosterone, the free-flowing (courtesy of Ron) alcohol, the manic energy, the estrogen, the thronging ABC’s, the humping, bumping, thumping salmon stream of nonstop horny humanity, all of it. Sadly, Ina never showed up, and I ended up with charming, exotic-eyed Lia again, this time with her standing up on the barstool, dancing and pounding her crotch into my face to the beat of the thundering music as I looked around the room and saw at least a dozen loose girls gazing back at me with envy in their eyes as they prayed that Lia would fall off her barstool, crack her head, develop a subdural hematoma and have to be carried off in an ambulance so they could swarm in and grab her bule. It must have shown on my face like a lighted highway billboard: “Bule for Rent! Last night in Blok M! Still have plenty Rupiah and one Viagra left!” But Lia never fell off the stool (she didn’t drink, remember?,) and so we ended up going home together again where our loving was even better than………..but wait, where was I? This was supposed to be about Pete’s disappointing encounter with his drunk girl. Early in the evening I remember seeing Pete cruise by on his way back to Hotel Losari with one of the tallest, most attractive girls I’ve ever seen. Ron has told us that girls from North Sulawesi are characteristically tall and “Chinesey-looking.” She must have been one of those, and I envied Pete his score, because she was a knockout, which was probably why Pete was leaving early. The next morning however, we found out that his tall, elegant “supermodel” was a complete disaster. No sooner had she begun working on Pete’s Popsicle, than she too jumped up with stomach convulsions, but unlike the admirably restrained Ina, this one hurled all over Pete and the bed. Bummers, man. But again, we are all gentlemen here in Hawaii, and Pete didn’t get upset. He simply helped the very embarrassed, apologetic and humiliated girl clean up, get dressed, and get back to The Blok where he, very graciously I thought, gave her ten thousand Rupiah and taksi money for her brave efforts, then went for the next girl in line at My Bar. And the line was long indeed. Pete ended up with a very beautiful girl with very substantial hooters who had been sitting all night next to Lia and I, and whom, had Lia fallen off that stool and cracked her head, would have instantly been my pick for the night since she had been unabashedly flirting with me all night. So all’s well that ends well, but the lesson for you guys is this: If the girl is drunk, leave her there! Goodness knows there are plenty more where she came from. The next, and our final morning in Blok M, all of us guys gathered around the breakfast table at Hotel Losari and recapped the trip, catching up on all of the stories of our adventures with the girls, from the grisly to the sublime. This was not one of the better Indonesian junkets for poor old Mike. The previous night he, Lia, myself and his girl who was drunk and very obstreperous (Learn the lesson, boys!,) had shared a cab home, and when Lia and I entered the hotel, Mike was actually trying to get rid of his girl because it was obvious she was going to cause nothing but trouble in her drunken state of agitation. We left them in the street, Mike pressing ungodly quantities of Rupiah onto the taksi driver in a vain attempt to try and get him to take this girl home. The taksi driver was absolutely refusing, and Mike’s girl was shouting and ranting incoherently as hotel security looked on and shook their heads. Between this episode and the unfortunate cheesy vagina encounter with Eni in Bali, Mike was more than glad to be on a plane home early the next morning to the relative sanity, relative boredom and predictability of his Javanese wife in Noumea. Since two of our Hawaii team had foolishly fallen in love with Indo girls on this trip, the conversation inevitably turned to the emotional sincerity of these girls, and girls in general. Trying to illustrate a fact of life and interject some rationality into the minds of young Pete and Phil, I told the story of my last night with Lia whereupon, having finished licking her into oblivion, and before sliding on top of her for the coup de grace’, I had slid up her body for a moment’s rest and had placed my head between her breasts. “Much to my horror,” I said, “I could not hear her heartbeat.” At first I thought that I had killed her with my tongue since there wasn’t a trace of the familiar thump-thump of a human heart. Then, amazingly, I began to hear a faint click-clicking in her chest. When I asked her about it, she said that of course she doesn’t have a heart. No Indonesian girls have hearts in their chests. They have pocket calculators instead. It’s been three weeks since we returned home to Hawaii with our tender pubic bones, our depleted precious bodily fluids, our strained stomach muscles, our leftover Rupiah and lots of fond memories and dream fodder. Pete has spoken to Eli several times, but the conversation doesn’t get much beyond, “I miss you Mr. Pete.” “I miss you, Eli.” “When you come back to Jakarta?” “I don’t know, Eli. I have to work.” Not very romantic, but Pete is taking crash courses in Conversational Indonesian and scheming his next trip. Pete even went so far as to try and get Ron to bring Eli up with him on his next visit to Honolulu. That’s how bad he’s got it. His plan was to stash Eli at my house and come and visit her on the sly so that his live-in girlfriend wouldn’t find out. Of course I would have to swear a blood oath not to touch Eli. Fat chance. Bringing Eli, or any other Blok M SWT here is out of the question, however. It is virtually impossible for an Indonesian National to visit America now unless they go through almost impossible requirements and restrictions, thanks again to the effing terrorist wankers. Phil, Pete and I have talked a few times since arriving home and, God help us, we’re all pining away like a bunch of lovesick teenagers and planning our next trip. If there was a third bitter disappointment in this adventure it’s that we could have come to Blok M during “Sisters Week” instead of Ramadan. We could have been working on our own 72 virgins scorecard. Ah well, next year. In the meantime, I have downloaded all of the photos I took on our trip and have sent CD’s to the other four guys. There was only one title I could give it: “Bali Cheese Bombs.” As my wise old father once told me long ago, “Son, when it comes to girls in this life, you’ll never win. Biology is on their side…” See you next year. Mr. Giri If you'd like to read Gary's first report, click here for the link!
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