Engrish Rang Ridge


Stepping into the gathering was like being pushed under a waterfall of sound. The Cocktail Party Effect was operating at full power. Everyone was talking at the top of their lungs … and voices. Trying—and failing—to out-talk their neighbors in the crowded rooms. Your ears automatically try to tune out the din, but, with each person trying to out-shout all the others, a soft-spoken person couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

I’d been invited in the usual way, as a friend of an acquaintance of a buddy. So I didn’t know anyone. But it was better inside than out, what with the chill in the air, as a Philadelphia late fall frosted the outside air. Drifting between knots of people earnestly trying to converse with flailing hands and jerking bodies, seeing lips move, and hearing disjointed words and phrases, I wandered from group to group.

Finally, I settled near the cooler where there was some beer, and wondered why I’d come. Certainly not to flirt and make time with a woman, as I desperately wanted. The prostate operation that’d saved my life from cancer had also resulted in a damaged nerve, resulting in a permanent case of “floppy doodle.” Retaining sensation, and still having functioning balls just made it worse. Longing, wanting, desperately needing some sex, and unable to get any, ever again.

I still remembered the last and only time I’d been successful picking up a girl, post-surgery. I can still hear the cruel laugh and screech in my ear’s memory, when it became obvious that I couldn’t “get it up,” then or ever. That’s when I had to leave my job, and go out on my own as a self-employed guy, just to avoid the buzzing vicious female gossip centered around “old dickless.”

I worked 24/7, trying to drown myself in work, but found I just had to get out and socialize. So, finding myself at this party, I backed up against the wall, and tried to make sense of the noise. One group was talking textile design, as I heard fragments like “weave,” and “bias,” and “color vulvas” (I think that was “values”). My attention wandered to another node, where I sorted out computers and systems. No thanks, my former friends did too much of that as it is. Sigh.

No one seemed to know what a Public Adjustor was, or did, or cared to find out. Sigh, again!

As I was searching for another group, something kicked at my shin. I glanced down at a pretty Asian face of about 5′ nothing inches, looking up to my 6′ 6″. The face said something like, “gimmit uh bear.” I answered intelligently, “huh?”.

She tried again, shouting, face working, “gimm tuh bert.” Again, I answered, also yelling, “what?”

Her face spasmed in a quick grin, and, reaching up, she grabbed by necktie, and yanked my face down to her lips. This time, I distinctly heard, “Get me a vuckin’ beer,” she commanded, adding “God damn Engrish rang ridge.”

Four steps to the cooler, surrounded by nodes of screaming party-goers. My height was an advantage, as I simply snaked two beers with one hand from the cooler, hauling them dripping ice-water across two sets of half-exposed bosoms, complete with blond hair and vacant expression. Boob-possessor girls squealed and spun around, the wrong way. Smiling smugly, I gave one to my necktie-pulling companion. I tried to talk, but with the noise, plus our unequal heights, I couldn’t catch but one word in ten.

I solved the problem by simply sitting on the floor, cross-legged. My chance-met companion squatted in front of me, sipping from the bottle, and banging her elbow on the wall, same as me. We both missed each other’s names in the noise, and much of a few minutes of attempted small talk. But I did catch that she’d watched as I dribbled the ice from the beer cooler on the two sets of breasts. Meanwhile, I got an eyeful, looking up her slim thighs to the shadows under her short skirt.

Yes, she caught me looking. Then she just grinned again (100-watt grin), and sipped her beer. My forever-to-be limp cock tried pathetically to stiffen and jerk, but had to settle for a weak spasm. Then, without warning she set her beer down on the carpet. It promptly fell over spilling beer in a puddle on the carpet.

“Give me han’,” she ordered.

I extended my right hand, as the left still held my own beer. She guided my admittedly slender middle finger down to my palm, and applied some force to mark the point my finger made on the palm. In my case, just to the muscle at the base of my thump. Then she put her little hand into her small purse, dangling from her shoulder, and pulled out a small tape measure. She measured from the lowest point that my finger tip reached on my palm to the tip of the finger itself.

I raised my eyebrows, questioning.

She said, casually, as she put the tape measure away, “finger tip to finger reach is crows to pemish side.”

“Pemish side? Crows?”

“No. Not ‘crows,’ crowsh. Not ‘pemish,’ pemis. God damn Engrish rang ridge. You know. Rong finger rengt means pemice big.”

“Spell it?,” I asked

“You know. Pemice. Eight and Betturkey haf’ inches. Dat’s right, yes. P-E-M-I-S.”

I finally figured out that my chance-met Asian pretty girl was talking about estimating my penis size from my middle finger length!

Then came one of those moments. At a party, when everyone is talking, yelling, there comes a moment, unplanned, not organized, when everyone simultaneously stops, takes a breath, to keep on speaking. There is a brief, stunning silence, into which I yelled, at my absolute loudest, into the deafening silence …


The stunned silence continued for one, two, three heartbeats, as all eyes turned toward me. An anonymous voice from the other side of the room clearly commented, “that’s something I really wouldn’t want everybody to know, don’t you think.” The roar of laughter drowned everything else out. I heard other comments like, “Hey, dickless, I can lend you an inch or so to spare.” Someone else said, too clearly, “maybe you better let us take care of your date.” The old song started up, “Does yer cock hang low? Does it wobble to and fro? Can yuh tie it in a knot? Can yuh tie it in a bow? …” And so on.

I started to get up, to slink away from this party, ready to vow never to see another person socially again. My little Asian chance-met companion grabbed me by the necktie again, grabbed up my beer, snatched another from the cooler, and guided me out the door onto the patio. She dragged me to the far end of a plastic lawn couch, and pulled me down to the seat. Then she grabbed at a pile of black something, and forced what seemed like an oversized black cotton quilt over the both of us. Some scrambling arranged it around our legs, and over our heads. Only our faces were exposed. The rest piled up on our laps and at our feet.

Still holding firmly onto my necktie, my party-met girl friend kissed me thoroughly. I kissed back, wanting to be urgent, knowing that I literally had all the time in the world to kiss.

But I broke first, as I had to know, “what about the hand and finger thing.”

“Ah, dat easy. Finger reach to hand is close to pemis size. You eight and haff inch. You sure to be big white boy. I rike dat.”

Her hand stole up my thigh to land lightly on my crotch. Her face crossed into a little frown. “How come you not get hard? Got pretty girr: talk dirty, with gerr hand on pemis. You not gay, I know for sure.”

So I told a girl I’d just met a few minutes ago the whole story. About the diagnosis. About the surgery. About waking up with a good prognosis, but a warning about how much tissue they had to take out. About finding out that my erection wouldn’t erect. My “wooden whistle wouldn’t whistle.”

Speaking faster and faster, I told about getting herbs, drugs, about the couple of dates I’d had, about the vicious teasing and humiliation at work, how even masturbation to hard-core pictures took a long time and made “peter” sore. And you can’t do anything with a sore peter. About how Viagra didn’t work. About striking out on my own work, because I had to.

When I finally ran down, and stopped crying, I looked over at my little Asian party-met girl, and waited for the evil words, the cutting remark.

Which didn’t come.

I even saw a little smile, quirking up one side of her lips. One hand and arm snaked around my head. I had to look fast, because those lips were on mine a moment later. As we kissed, I felt her other hand tug several times, as she lifted her body and squirmed around.

Then she said, “Dere, dat better. Giff me udder hand!” She grabbed my free hand, and guided it to her leg, which was bare. She urged my hand up, past a skirt hem that had been hiked up, and further up to a pair of nether lips radiating heat. I caressed her bare pussy. My exploring fingers found the skirt, bunched up around her waist.

My other hand went exploring as well, to find her blouse also hiked up to my touch. Those so large, un-Asian breasts, encased in what felt like a sheer soft bra cup, waiting for my touch.

I roamed my hand over the globes she presented me, and quirked my own eyebrow. She gave me the 100-watt grin again, and whispered, “bess tizz for da money.” She added, “fear very good when you fear me. Finest kind nips, too. You touch, purr, make China gurr fear rear good.”

My still sensitive but flaccid member was jerking and twitching, struggling to get some length. Alas. I said so, starting to break away. She grabbed my hands and replaced them, on boob and pussy.

“Fear me. Truss me. Make China girr body fear good. God damn Engrish rang ridge.”

Gently, but firmly, my questing fingers found her sheer fabric enclosed nipples and her (soaking!) pussy, and started to stroke. She started to move and slowly heave under the heavy black quilt. The heavy quilt sagged down over our faces, until only our eyes were showing.

The patio door slid open, and two strangers stepped into the frosty night. My companion Betturkey Giriş and I froze, motionless.

A man and a woman stood there. He was dressed casually, and she had on the “little black dress,” common to the cocktail party circuit. Emphasis on ‘little’. She had a half-empty glass of something or other in her hand. Neither paid the slightest attention to what must have looked like a pile of black cushions and blankets on the bench. I stopped my stroking, and opened my mouth.

Her hand from around my head whipped further to cover my mouth. In my ear, I heard the softest whisper possible, “Shhhh. Show iz start. We rook. You fear me more. Put finger in, deep” My hand began the slow breast feel and nipple pinch I’d been doing, plus the gentle penetration of her slippery pussy lips, probing for her pleasure nub. Almost noiselessly, she sighed and oh-so-slowly contrived to open her thighs a little more, under the covers.

We could see the intruding couple in a slit opening, covering our heads and bodies. We must have been invisible, and anyway, they were totally fixed on each other. No preliminaries, she put her drink down on the balcony edge, and started fumbling with the guy’s trousers. He started working on her dress zipper … the front zipper, unless she had it on backward.

My companion again whispered so very softly in my ear, “Day gonna make rove. We see. I rove watch, get rear hot. You watch gurr, I watch guy. Rove to see big hard pemis in, out of gurr.”

My cock, ached for release in the woman’s pussy, as her date for the moment’s cock fell free. Without a word, she sat on the low railing of the apartment balcony, one bare leg over his shoulder, spreading her thighs wide. The other leg, nearest us, she let dangle, so we could see every detail. Saw as the man’s cockhead paused at her bare pantyless body, and then, with a grunt, pushed inside. Watched–clutching my companion–as he pushed his length in and out of the woman, each time sinking deeper until he was balls deep in her. Watched as the woman’s dress was pulled wide open by her. Watched as she grunted and moaned, breasts heaving and shuddering, as he thrust into her.

Watched in disbelief, because as fast as he was thrusting, her orgasm came first, and her body jerked and writhed, to his frantic pounding. Heard the barely intelligible grunted words, as he ground out, “I’m gonna cum.” And continued to watch, as she suddenly pulled away from him, guiding his rigid member toward the balcony railing, hand blurring in motion on his member. Watching as he stiffened, grunted again, and spermed his own orgasm, the liquid sailing over the railing and arcing downward to the street below. Pulse, squirt, groan, “fuck, oh yeah,” four times.

Heard with unabashed glee, as from the street below came an anguished, hate-filled female cry, “Girls, there’s a GODDAMN MAN up there!”.

Finally watched as his diminished and now flaccid member was wiped clean on a patio napkin, also casually tossed over the balcony. He closed up his trousers, and she zipped up her cocktail dress, and they both re-joined the party. Neither had said a word to the other.

I turned my eyes to my Asian companion, who was laughing and cumming around my questing fingers at the same time. My still limp cock was laying in her palm, frantically spasming and trying to erect, and leaking pre-cum into her fingers.

She released my member, and stuffed it back into my trousers, and then giggled, “oh, you wan it so bad. I rove watch man do pemis into woman. I rike it bess when I dat woman. You and me reave this dumb party, go your prace. I make you hard, you put hard pemis inside. Den you make me cum rots.”

“I’ve tried to tell you, I JUST CAN’T,” I cried out softly.

“You rike me. You truss me, yes. I know way. I stay for night, ronger. You shove big man pemis inside, whirr I watch. I say, ‘yes, yes, yes,’ whirr you do it. You do it over and over. I promise, yes.”

“I’ve tried ancient Chinese herbs, and they don’t work.”

“You truss me, and I fix beauty-fur pemis for you. I know way, yes.”

I had nothing left to loose, wanting to get between those legs in the worst way … the best way … any way at all. I nodded, ‘yes,’ even knowing that nothing was really going to happen, but wanting to cling to the merest fantasy.

“OK, ress go. Get coat. You drive here?

Replying, I said, “no, I took the subway and a cab.”

“Even better. We take my car. You drive tick shift? No? Thass good, I drive. Ress brow joint.”

We pushed our way through the still screaming partygoers, and found my jacket and her light sweater. We’d almost made it to the door, when I felt my arms pinned to my sides, and her arm held tight by a couple of blond-haired guys, thug-type, and drunk.

“Hey, dickless, where you take this little cutie? We both got better things for her to do than talk Chinese comic books with you. Hey cutie, let’s see what under that skirt.”

One guy made a clumsy Betturkey Güncel Giriş grab for my companion’s thigh. She slowly turned, and gave him a cold stare, saying, “Ah, so, you wan do rape, do you? OK, big guy, show ritter Asian chick whacha got.” I struggled, and got a solid blow to the head for my troubles. A circle had magically appeared in the party, as the drunk guests looked to see whether my woman would do it in public.

She turned slowly, pushing out her chest and raising up her blouse, exposing her boobs. I caught a wink as her glance landed on me. As she turned back, I saw her hand drop toward her black shoulder bag, and push inside. She reached up with her free hand, and slowly drew down one blonde’s trouser zipper, exposing a large bulge in boxer shorts. She continued fumbling in his shorts, while, invisibly to him and to the party, her other hand found objects in her bag. His trousers and underwear dropped to the floor, as his turgid drunken member emerged.

I felt my captor’s hands relaxing. Knowing that I could expect surprises from a woman who kept a tape measure in that same bag, ready to measure a man’s potential penile size, I was ready for anything.

She simultaneously started manual work on that cock, vigorously stroking it, as her other hand hovered an object over his now dropped trousers and underwear. I smelled the sudden stink of alcohol, and saw her hand drop one object and grab up another in her palm.

“Ah, so, you have big one. I make you hot. Rear hot. Hot as fire. RIKE DIS!” A tongue of flame leapt out of the modified butane lighter in her hand, directed downward toward the concentrated alcohol-soaked underwear and trousers. The flames from the suddenly burning clothing bunched at the blonde’s ankles shot up toward his dangling balls, as she dropped his now rigid penis, grabbed both his balls and gave these a viscous squeeze.

He screamed, and fell, writhing, to the floor, trying to clutch his testicles, vomit, and struggle out of his flaming clothes at the same time.

Applying some Aikido of years past, I pivoted around on one foot, toward my captor’s loose grip, and continued the turn. Pulling slightly back, his reflexes kicked in, pulling me inward, which I reinforced, completing the turn, and overbalancing him into a heap on his friend’s burning trousers, underwear, scorching cock and burning publc hair.

On the second turn around, I upset the whisky bar into the now flaming pile of clothes and thugs, smashing several bottles, some of which also began to burn with a blue alcoholic flame (some asshole is always drinking highly flammable clear-grain alcohol on a dare.).

My companion screamed something in an other-than-English language, but the meaning was completely clear: “Take that, you drunken, girl-groping, raping sots,” came through loud and clear.

The party dissolved into a struggling mass of panicked drunk people, and my ‘date’ and I slipped unnoticed out the apartment door. Laughing and gasping, we ran to the end of the corridor, where we opened the emergency service door to the stairs. She suddenly jumped into my arms, shoved her skirt-covered pussy in my face (yes, I tried to lick it) and reached up with her lighter. She played the long tongue of flame over the sprinkler head, which erupted water. The other sprinklers in the corridor also turned on full force, as we slammed down the stairway three floors, and exited onto the street.

“Dis way,” she called, and we ran around the corner, and up about half a Philadelphia long block, pausing at an old Volkswagen, painted a bright orange. Around to the driver’s side, which she opened, and shoved me in. Expecting to find a passenger’s seat, I tumbled onto a flat surface, and thrashed in what seemed to be a rag factory. My companion started the car, jammed it into 1st gear (stick shift!), and we roared out of the tight parking space and up the one-way street (the wrong way).

Turning right, we passed the apartment where we’d been and saw blue alcohol flames licking up from the balcony, and people in party clothes trying to climb down and to the sides, while the fire sirens echoed in the near distance.

She drove up the street, toward Broad. Turning right on Broad, we headed toward City Hall, and freedom. She was still laughing, her pretty face grinning from ear to ear, as I tried to extract myself from the ‘rags’ around me.

“Where you home?” she asked, as we passed Vine.

“Keep on up Broad, then onto 611, until we get to Jenkintown. Long way.” I suddenly saw why I was struggling. There wasn’t any passenger seat.

Squirming around, I managed to face forward. I was on a narrow platform, covered in clothes, and a couple of blankets. There was a deflated air mattress under me.

I realized that my little Asian partner-in-arson-crime was probably living in her car. I said as much.

“Yeah. Rive in car. Safe money. You rike my boobs. Bess tits money kin buy. Save rot’s money, no pay rent. Pretty safe, park at my job prace. Dat gone, now. Damn doctor lef’ with nurse he fuck, no warning. Need new safe prace wiz prug for heat. God damn Engrish rang ridge.”

So I said something stupid. “Come live with me at my place.” Oh, God, what did just do? I can’t get it up, and now I have another stray cat to take care of.

Bir yanıt yazın

E-posta adresiniz yayınlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir