I feel like I’m severed from the Trinity because I’m here, all alone in Cherating and I anticipate two days of body surfing and partying the night away.
House moving business is similar to hard labor; I really need a break but I still got a shit load of boxes to unpack and tons of rearranging work to do, but that can wait. You know, its funny how our bodies tend to react to unfamiliar places. Even when you are dead tired, you still find it hard to sleep; the new house, new room and new surroundings just somehow fucks up the program. Enough of the house moving, talking about it makes me feel tired; that is why I'm in Cherating, 45km away from my current house.
Monsoon time is upon us, it’s raining like there’s no tomorrow; the news has warned the people here to braced themselves for a really wet season but we surfers know what the fuck that really means. The red flag is raised, the current is brutal yet this is the best time to surf. You know, with the red flag raised, the local authorities here wouldn't stop you from going into the sea but they reserved the right to say it straight to your rotting corpse when they fish you outta the sea…
‘We fucking told you so'
But still, surfers waited all year long for this because monsoon season is when the sea awakes, it’s time to step on liquid and ride the Big Kahuna. I'll spare you the surfing stories because I'm saving it when the monsoon is over, so that I can rub it in the other surfer's face for not being here right now.
"It happened at night…
…when most of us surfers partied at a local bar. I met this girl along with some of her friends. They were young, wild and daring and I guess horny as well. If you eye them long enough on the dance floor and if they liked the way you looked at them, they would come over and give you a good rub down with their bodies. I know this because that night, I was at the receiving end. But this one girl amongst them; bob style, tanned, bare bone thin yet voluptuous, had this certain charm to her; I don't know why, but every time I look at her, wild thoughts escapes. Then again, it could be the two love scud hanging on her chest, like ripe melon waiting to be pluck.
As the night grew, traces of alcohol slithers inside our veins, she was all over me or was it, I was all over her but to be on the safe side, let's just say we were all over each other. All I know is I was busy checking out the Braille underneath her brassier, trying to twist the knob while she was trying to gain a handle on my night club. I don’t really have to paint you a picture of that moment because I am sure you damn well know what would happen, when you fill up a fucker whose man juice tank is almost overflowing and a walking, talking & dancing moist vagina with alcohol and then put them in a place with minimum lighting…
[to be continue]