A Mate Dyed In Hate (Part 2)

my vengeance had been festering for weeks, now feeding on the raw skin of the bald-faced lies which had replaced with more and more frequency the almost honest broken promises of her clandestine affairs. yet i had known even before the daylight escaped from my unblinking eyes that the evening would bring about an ultimatum in this fatal fox hunt of phuong or be phuonged. the incident from saturday left me both replete of patience for even a single lie, and with a simple desire for a girl with whom to lie. and as i've already mentioned, her birthday was the following day, and i absolutely did not want to spend the time nor the money to sustain this jaded charade any longer. so i was squeezed, but at ease despite realizing i'd soon be either appeased or really unpleased, and she'd leave as either the trophy tease or with slightly sore knees.

there was, as always, a strong possibility she wouldn't show up. as i was leaving the cafe, i had asked her if i should even bother calling her at 7:15 to ask her why she was 15 minutes late. a smile escaped from her face that was a familiar chagrin of a grin, one i had seen every time i made light of this ridiculous arrangement between us. she knew i was aware of her unreliability, but i was careful about never letting on that i knew she was flat-out trying to play me. so when the doorbell rang a half-hour before she said she'd be at my house, i did my best, "who could it possibly be? no way is it phuong 'cause she shouldn't be here for at least another hour or two... [now opening the door] wait, who are you, and what did you do with my girlfriend?"

the wolf flashed her teeth cracking the same sheepish smile i'd seen earlier that day, and i, the gatekeeper, recognizing the correct password allowed her entrance into my home. then with a kind of calm recklessness, she glided her massive and expensive, or just massively excessive, motorbike up the ramp and stepped inside. the wolf clearly preferred chic to sheep's clothing, unwittingly wearing her most celebrated costume on the night of her final recital: a tight low-cut black shirt that generally concealed less than it revealed, most notably a pair of plump luscious bumps that seemed to be forever begging for a breather; and a pair of dark-blue denim jeans that clung to her legs and hugged her ass like they actually loved her. pity for her pants though that her ass was actually in love with the sofa, gadunka-dunking right past me and plunging into its plush mate with the deepest affection.

in short time, we were alone downstairs making small talk which honestly was the smallest of talks. so my first move was to corral her upstairs when she got up to get a drink, but i blinked a blunderous blink, allowing her to do a flying somersault over me and back onto the sofa before i could even unwink. she knew what i wanted to do up there, and it wasn't to expand on such riveting topics of conversation as whether or not she'd seen this or that video before. so we sat and half-watched whatever the fuck was playing on mtv asia for the next two hours while i exhausted every available phuong to get her to sleep with me.

i wasted little time, launching the foray with the obvious: "why don't you want to make love to me? is it because you don't really love me?" the combination of forceful logic and the blunt truth stunned her, if only for a moment, until she countered with the proper response, that perhaps it was i who did not love her. touche, biotch. but what about the fact that she's always the one blowing me off with lame excuses and not vice-versa? to which she probably replied with something along the lines of "uhh, well if you loved me you would believe what i told you," but with incorrect verb tenses and no modals. her combination of reverse logic and hotness would often leave us in a tangled deadlock.

the precise sequence of events in this classic clash is both irrevocable and irrelevant, but involved everything from amorous grapples to searing sweet-talk. i pummeled her with physical compliments and unleashed a relentless flurry of flatteries that she parried like a pro. this left me vulnerable, but i played my weakness as an advantage, claiming i was sincerely sick - both homesick and lovesick from the 'true love' i had had with my prior girlfriend; one in which we shared our love for each other by making love together (disclaimer: it gets worse). among my most successful maneuvers was to simply turn away with a somber, pensive gaze which deprived her of attention, thus threatening asphyxiation, and allowed me to collect myself for a follow-up attack. and of course i didn't neglect to toss around my strongest bargaining chip - my word that i would 'help' her go to america, but only if she showed me she really loved me.

yet she had proved herself impenetrable against all methods of attack, her resistance fortified with but a single insistence: "you don't take care for me." now there must be an error in her vietnamese-english dictionary that mistranslates the vietnamese phrase for "give enough money to" as "take care for," which made this a difficult argument to circumvent because aside from "taking care for" the bill when we went out for coffee and "taking care for" her once to buy a pair of jeans, i had never given the bitch a dime - and that includes christmas, both new years, valentine's day, and all of black history month. i offered a couple instances when i attempted to take care of her while she was sick, but she was apparently unaware of this particular meaning of the phrase.

so, in the end, all she really wanted from me was money which, sadly, was outside my budget. fortunately, a promise is a credit card with no spending limits or service fees, so we swapped our xao-tipped swords for pens filled with empty promises and negotiated the terms of the fuck. "first prove to me you love me, and then i'll give you money," i demanded. at first she declined, insisting i pay her at least a day before we embraced at the waist in the most intimate of partnerships, but i refused to compromise, standing firm that i had waited long enough. "i can give you money tonight," i said being mindful of word choice so as not to offend the de facto prostitute. she hesitated before asking to confirm the value of the transaction, and i repeated, "five million dong," which she must have figured was quite the bargain after i agreed to only taking five minutes of her time. except she didn't realize i'd only be giving her one dong in five million hard, hard payments.

i treaded cautiously up the steps, turning around now and then as if to catch her unsheathing a hidden dagger. she was a most worthy opponent, and i held her in the highest regard despite wanting to eat out her insides from the coochie up, like how i imagine sylvester must feel about tweety. aside from her venerable skills in the art of deception, she possessed the ability to make me laugh. she always understood the humor in the english i taught her, such as the difference between "white people" and "yellow people," and made effective use of "get the fuck outta my way." i could definitely say that i had a good time with her on occasion, even if every smile of hers was really a shiny grimace, every giggle a gagging hiccup, and every sugar apple kiss actually a carrot on a stick. nah fuck it, i hated her. and besides, by the time i reached my bedroom, i was too horny to avert intercourse, my rosy memory then too thorny for remorse.

thus a hate fuck ensued that for lack of conscience, good taste, better judgment, or all of the above, i will now describe in all its despicable details so that i may point to three noteworthy fuck ups. my hands were on her hips when i began to kiss her, and as the hot and heavy progressed aggressively i sensed a bit of reluctance so i paused, but she said nothing. her pants then, those jealous lovers, were the first to go followed by the lights, but only because i'm an idiot and didn't realize that the room would be too dark to record video. yeah that's right, after i turned off the lights, i secretly set my phone to record and put it on my headboard, but the moonlight illuminating the bedroom could only be captured by our eyes. in my defense though, it was merely for documentation purposes because i have such a hard time remembering details. luckily i have the sounds to jog my han– errr memory.

well if turning the lights off was my first mistake, then allowing her to guide my uncondomed cock into her pussy of questionable reputation was my second folly for at least three reasons. first, vietnam has one of the fastest rising rates of HIV infection in the world, not to mention the smorgasbord of other, well-established venereal diseases in this, the prostitute-visiting-male-partner capital of the world. good thing phuong undoubtedly stopped seeing that old boyfriend of hers. second, who in his right mind would ever want to take the risk of impregnating someone lower than him on the social ladder, especially especially an american in vietnam? well at least with this one i had some control 'cause i could just pull out when i wanted... that is if it weren't for the third reason which is that for someone who hasn't felt the warm tight squeeze of a tender, freshly wet dick-receptacle in, let's just say, way too long, going in without something to numb the senses of a queasy penis was an all-out invitation to the third mistake which happened to be...

cumming inside her! thank you, thank you... though i must say i hadn't at all planned to (potentially) phuong her in this way and in spite of her actual hand in the second natural disaster which allowed for the third, most monumental fuck up of'em all, i alone can take credit for this. oh yeah, and i never told her. see the only reason i busted but kept going was that i had only seen less than ten minutes of body slammin pussy-smashing action and if i had pulled out then, which i was perfectly capable of doing, it would have meant the fuck of thus far merely mild discontent would never have reached a mature status of full-on hate. stopping there would be conceding defeat, so now depleted of those hindering love juices, i let her grind on my pubic bone while i recharged with hate, deciding to explore this whore in a contortionary tour. so i split her and dipped her and bent her and flipped her in an array of sexplay in which i did her every which way.

and yeah, i too thought it was odd she didn't realize the cum dripping out of her wasn't her own, but by her mechanical knowledge of such indecent positions and robotic transitions from one to the next, i knew she'd been through these motions without emotions before. and when she said she was too tired to go on anymore, without me saying a word she dove mouth first into my funked up junk which was nasty enough to catch even me by surprise. i expected her to be out as soon as possible, especially because it had already been quite a bit longer than her original five minute allotment, but she proceeded to professionally bob, lick, and hand jive for a foolishly fruitless 15 more minutes. when she had finally given up she looked quietly bewildered, and i was unsure if it was because she thought she couldn't get me off or because she didn't know if i would pay her for an unfinished job (of proving she loved me). i sensed her disappointment, but knew there'd never be another appointment, so i told her the reason i didn't finish was because she must not have really loved me. and that was just about the last thing i ever said to her.

i didn't call her that night or the following day, not even to wish her a happy birthday. nor did i ever pay her. i assume she got the hint because she hasn't tried to contact me either, no doubt hiding out to heal her injured ego. she was a ninja, a master of the art of deception. i knew i couldn't pin down all these lies, so instead, by deflecting her barrage of trick euphemisms, spinning misleadingisms, and poison-tipped lies back onto her with unrelenting determination, i eventually managed to pin her down and stab her, repeatedly, in her most vulnerable point. yet she survived in spite of shame, slipping away into seclusive shadows so that this most deadliest of assassins may no doubt revise her strategy and one day strike again. yes, phuong's been gotten, but can she ever be forgotten?