The Holy Order Of The Asian Pussy Pounders
The K-Line colamite
by Tironius, created Thursday, November 09, 2006, with permalink

Trollie trouble in town of Franny

Back when my Asian pussy was still in Pussia—er, I mean Japan [aka Nippon] — there was one night not unlike any other before or after, when I was riding the streetcar back from the city to home. We around these parts call it the K-line.

I got on and sat my beautiful glutes in a row of two unused seats facing forward, taking the window seat. It’s a good thing, too, because a perfectly poundable Asian pussy rested its lips on the seat next to me.

We exit West Portal, where the subway tunnel comes out and onto the ground, and the car will begin its journey on the roads, sharing its space with normal automibiles. We begin our terranean trek down through West Portal Avenue, past the theater, past the pizza place, and past the bum. God bless Ol’ Shanky. The car takes us to a normal straight-away stretch of track that is located in between a divided road, so we are in fact separated at this moment from automobiles. The car speeds up like it always does and, then sudddenly:

WHIIIRRR, CRANKITY-THUNNNG! Lights go out.

The cars breaks are slammed — “Whiirrrr,” it jolts to a paralel track — “Crankity crank!” while still slowing down, and “Thung!” hits a parked streetcar on the paralel track. It would seem that someone had forgotten to _switch back _the track, so the car—instead of continuing on its normal straight course—was rerouted to the paralel track, as if a driver turned down the wrong way of a one way road. For some reason, on this night, thankfully, there was simply a powered-down, parked streetcar resting there, and not a moving streetcar for us to slam into.

“Shit!” I hear from inside the engineer’s cockpit. The driver was a fat, black woman, and I could see she was startled, and was regaining her composure. Keep in mind, the lights are out, it is night-time, so the only light is that of the yellow street lamps from outside.

“You OK?” I ask the hottie next to me. My lips translated what my brain was really saying: “Do you want me to rip your jeans off and finger you?”

“Yes,” she says. She isn’t a “whitewashed” Asian as these Californians like to say. She was an Asian through ‘n’ through. She calls on her cell phone, probably to her borefriend, er, boyfriend.

I bust out my cam. I snap a few pictures of the people in the train. Typical Californian slice of life. Shrill white bitch demanding to know what happened from the driver; too-cool-for-school kid who doesn’t need to follow orders from the driver about stepping away from the door (because she needs to get to it); some old white guy, bald.

The scene: to the right road and the track we are supposed to be on.

The she-doesn’t-know-where-my-tongue-is-on-her-body-right-now-in-my-mind girl.

Help arrives, and my little Chinese bird gets into a nice car and fly-flies away. I get on the bus the Muni people sent over to continue the trip. I jerk to her face later.

The end.

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