I found this delightful story on a blog called Chopped Onions. You can read the original page right here. It’s a fine blog. For those of you too lazy click, or have already got your dick out ready to express your feelings for our model, I’ve cut and pasted the story.

A RIGHT PICKLE

A few beers with the boys the other day and the conversation came round to Wan Chai and the delights there-in. The general direction of the conversation was that real warriors don’t do Wan Chai on a Friday or Saturday, quote “we leave those nights for the suits”. Experts or dedicated whore monger’s time of choice seemed to be Sunday afternoon. Reason being that Sunday is pretty much a universal day off and this creates an edgy atmosphere of relaxed tension. The tension being that everyone wants to get fucked either by someone else or booze or both.

“Talking of getting fucked….” chef’s mate volunteered, and then went into how he just happened to be passing-by a certain short stay “love” hotel in Wan Chai last Sunday afternoon (a hotel named, with irony I assume, after a British monarch whose name usually implies prudishness and innuendo) and was witness to a more extreme version of the “I got fucked in Wan Chai” scenario.

Standing outside the love hotel, butt-naked except for one of their fine, high quality cotton towels, was a drunk middle aged westerner. He was alternately screaming at the huge Sikh door-man to let him back in and a professional looking lady of Southeast Asian origin, who was standing on the other side of the road, with all his clothes under her arm.

It transpired that the lady was upset over a certain matter involving sex & money and had collected the mans clothes, hot footed it across four lanes of traffic and was now flashing a middle finger at him when ever he implied that she didn’t know her father or that she resembled a female sex organ (or words to that effect).

The Sikh doorman’s only crime was his refusal to allow anything like this back into his hotel.

Eventually Hong Kong’s finest turned up, lady legged it and to the general amusement of the crowd, they arrested the man.

“Imagine the phone call to his wife….” says one mate. Most of us are attached and this comment was followed by plenty of puckered lips as the imaginary pain of castration crossed every man’s mind.

“I mean, what do you say? Er sweetheart, I’m drunk, in a police station, all my worldly goods seem to have gone and I’m naked. Er except for a towel with the words ‘Villa Victoria’ written on it, don’t know what happened honest.”