Borscht Babes Busted Bigtime  

saxyjazzman 55M
26 posts
9/22/2005 12:28 am

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Borscht Babes Busted Bigtime


Just another night in the Pong, with a parade of 15 Japanese cops laughing their way down the street, around the corner and into my building. No worries about our all-Japanese operation, but the Russian club on the third floor took a direct hit. Cops like flies. Loaded up the Russian ladies and off they went in a van to the detention center and then back to Mother Russia. The Israeli girls from the same building were hiding out at Midas, dancing together, laughing.

I'd played the Russian club once as a guest. Classy, big stage, lavish, wall-to-wall blondes - it didn't look like a hanky-panky-here's-a-handkerchief place. Just all these Japanese businessmen chatting with their Russian fantasy sweethearts. So "cleaning up Roppongi" for Tokyo governor Ishihara seems to mean young Japanese girl's hand-jobs are okay, but keep your pretty Slavic faces and fingers out of Japan. In America it's about Puritanism. In Japan it's... oh you know the deal as well as I.

There was the urge to walk up to one of the cops and invite him up to my club, hinting darkly that he could get a blow-job there from a Sri Lankan transvestite, but I decided against it. Plus no language skills. I fantasized one of them stops me for ID and I start screaming, Hey! I'm legal buddy, my wife is Japanese, my visa is cool and I'm one of the top entertainers in Roppongi, plus I'm an American, dude, we kicked your butt and WE'RE NUMBER ONE! WE'RE NUMBER ONE! WE'RE NUMBER ONE! and you better fuck off or I'll call the cops and then he says I AM the cops and I say oh, well, whatever.

Last set back at the club, in front of the bandstand are two Japanese guys who speak PERFECT L.A. English, Citibank guys. One of them says I'm his homie or something. Turns out we both went to Cal. We be tight. I kick out five hot tunes for him. I cover David Sanborn. I cover Bogs. Boz. Whatever. Sweat is pouring off me. These guys act like I don't exist. Afterwards, I'm talking to the guy before I leave and he goes, "So what do you play?" which I don't understand.

He says, "What instrument do you play?" The bell of my tenor sax has been two feet behind his head for the past twenty minutes. Growls came out of it, funky licks, sweet moans, and LOTS of sixteenth notes. I could not believe it. "So what do you play?"

Well, he'd had a few.

When he leaves he doesn't even look back.

My homie.

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