Inadvertent Hot-Tubbing With Hot Stewardesses: A Tale

I’m all for palate cleansers, so I hereby offer the world this story.

Many years ago, I’m traveling on business and staying at a nice hotel, a cut above where I usually stay in this particular city.

After an evening workout, I shower and am toweling off when I notice a door with a sign that says “Spa.” I open it and there’s a bubbling hot tub, empty. Without much thought, I walk over, get in and relax. I’m used to my athletic club, which has separate facilities for men and women, and this is a nice hotel, right?

I’m just starting to really zen out, floating in that hypnagogic state the hot water and bubbles induce, when I hear a noise behind me, a door opening. I hadn’t really noticed that door.

Three women come in, beautiful women. In bikinis.

They settle in next to each other on the other side of the tub. I play it cool, the bubbles thankfully conceal everything, so to speak. For the first time, I notice a small sign on the wall: “Swim suits required in spa.” Seriously, had not noticed it before.

The three hotties start speaking German, I gather that they’re Lufthansa flight attendants. I know a few words of German. They’re mostly talking about guys. I close my eyes and sink down until my chin is touching the water. I’ll wait them out.

There is no alternative.

They gabble and giggle on and on. I start to get hot. I would definitely be getting out now if they weren’t there. Finally there’s some splashing. I open my eyes to a slit and see three lovely pairs of German buttocks exit the hot tub. They come around behind me and I prepare to spring up and out and into the men’s locker room as soon as possible.

The door doesn’t completely close. There are footsteps coming from behind.

Two beautiful Japanese women come into sight, yeah, I can tell Japanese from Chinese and Korean, okay? One of them, thankfully, goes to the bubbler timing dial and turns it back to 60 minutes. They get in. Unlike the Germans, they look at me and smile. I smile back, nod. I know Japanese like it hot, and like staying in the hot water for a long time…

I remember a Kung Fu episode where David Carradine survives like a week in some kind of prison hot box. I close my eyes and imagine coolness, cool, cool water, iced drinks, glaciers…the Japanese women are JAL stews, I gather. They speak to each other softly. After a long ten minutes or so, one of them says something that I gather translates into, “Look at the time, we gotta go!” I open my eyes just in time to see two lovely Japanese asses leaving the spa. When I hear the door click shut it takes me approximately .5 seconds to get back in the men’s locker room. I’m bright red, and my hands and feet really do look like prunes. There’s no one else around, and I grab a fresh towel and sit on a bench, and laugh. And laugh some more.

After this, I always read the signs.

The End.

 

 

A Modest Proposal

(I wrote this back in 2007. It’s pretty freakin’ scary that it all still applies, except that the population of India, China and Africa has risen enough to demand some adjustments to the numbers, but they’re presented here as originally written. This is where pure logic and strict materialism leads: Beware, for there monsters lurk. Links not guaranteed to function.)

I well realize that this will come a shock, a terrible surprise of outrageous proportions; but…

Al Gore is right. Continue reading

Sanity: A Change in Title and Direction

As of today, the blog is retitled “Sanity in the Diamond Age.” While I still have a distinct fondness for the term, and the ideas, of “Neoreaction” and “NRx” I don’t find myself so interested in writing about them at present.

Continue reading

More Kipling NRx Wisdom (With Pictures!)

This year several reality-lovers, including Outside in, Free Northerner and me posted on Kipling’s “Gods of the Copybook Headings” (as far as I know, completely independently). Perhaps it was an example of occult NRx.

More Kipling for your consideration. Illustrated! (Many other zingers worth a look!)

Finally, a Photo of Neovictorian

Several readers have written to ask what I look like. As I’ve revealed here before, I’m 53 but if I do say so myself, I look several years younger. For one thing, I don’t have a single grey hair–not from especially clean living, believe me, but from genes, surely. I’m 6’2″, 195 lbs. so no bulge around the middle.

And so, for those who requested a photo, here we are:
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Briefly, Humor

Even the most hardened Neoreactionary street fighter living in the sewers of a Great American City does not live by the Red Pill alone.

Thus, this post.

greyskull

(Image, h/t Vulture of Critique)

 

bingo-night-just-got-real

 

 

 

 

 

Thug Life has reached The Heartland in a most disturbing way, plus BOYZ, TELL GRANNY TO KEEP HER FINGER OFF THE TRIGGER UNTIL SHE’S READY TO CAP SOMEONE! (Image, h/t some random gif site)