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Gary goes to Blok M A tale of unbridled debauchery, lustful excess, and a ripping good time This is a slightly edited version of Gary's email to the guys back home - a few personal references have been taken out, and names have been changed to protect the guilty. OK, since you poor losers with wives and live-in girlfriends didn't get to come along to Blok M this trip, the least I can do is rub it in a little. We crawled out of our hotel and headed for the airport for an uneventful 11:00 AM flight to Jakarta. Uneventful because we were both terminally hung over and snoring a miasma of alcoholic fumes all the way, which was good because it cleared out the adjacent seats and let us sprawl. We checked in to the good old Hotel Losari Blok M in the afternoon and were enthusiastically greeted by name (me too!) by the desk staff and the other hotel workers. They actually remembered us from last August and asked about both of you papalagis by name. Ron told me several times that whenever he's at Losari, especially with other idiots like us, we ARE the entertainment for the week. The night security staff looks forward with great anticipation to our arriving home, drunk and stupid, and spilling out of the cab with girls in tow. They pass the stories along to the morning staff, and the gossip lasts all day and circulates among everyone at the hotel amidst lots of laughs. It was like seeing an old and dear girlfriend who knows exactly what you like and wastes no time giving it to you with passion. Her body was just as I remembered it: Slim but not skinny, perfect skin, perfect tight little cantaloupe ass, perfect firm but large (for her frame) breasts, and a cute, open, smiling face. We fucked each other blind for the entire hour until we were both totally wasted. Welcome back to The Blok, Mr. Gary. And here I have to say a few words about Blok M girls I have known and loved in the two trips I’ve taken to Jakarta. The average American or other average expat cretin might misinterpret the obvious and free-flowing affections of the Blok M girls as being lascivious, crassly commercial, wanton or undiscriminating. Nothing could be further from the truth. Without exception, every girl I have had the joy to be with has exhibited a refreshing and genuinely Eastern philosophical approach to sex. No two people get together for the night unless there is some kind of chemical or spiritual attraction. You end up with the girl of your dreams not by accident. And when you do, the simple act of going home (home in our case meaning ‘back to the hotel’) turns out to be a magically uncomplicated union. I guess the big attraction of Blok M girls is not what they have but what they DON’T have. And what they definitively DON’T have is all the stuff that western girls ADD to the experience; the expectations, the judgments, the desires, the Oprah - Cosmopolitan - Elle - Magazine driven media horseshit, the preoccupation with either the future or the past of this blissful, transitory relationship. Blok M girls just love you for who you are. Period. The fact that money may change hands later is almost an afterthought. Unlike traditional Western-thinking women, Indo girls actually enjoy the sex. They are excited about the prospect of a new exotic lover. Not burdened by commercial preoccupations, they throw themselves totally into the experience and are free to respond to you in the moment, as focused on their own climax as on your own, or better yet on your mutual climax. For first-time bules, it is a dramatic departure from what we all may have been used to. There is an absolute innocence, unadulterated joy and beauty about this experience that, as a Westerner, I do not have the words to describe, but which has opened my mind in ways I never thought possible. It’s an experience I enjoyed rarely in my callow youth, and one that I have now rediscovered, late in life, in a land far from here. But back to the story. I walked back to the 5+1 bar on shaky legs for a post-game drink to find that Ron had gone back with one of the girls. He’s such a lying ho’ bag. He came out 15 minutes later explaining that he met a girl he used to know who now works there, so he “had” to go do her. She’s a knockout, too. Looks likes she just got home from middle school, dropped off her school books and ran to 5+1 for her night job gargling throat yogurt. After 5+1 it was off to Top Gun for a rib eye steak, salad, more vodka tonics and several games of pool. It was early, so not too many girls, but the waitress, whom we named Shirley Temple, hung out with us and discussed with me the possibility of having one of my babies, who would come out huge and tall of course, become an NBA star, make millions and support us both. I asked her if she wanted to try tonight. She said she’d think about it. It was getting late so we made the rounds to D’s and My Bar which were really the only two happening places during our stay. All the other bars seem to be on the wane for some strange reason, so we didn’t have far to walk. I was pounding vodka tonics on Ron’s tab of course, and dancing with girl after girl, until about 2:00 AM when I finally hit the wall head on. The combination of no sleep, jet lag, alcohol and Lina leveled me, and I told Ron I was going to taksi home. He said he’d deliver one to me later that night. I replied, “Yeah, OK, whatever,” and stumbled back to Losari where the night security guards stared at me in disbelief: No girl. We all just laughed. They could see there was nothing left in this decrepit drunk old bule. About an hour later I was utterly unconscious when my phone rang. It was Ron calling from My Bar on his hand phone. The background noise was thunderous, but I could just make out that he’s on his way back with two girls, one for me and one for him. I said, “OK” and headed to the bathroom for a Viagra. I had brought 12 pills with me and started out breaking them in half, but by the end of the trip I was doing whole ones to keep up the insane pace and the dangerously diminishing supply of precious bodily fluids and stamina. 30 minutes after he called, Ron knocked on my door, drunk, with two in tow. Doorstep delivery. Just like a fucking pizza. They were both “Ron Specials.” Skinny beautiful ABC’s whose apparent age would get you thrown in jail in any civilized country on the planet, but not here. Mine was named Rani which she pronounced with a sexy purring rolling R, as in Rrrrrrrrrrrrani. She shook my hand, then hugged me and we both began laughing over the fact that I had suddenly sprung a throbbing woodie which was fighting to escape my OP shorts. We jumped in the shower together, a custom I really like about Blok M girls, and by the time we hit the bed, I was somehow ready to pound it again, the short nap and the pill having worked wonders. Rrrrrrrrani was a dream. She spoke maybe 3 words of English, but intuitively knew what to do and how to do it. I was getting off just watching her move, and Rani, unlike other girls I’ve met down there, loved to maintain eye contact while we were fucking, and I really like that. She had a beatific, open-lipped smile on her face and it was at that moment that I remembered why I came down here again and blew off a traditional Christmas back in America. I remembered why I went to all the expense, endured the endless hours in airplanes, the Guam layover and the grueling 30 hour trip back home. It’s because this is what I used to do when I was in my 20’s. I loved it then, and I love it now, except it’s even easier and more fun this time. It’s like a beautiful fantasy porno movie, but it’s really happening and I’m starring in it. This vacation was already a winner, and it was only the first night in Blok M. The next day Ron and I rolled out at 11:00 AM, ordered some breakfast down in the café, then crawled right back up to bed where we slept until 3:00 PM. Then it was off to Top Gun for some food and pool once again. Shirley Temple was still considering my baby offer, and hung onto me affectionately while she thought about it, only breaking away to bring me another vodka tonic, go buy me a pack of cigarettes or gum or to serve another customer. Unlike the other straight black-haired Blok M beauties, Shirley Temple had long curly hair and an infectious smile which made her look exactly like a 1930’s Hollywood child movie star. I noticed I was drinking way too many vodka tonics and my pool game was steadily deteriorating. Somehow, I just didn’t care. I had caught my second wind and Ron and I were on a roll. At D’s place we met up with all of Ron’s old friends including Rini, the girl you guys shoved in my door at 3:00 AM on the last trip while I stood there stark naked. She remembered me right away and attached herself to us, becoming my default date for the evening, which was fine because she was cute, familiar, I felt like dancing, and she did, too. The only problem was that she, like half of Blok M, was power drinking on Ron’s tab, but she was pounding a ½ wine and ½ orange juice cocktail (?) and getting pretty drunk, but then so was I. By now Ron and I had pretty much hooked up with Rini and one of her ABC friends and I was approached by the owner of D’s and asked to judge a dance contest. I had been out dancing on the floor for hours and was sweating like a hog, so I guess he figured I was either an expert, or too drunk to say no. About 20 girls got up on stage en masse and began dancing as lewdly as they possibly could right in front of me where a special bar stool had been placed for my benefit. Two free vodka tonics went with the judging job. I managed to narrow it down to twelve contestants, then five. Of course Rini was in the top 5, then the top 3, then she won. I got righteous stink-eye from all the other girls since Rini had been at our table all night and the fix was obviously in, but what the fuck? Am I the judge or am I NOT the judge? I’m from Hawaii and we’re all corrupt over here, so fuck you all. Rini won 500,000 Rp. and was very happy. We stumbled over to My Bar at about 2:00 AM and continued the drinking dancing frenzy. We were all roaring drunk by then and when Ron went to pay his tab the next day he reckoned that I went through 30 vodka tonics between Top Gun and My Bar, where we finally left at about 4:00 AM. It felt like it. We were literally poured out of the cab at Losari, laughing and falling down like the clowns we were. Both girls were wasted too, and the hotel security guys had to help us through the door to the elevator, laughing under their breath and wondering how in hell we managed to do this every fucking night. Rini and I, totally drunk, reeled into the shower and then into bed. The nearly 12 hours of drinking vodka tonics had lit my stomach on fire and even water, which was all we had, didn’t help much. Somehow, together, we managed to fumble around, work up a respectable stiffy and get it inside her, but within ten strokes I was ready to spew stomach acid like the Alien. Before it came up I pulled out, sat upright and guzzled another bottle of water. “Are you alright,” said Rini. “Noke,” said I. She understood, and after a minute or two when I could safely lie back down, we passed out in each other’s arms. Not very romantic, but we were both totally trashed. A couple of hours later poor Rini had to get up and go to work, but she was young and resilient. I sent her off with taksi money and a kiss and collapsed back into a coma. When Ron and I finally rolled out later in the afternoon we were in horrible shape. I was sore as hell from dancing like a fool, and we were both on death’s door from hangovers. Some food helped a little, and Ron suggested a “real” massage, not the 5+1 kind, but the genuine shiatsu kind that lasts for a long time. I agreed and we headed for Blok A, a nearby business district which is very clean, upscale and quiet and which is home to several spa/massage parlors patronized by wealthy Asian businessmen. And this is where we made the best discovery of the entire trip. Ron had never tried any of these places, so we picked one, “Delta,” and rolled in. It was very high-end and glitzy with lots of glass and marble and very friendly receptionists, with whom Ron began flirting immediately. We saw that you could buy up to three 45-minute “sessions” and use all of the spa’s facilities (hot tub, sauna, steam room, etc.) for 260,000 Rp. As he does with everything regarding money, Ron thought this was expensive, but we were dying, so we went for the full menu anyway. It was pamper city all the way with solicitous attendants shadowing you everywhere, giving you slippers, shorts, towels, robes, water, directions and smiles. It was perfect for a couple of brain-dead bules who got lost several times among the place’s three floors and myriad rooms. Ron and I headed straight for the huge hot tub and guzzled free bottled water while floating around like dead whales, soaking out the alcohol which saturated our bodies. Then it was upstairs to the massage rooms which were clean, quiet, very private and with mercifully subdued lighting. There was 70’s soft rock playing quietly overhead. The massage room had a raised and padded floor which was level with the padded massage bed, and it had a comfortably padded face hole so you could lie stomach down with your head in the hole. There was pleasantly-scented fresh cool air circulating below the massage floor. This place was perfect, and I started feeling marginally better just being there stretched out face down and knowing that the next 2-1/2 hours I would have to do nothing but groan and moan. Ron and I got rooms next to each other so we could bullshit, and we could hear each other beneath the floor or above the partitions which went almost, but not quite, to the ceiling. My massage girl Umi came in and she was young, short, cute and very professional. After spreading out huge towels under me and on top of me, she doused the top towel with oil so her feet would slide around a bit. There was an elaborate hand rail suspended from the ceiling which she used to hang onto as she began to walk on my back from toes to neck, and it was the best shiatsu walkabout I’ve ever experienced. She rocked her feet, working both her heels and toes all over, and went right to the sorest areas again and again until they let go. Her intuition was flawless. This lasted for a good half hour, and by the time she removed the towel and started working with her hands, virtually all of the tension and soreness was gone. For the next hour and a half I received the most thorough massage I’ve ever had, which included dry shiatsu pressure, then a complete stroking with oil including a deep stroking with both her forearms and elbows from the base of my spine to my neck while she sat and lay on my butt with her feet wrapped around my calves. Over and over and over again. Then it got even better when she spent just as much time rubbing the inside of my butt crack and crotch as any other part. It was absolute heaven. When it was finally time to turn over on my back for session III, I was a fucking rag and was so relaxed I could barely talk. Ron and I both agreed later that this was the absolutely best massage we’d ever had, anywhere. But then it got even better. In session III Umi worked my feet, lower legs, upper legs, stomach and chest, first dry, then with oil. Then she scooted down between my legs, spread them comfortably apart and began concentrating on my entire crotch, from the inside of my thighs, to my pubic bone including balls, prostate area and finally gently rubbing over, then grabbing my dick, then working with two hands deftly and gently in the best slow-motion hand job I’ve ever had from anyone, including me. I managed to raise my head and look at Umi who was just smiling back as she slowly spanked my monkey perfectly. I fell back on my pillow, in absolute bliss. At that moment Ron called out over the partition, “Hey, are you getting a hand job?” “Yeah,” I replied. “The best one I’ve ever had. I can’t even do it this good.” “Yeah, me too,” said Ron. We were both surprised, but not really. I guess this was just part of the massage service. Unexpected, but certainly welcome. After the hand job, Umi sat me up, vigorously wiped all the oil off my back with a fresh towel, and gave me a big hug and a kiss. I could barely walk. After heading back downstairs for a nice long hot shower, we hit the street, totally rejuvenated. Totally new men and ready for more Blok M self-abuse. Needless to say, we returned to Delta every single day for the rest of our stay in Blok M, and it’s the only way we managed to survive the punishing party pace. We developed the trick of letting our Delta massage girls beat our meat and get us about halfway there, then having them stop so we’d have something left for later in the evening. This was mysterious to them since their efforts produced raging woodies, but Ron explained it away by telling them in Indonesian that “We were tired old bules, and that our wells were dry.” This seemed to satisfy them, and they laughed like hell, just like all Indonesians laugh at all of our crazy antics. Delta was one of the highlights of the trip. The total experience was almost, I say almost, as good as the sex with the Jalan Pelatehan bar girls. And Ron agrees with that. It was absolutely incredible. With the exception of New Year’s Eve, which was absolute fucking madness at My Bar, the rest of the trip just runs together like a happy watercolor. Ron and I let ourselves slide into a drunken, rutting stupor every night, doing the now familiar rounds of Top Gun, D’s and My Bar, bringing home ABC bar bunnies, then sleeping in half the day and going to Delta for triage and emergency resuscitation. I think we did manage to eat food at least once each day. I lost several pounds down there. I remember that I went home with a particularly nice “retread” two consecutive nights in spite of Ron’s ragging me endlessly about letting my standards slip and ending up with a 24 year old. Ron considers anything over 18 a “retread.” He finally shut up about it when I explained to him that she looked exactly like a girl I once knew whom I always wanted to fuck, but never got the chance to. This seemed to be sufficient justification, since he finally confessed he had done the same thing. Her name was Nini, she spoke very good English and she was probably the best fuck of the whole trip, Lina notwithstanding. And here’s the weird thing: In any bar anywhere else in the world Nini would have hordes of guys hanging on her and busting moves, but in Blok M she’s up against dozens of girls who look just like they stepped off the Rona Sumabayan Middle School bus. She was perfect for me, though. Besides, Nini was the morning glory queen, managing to take advantage of the residual Viagra effects for a sunrise quickie before leaving the hotel to go wherever bar girls go when they’ve extracted the last milligram of your essence. Nini turned out to be a screamer too, and I like screamers. As I explained to Ron after the first night with Nini, “Hey Ron, I know how you feel about retreads, but consider this: They have two things going for them. 1) They’re very grateful and, 2) They try harder.” He had to agree, although he is still obsessively committed to the endless search for the “Fresh-off-the-kampong” ABC whose birth control pills look like Fred Flintstone. One highlight of the trip was a terrific bitch-slap cat fight that broke out at My Bar right in front of me. I was sitting on a bar stool at the main bar with Nini pounding her ass into my crotch to the beat of the deafening rock music when all of a sudden a small circle opened up right in the middle of the SRO crowd. At first I couldn’t figure out what was happening, then I saw two girls square off, screaming at each other. One kicked the other viciously in the shin with her platform heel go-go boots, and the fight was on. They launched at each other like two sumo wrestlers, one hand going for the hair and the other delivering uppercut punches like two Australian Rugby League players in a nasty scrum. One of the cat girls was directly in front of me, so Nini ducked out of the way just as cat #1 slammed into me. Without even thinking, I grabbed her around the waist and held on for dear life. I could feel the blows landing as vibrations through her body. These girls were out to light each other up. Several guys jumped into the scuffle and tried to separate them, two on my side and three on the other girl, and it took a good minute or two to pry them apart. When we finally did, I looked at my forearm and there were huge tufts of long black hair all over it. Somebody was going to have bald spots the next day. Both girls were politely but immediately ushered to the front door. I asked Nini what the fight was about. She said, “It was over a man, of course.” Then a beat or two later she added, “None of you are worth it.” But then she grinned and kissed me hard. Hello, Blok M. God, I love this place. It seemed that everyone ended up in My Bar for New Year’s Eve. It was absolute pandemonium, packed to the rafters, and the wait staff were passing around free tequila shots by the hundreds, as if everyone wasn’t drunk enough already. Midnight was a complete riot with everyone kissing, cheering and feeling up everyone else in a good natured way for 10 minutes. The best part of the evening was that most, if not all, of the scores of girls in the bars were drunk, which is rare, and I have never been felt up, mashed, assaulted, goosed, kissed and grabbed more in my life. Nini just took it all in stride with a bemused smile on her face. She knew she was going home with me, so it was just entertainment to her. It was as if some unspoken rule about not mauling bules was magically rescinded the later it got. I had my shorts pulled down over my ass at least 10 times, had my dick grabbed at least as many times and got my ass and tits fondled probably 20 times, and all by giggling drunk girls. For the life of me I can’t see what the problem is with these women who get upset over getting occasionally pinched, goosed, fondled or “accidentally bumped” by men. I enjoyed the shit out of being a blatant sex object that night and being mauled mercilessly. It was all in fun and caused a good hearty laugh every time. In many cases, if I could catch who did it, I grabbed them right back and caused lots of screams and laughing myself. On our third night out we met up with the guy who does the Blok M web site. He’s a crusty old Brit who Ron and I agree has been in Jakarta far too long for his own good. He is a rather funny guy though, and he regaled us with good Blok M stories three nights in a row, including the one about the recent bar “raids” during Ramadan last October by Jakarta’s version of The Taliban. His downfall is his obsession with the past and his insistence that things were far better in Blok M eight years ago when he arrived. Frankly, the only way I could possibly imagine this place being any better is if all the drinks, pussy and taksi fares were completely free instead of just ridiculously cheap. On one of the last nights there Ron finally went tropo and tore the envelope. As usual we were finishing up the evening-- make that morning-- in My Bar and I had already snagged my playmates for the night, two little stunners named Ani and Eli. Ron was still hanging out with a group of cute ABC’s, and I told him I was heading back to the hotel. I could see by his bleary eyes that he was potted. He just waved a limp hand at me. Later that morning at around 5:00 AM my phone rang, waking me and the girls out of a profound coma. It was Ron explaining that he needed my help. He had brought home four girls and now couldn’t handle them and asked if I could take two of them off his hands because they were starting to make noise. Now I love Ron, and will be eternally grateful to him for turning me on to Blok M, but enough is too much. I turned him down flat, claiming that I was not Superman, Viagra or no Viagra. He gave up. I turned to Ani and Eli and told them that Ron wanted to dump two girls on us. They gave me a look I will never be able to describe. Eli summed it up perfectly: “His problem. Go sleep.” I found out the next morning that Ron finally ended up taking the two drunkest and loudest ones down to the hotel lobby, handing them over to the hotel security guys with a fistful of Rupiah and had them put into a taksi. End of problem. Go sleep. New Year’s Day Eve was our last night in the Blok and we put on long pants and real shoes so that we could try something different and go to CJ’s Lounge in the Malia Hotel down in the Convention Center District. The place featured live music with a Caribbean (!) band, which was very good, and $8.00 drinks which was very bad. Ron showed the shit-heel side of his personality by managing to nurse one vodka tonic for two hours while we surveyed the scene for girls but mostly just enjoyed the music. We had been warned by one of the old expats back in Blok M that the girls at CJ’s were so convinced their pussies were lined with gold that they set off airport metal detectors, but maybe he just had a bad experience there or had paid too much. Who knows. We were approached by some girls, but when Ron (of course) did the math his conclusion was, “Shit, for the cost of buying three drinks for the girls here you could spend the whole night with a Blok M girl! Their pussies really ARE lined with gold here. Let’s go.” So we migrated back to My Bar just in time for me to be the judge of another dance contest, which job came with free drinks again. There were three of us judges this night and twelve contestants. All were good, but one girl Ambar, was the unanimous winner. She was a short and rather chunky girl with big (I mean big) tits for a little girl. She also had kinky long hair and a personality and face like Bette Midler. She dirty danced like a frog in a frying pan, and at the end of her turn flipped up the front of her pleated mini skirt to reveal a tiny hot orange thong, then turned around and flipped her skirt up again showing her tight little ass which she thrust at everyone repeatedly like a baboon in heat. It brought the fucking house down and won her 500,000 Rp. Ron also brought the house down himself a few minutes after the dance contest when the owner of My Bar called him up on stage so everyone could see him in long pants and shoes. The place went absolutely berserk, and a couple of girls tried to pants him. I guess in the 20 years he’s been going down there they have NEVER seen Ron in anything but shorts and flaps. It was a real Blok M moment. At some point during the evening Ron and I managed to merge with a gang of about 5 ABC’s up on the dance floor bar, most of whom Ron knew and all of whom were drop dead stone ABC bunnies. In that funny inexplicable salmon spawning-stream way things work in Blok M, I started making eye contact with one of the girls and she insinuated her way into my aura, attaching herself to me the way I imagine a sperm attaches itself to an egg, or a lamprey to a shark. We shouted our names to each other. I missed hers in the deafening music and bar noise, but I figured I’d get it later. I never did, and that, I suppose, is the perfect ending to a Blok M odyssey. A totally anonymous encounter. Well, what’s in a name? We all went home relatively early that night - maybe 2:00 or 3:00 AM - and this nameless girl turned out to be one of the best experiences of the whole trip. She was gorgeous, affectionate and passionate and treated me as if I had known her name for months if not years. I spent my last whole Viagra on her, and we used it up doing everything we could think of until we exhausted each other, then curled up like spoons and went comatose as it started getting light behind the window drapes. Later that morning she woke up, stretched, went to go pee, checked my watch (which was still on Hawaii time) and actually politely asked if she could go home…”No problem, meester Gary?” I said sure and after she had showered and dressed she gave me a smile, a big hug and a kiss and asked me when I was going to come back next time. Very soon, I hope. If you'd like to read Gary's second report, just click here for the link!
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