The Pat Wong Diaries

To my surprise, Harry remembered what I had told him about the neighbor a few days earlier.

"Does he still have a crush on you?" he asked, as he slipped into his cotton pajamas. He had just finished his evening shower and was about to brush his yellow teeth, as he did every night.

"Yes, I think so," I answered dreamily. I was folding the laundry and I usually fell into a semi-trance as I sorted through the socks and the underwear.

He shook his head and smiled meaningfully. Then he looked at me, his eyes sparkling beneath his thick glasses.

"He is a nice man," he said. "They are a nice family."

"How can you tell?" I asked.

"They always say 'Hi' and take the time to exchange pleasantries," he answered. He was drying his hair with a large white towel now and was sitting beside me.

"His wife is very polite," he added, "she always calls me 'Mister Wong' and bows a little bit." He laughed, shaking his head, as if to say, "The silly woman."

"So, how do you know he has a crush on you?" he then asked nervously.

"He blushes like a tomato and sweats when he greets me," I answered. "And the last couple of weeks, I have been bumping into him a lot more frequently than before."

Harry laughed giddily and clapped his hands. "He must be monitoring you from the window and comes out when you come out, like a little rabbit."

I winced at the thought, now that he had put it in words.

"Besides," I added, "I can see that he has an erection."

Harry laughed out loud and clapped his hands again.

"The poor man must be in agony," he said.

"Humm....You can see his erection... That is good...." He got up and started pacing pensively, a serious look on his face, his hands behind his back.

"Let us analyze the situation carefully," he added after a pause, stroking his chin. Then he stopped in the middle of the room, dropped down his pajamas and underwear, tossed them on the bed and continued with his pacing, his skinny, now fully erect penis defiantly shooting up in the air. He was naked from head to toe, his flabby belly and drooping, hairless breasts, and saggy flat ass jiggling with every step.

"How old of a man do you think he is?" He asked.

"In his thirties I guess, maybe forties -- I can't tell with these Americans," I answered, as I continued with my folding.

"Ok, yes, let us suppose he is in his mid-thirties," he nodded, taking a firm grip of his penis now. "For the sake of argument, let us suppose he is thirty five... Now, if he is behaving as he is, like a foolish teenager, then clearly he must have never tasted Chinese tuna."

I shrugged my shoulders, not even trying to guess where he was leading to.

"Now, what is the best thing that could happen to someone infatuated like him, someone slowly easing into middle age?"

He paused dramatically threw a loud spit on the palm of his right hand and started squeezing his cock.

"I will tell you. The best thing that could happen to him is for his fantasy to stretch out for as long as it can stretch out, and for him to savor the dream of attaining you, of possessing you fully, without ever living that dream."

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

"Because, as soon as he smells your vagina, as soon as he tastes its imperfect, acrid acids and sees its wispy, gray hair, he will know that it tasted and looked just like his wife's old familiar pussy.... And who comes out winning after that happens? No one...."

"So, what do you suggest?" I asked.

"Simple: we gently tend to his fantasy. Turn it into a hobby, for him and for us. We baby it, nurture it, grow it, but keep it tame and healthy and pleasant."

He paused again, now in the middle of the room and let go of his cock and put both of his hands behind his back again.

"And the first thing we need to do," he continued, "is to get him to be in possession of an intimate article of clothing from you.... Something he can touch, smell, taste...." He was now pacing round the bed, his erect cock leading the way.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, stopping in his tracks, plucking up from the laundry pile one of my nylon pantyhose socks.

"Perfect!" He laughed loudly. "Something only Chinese women wear, God knows why...."

I smiled.

"Yes, this will do fine!" he exclaimed, then, as if to reward me for a job well done, he bent over my mouth, asked me to say, "Aaaah," and when I opened my mouth, he slowly deposited a large gob of spit on my tongue.

I closed my mouth and swallowed it.

He then proceeded to slide the sock on his cock.

"Imagine the waves of joy a little sock like this could bring that young man!" he explained, sitting beside me now. "It would make his heart race like it has not since he was a small boy. He will suddenly remember what it feels like to be incomprehensibly happy. He may even cry of joy...."

I shook my head and smiled quietly.

"He will use it night and day to masturbate, will not wash it --- will worship it. He will hide it carefully from his wife. He will take it with him to work to sooth his daily hell; will lay it down on the passenger seat beside him to give it a loving glance once in a while. It will keep him company.... He is such a nice man...."

Harry was in full masturbation mode now.

"So, here is what we are going to do," he lowered his voice, and leaned towards me, sideways. He was now speaking breathlessly.

"Tomorrow morning, when you take out the garbage, accidentally drop a nylon pantyhose sock as you take something out of your sweat pants. We know he is watching --- so let's see if he bites."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"And make sure you wear your tight black sweatpants, no underwear beneath it. Bend a little when you pick up what you dropped and show the crack of your ass. Also, wear your beige high sandals, showing your sweaty feet and your painted toenails. And no makeup and don't comb your hair. Be raw...."

Harry was now staring at the wall, his right hand powerfully pumping his cock.

"I want you to inflame the man," he hissed, talking to himself more than to me. "He will become our slave, and we will roast him slowly and make him savor the taste of every minute of his waking moments."