A Seductive Tale of Strolls, Curds, Dumplings and Coelenterates

February 28th, 2011. Categories / San Francisco

Chapter 1: For Whom the Beau Strolls

As Miss J-DAWG Jammy Fresh stood listening to her lover bending her ear, she wondered how much longer she would have to endure before she could politely excuse herself and slip away to prepare for their morning walk.

The lover’s name was Nik and he was a handsome brute: all brown eyes and muscles, but she, unlike the other women gathered in the grove behind the small apartment, hoped to one day claim him as a husband.

J and the hunk had traveled to this small Chinese colony in western San Francisco in hopes of a better life through a confusing network of business ventures, even though she had signed on strictly to not die an old maid. Her plans were to stay long enough to make sure everything worked out for the building company she found, then strike out East. Russian Hill maybe. In the meantime, she had the day to get through.

In preparation for the walk, J had gotten all gussied up, put on her powders and paints, and hoped her modest, torn blue jeans would keep other suitors away. Here, for the first time in a long time, the broad and bulbous derrière and sparkling blue eyes she’d inherited from her mixed ancestry would not be an advantage.


Ginger bush.

Peering out from the agave in hopes of spotting nudity.

The sparrow knows.

Algae infested pond.

Fragrant flowers rimmed with light.

J stroking the coast silk-tassel.

Magnolias.

A muted scheme.

Steps to the heavens.

A wall related to the subway.

A bustling Mervyn’s parking lot.

Exquisite corp.

They finally raised the white flag.

The Mission finally succumbed to lawlessness.

What’s behind door 621?

Donut shop.

Man ponders a missing U.

Mustard truck is spicy.

The shanty.

The not so secret garden.

Captain yellow takes a break.

Awesome van!

Chapter 2: Some Like it Curds

“So tell me, dear, have you ever curdled before?”

Nik’s eyes widened as he spit a mouthful of expensive, low fat latte.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked if you’ve ever have curdled milk?” The host tilted her head to one side, one perfectly penciled eyebrow raised in question.

Nik’s face heated to dog wiener red. Not exactly male model material, this shade of red. Outside, a police car zoomed by with the whooping of the siren as a classic example of the doppler effect.

The embarrassed fellow struggled to find words, trying not to stare at the multiple single gallon jugs of milk nearby. The host pursed her lips, obviously waiting for an answer. She looked so earnest.

“Honestly Ma’am, I haven’t.”

“Well then,” the host hissed as she uncapped her swollen jugs. “Perhaps we should get down to business.”


Fermenting vegetables.

Scooping the hot, steamy curds out of the pot.

Curds.

A pizza made with the curds.

Chapter 3: Lady Shanghai’s Plump Dumplings

It had been two years since Nik had fled China and had forced the memory of that life from his mind like a bad dream. Two years.

Nik shook his head and took a sip of the hot tea in the small cup. It was impossible to conceive of going back. Impossible. He glanced at Lord Valdimort and J-DAWG Jammy Fresh.

“I hear that the dumplings here are quite plump,” he said simply.

“You hear correctly, ma cherie,” the hot Chinese server from Shanghai Dumpling King crooned as she sidled even closer to the rough, knife-marked table at which the group was reminiscing. She set down a tray of steaming dumplings on the table. The dumplings were so steamy that the steam caused the top button of her blouse to unfasten, and at the precisely right angle it was possible to just barely make out the start of what might have either been cleavage or a cast shadow from the blouse.

Nik turned his gaze away from the shadows and looked at the offering before him.

“My heart weeps at the sight of your buns, but it would shatter into tiny pieces if I had to return to that land of the rising sun.” The hunk looked on the verge of one of his nostalgic rambles, so J cut him off.

“You’ve obviously drunk too much wine again, Nik.” J said, chuckling as she touched his thigh.

“No, not wine my dear. Chinese vodka,” Nik replied slyly as he pulled a red communist flask out of his pants and took a hefty swig. Nik coughed violently and offered the flask to his mates at the table. They declined.

Nik lifted the flask again, but this time J stopped him with a solid whack of her chopstick against the flask just a fraction of an inch from his fingers.

Nik jerked his hand back and stared at her with a look of horror.

“Ow! You are cruel to wound me so!”

“Honestly, have you ever considered a career in the theatre?” she asked, and raised her chopstick again pointing in his general direction.

Nik rolled his eyes and ripped off his shirt in one swift movement. He sat there, his heavy breaths inflating and deflating his muscular and pale chest like a bike pump inflating and deflating a balloon shaped like a chest.

J took one look and blushed.

“Oh my, my, my.”

Lord Valdimort cleared his throat and looked out the window.

The waitress, distracted by the display, walked into a wall and spilled multiple plates of food on the floor. When she bent over to pick them up, it was precisely the right angle to be possible to just barely make out the start of what might have either been cleavage or a cast shadow from the blouse.


Shanghai noodles.

Pan-fried dumplings.

Shanghai soup dumplings were so juicy.

Egg puffs the size of moose knuckles.

Chapter 4: Goo on the Beach

A thick twist of brown hair lay heavily against the back of Nik’s thick neck, sending rivulets of perspiration down his spine. His white silk shirt clung like onion skin to his sweat-slick skin. Even though he was within raping distance of the ocean, Nik’s lips were cracked from lack of moisture. The man’s mind began to wander towards thoughts of french style snuggling and caffeinated sodas.

Suddenly, an electric jolt snapped Nik back into his own masculine perspective. A jellyfish whose pale white goop he had for one infinitesimal moment stared through, lay provocatively in a tidal pool.

Vibrant white framed her gastrovascular cavity, the gelatinous belly thrusting upwards into an ample, heaving umbrella. The form was unapologetically feminine.

This free-swimming member of the phylum Cnidaria wasn’t hiding from her sexuality. Clearly she belong to the Women’s Club. And the dues to this club were hot and heavy.


The hunk juggles.

Photoshoot.

Blue heron glams for the cam.

Jellyfish in a tide pool.

Sutro Bath ruins seen from the beach.

Zen tide pools.

Another glob of goo.

Hunk on the steps, looking to the right.

Tulip legit to quit.

Gopher? I hardly know her.

The end.

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