Loneliness Club

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

* 　　The Lonely Club 　　*

********** 　　...　　 The waiter was still waiting, neither speaking nor leaving, nor urging her, just standing there. His mere presence told her she wasn't finished. Anyway, she was already undressed; there was nothing more she couldn't take off . She loosened her bra, peeled off her stockings, and removed her last remaining underwear and sanitary pad. Now she was naked in front of strangers. She felt ashamed, but she couldn't show her shame to others, so she maintained her haughty air as a customer. 　　The waiter explained that everyone who came to the club did this. Then the waiter asked her to hand over her clothes for safekeeping. He folded them neatly, took her clothes and purse, and left; she had nothing. The waiter never returned, and she waited alone in the room for a very long time, about half an hour. 　　Later, another waiter came and said, "Miss, you can go to the next room, please come in." 　　The next room was larger, with three people, men and women, all completely naked. She didn't recognize any of them, but she could imagine they were all like her; only those like her would come to this club. They sat in silence, no looking at each other, no one speaking, heads bowed, eyes downcast. All four of them, including her, maintained the same static posture , as if adhering to some unwritten rule, one that couldn't be broken, for breaking it would bring embarrassment. 　　By not speaking, not seeing each other, they could pretend they weren't naked. 　　The wait was long; she felt a little cold and glanced at the thermometer on the wall: 23.5℃. About half an hour later, a waiter entered, dressed identically in a bright red suit—the young waiter was the only one in the room with clothes on. He carried a stack of files. 　　He said, "Ms. Chen, please. Who is Ms. Chen?" A woman beside her stood up and said, "That's me." The waiter asked, "Ms. Chen, what's your name?" Her face flushed. They took her identification but wanted to know her name. They faced each other for ten minutes. The waiter, as if used to such guests, said, "I'm sorry, we can't serve you. Mr. Wu, who is Mr. Wu?" 　　Mr. Wu stood up and answered all the waiter's questions. Ms. Chen stood there alone, naked, tears streaming down her face. She dared not look at Miss Chen, and was filled with fear. The waiter asked Mr. Wu in a clear voice what his name was, where he worked, where he lived, how much he earned, and whether he had a wife. After Mr. Wu answered, he said, "Mr. Wu, you may go to the next room. 　　" Then it was her turn, and the man in the bright red suit spoke. 　　"Miss Zhou, who is Miss Zhou?" She stood up, feeling the wind blowing across her side and nipples, goosebumps rising on her skin. 　　"What's your name?" the man in the bright red suit asked her in a clear voice, just as he had asked Mr. Wu. "Zhou Yunmeng," she answered. "Your name is dreamy," he said, scrutinizing her, scrutinizing an object, and she felt examined. "My father likes that lake," she replied vaguely. "Where do you work?" he continued , his tone relaxed yet somewhat contemptuous. Thus, when the interrogation ended, everyone knew her name was Zhou Yunmeng, that she was a manager at a publishing house, lived on the street in the city center opposite the club, earned 70,000 yuan a month, and had no husband. 　　"Miss Zhou, you may go to the next room," the man in the bright red suit said when it was all over. 　　The third room was larger, with more naked men and women, and the lighting was different. 　　Everything else was similar: sit quietly for half an hour, then a waiter in a suit came in. 　　Experiencing the same thing a second time wasn't as cruel or cold. She looked at the thermometer : 24°C. At first, the questions were the same: name, address, workplace, how much money, marital status . The questions became increasingly trivial: blood type, zodiac sign, date of birth. She answered them one by one: type O, Capricorn, 19xx, xx month xx day. Finally, the waiter asked if she was a virgin. 　　"No…" she answered timidly. 　　"Miss, could you please speak a little louder?" the waiter raised his voice, then, after making sure she heard clearly, said, "Miss, you may go to the next room." 　　She silently lowered her head, wanting to pack something, but had no luggage to pack. Everyone heard clearly; no one in the room looked down on her. She was just the first one. She walked out of the room and into a long, narrow corridor. The journey to the next room was long; she walked for about twenty minutes. At the very end, there was a door, an entrance, and at the end was a room. 　　She went in. It was the same group of people, but with a few more she didn't recognize. Nothing had changed. Almost the only difference was the temperature: 25°C, 26°C, 27°C. The deeper she went, the less the nakedness felt cold. The waiter's suit seemed discolored, actually due to the changing lighting; the clothes, which should have been a deep red, now appeared dark. During the long, long wait, questions repeated themselves, each more embarrassing than the last, like the waiter asking, "Do you own a dog?"—a seemingly trivial question a friend would never have struggled to answer. But when she was asked this, she was completely naked, and had already waited a very, very long time—half an hour, then another half hour, and another half hour; "Miss, you can go to the next room. 　　" Finally, even the seemingly insignificant question, "Do you own a dog?" was enough to break her. 　　She went to the next room, which was warmer. This room was 27°C; the temperature gauge subtly . The deeper she went, the more the gentle, warm air seeped into her. 　　The waiter asked, "Miss Zhou, how deep is your vagina?" 　　She said she didn't know. The waiter went to the door and pressed the intercom to ask someone to bring a ruler. The person brought one.

A graduated cylinder; she'd never known a ruler looked like that.

The waiter approached her and said, "Miss Zhou, please open your legs," and only then did she realize the ruler was for measuring her.

She closed her eyes and opened her legs on the chair.

The waiter gently and slowly wiped her with cotton; she felt the coolness of the alcohol on the surfaces. Then

the waiter applied a little clear ointment to the ruler.

The entry was gentle, slow, yet icy cold; the ruler was made of metal. The ointment on the ruler

was cold and slippery, defying body temperature; she felt an inorganic chill. Until it reached the very end of her cervix, engulfing

all her openings, an endless, painful tide. The ruler was finally withdrawn.

6.2 centimeters, the waiter said, something she herself hadn't even known.

Now, she could enter the next room, the last one.

The room was warm, with luxurious sofas and chairs, and screens, like a nightclub. As they left

the previous room , the waiter said there wouldn't be any more waiters. They were all well-behaved guests,

and in this last room, they could do whatever they wanted without restraint. If they needed anything, they could ring

the service bell at the door.

Finally, everyone went to this room. There were many people, perhaps thirty or forty, and no one spoke.

The waiter said, "Guests, do whatever you want," but what could they do? They were all strangers,

even though she knew Mr. Wu's penis was twelve centimeters; Miss Lan's was about the same size as hers, both

starting with six and ending with a decimal; Mr. Chen earned 120,000 yuan a month; Mr. Yin, under twenty, had slept with seven women;

and Miss Han kept three wolfhounds. How could they possibly know each other? Standing there, everything was crystal clear.

It wasn't that they couldn't or didn't want to talk; in this last large room, language was no longer necessary.

Men and women, naked, could do very little. An old man approached a woman who looked like his granddaughter. She

knew the old man's name was Wu Chunhai. The old man knelt reverently, his wrinkled body casting a long shadow, and approached the young woman's toes

. The young woman was confused. The old man sucked on her toes, his deeply scarred skin rubbing against her youth. He was half-erect

, not impotent.

A stream of murky blood flowed silently down the woman's slender white thigh—menstruation.

So vividly red, making everyone else's skin appear excessively pale.

Loneliness is allowing others to humiliate you, only the process is warm. The journey is long, the temperature gradually increases. Once

people start, it's hard to stop; everyone starts.

A man came to her side.

He gently touched her hand; she didn't resist, then he embraced her. The man caressed her, sweat clinging to her skin,

a cool, damp sensation sliding down her back; the man was licking her. Touching her hand was a test, embracing wasn't

; licking was a test, the man gently flicking his forked tongue. She wanted to reach out and lightly touch the man's chest.

From her back to her groin, slowly moving to her ankles and even her arches, finally returning to her earlobe.

A week-long world tour completed.

The man dared not touch her breasts, a frenzied ecstasy lurking in his hesitation. They were so close, she wanted to

touch the man's chest but dared not; the man wanted to caress her breasts but dared not. His hand slowly slid over her

shoulder, and she felt a warmth in her waist.

The kiss was fleeting, almost devoid of the feeling of previous touches, only the tender memory of the past.

How real can a memory be?

"Yunmeng..." the man murmured, her name.

Don't call my name here. I am just an O-type Capricorn woman with long hair. You don't remember Zhou Yunmeng.

When relaying information, a pronoun is sufficient; there's no need to attach a name, such as "you" or "she," which are actually more

accurate.

The man opened her legs on the sofa; her wet skin smelled musky. Her blood flowed to her soft

petals and genitals, causing a wanton erection. Fingers gently traced her secretions. She tilted her frail neck back, her hands

hooking behind the man's head.

The man entered her body, gently, slowly, until finally, they were perfectly intertwined. She wasn't sure

if she had ever resisted, but loneliness was inherently humiliating, and she clenched her muscles, desperately trying to prevent him from entering. If the only

resistance was to yield with Kegel exercises, she thought. Don't misinterpret my body temperature.

At the end of the harbinger, there was only silent sex.

She was on the edge of a hazy dream, not yet deeply ensnared. There was a group of people, young or old, who were rebelling,

in a naked, fleshy hell, where even after undressing, their skin still bore the indelible tattoos or body paint. A white-collar worker earning

200,000 split the glans of his penis into a star shape, six gleaming beads to disrupt the pursuit of steel's longevity,

the perfection of the steel beads.

The tide was about to engulf her, the man breathing heavily on her body, thrusting deeply into her, the deepest part of her soft harbinger, the palace gate

sharp with pain, tears quietly overflowing, no grand groans, only pain and waves lurking together. She

looked at the man with pity, she held his head tightly.

Her deep hunger was still powerless against this psychedelic park.

(The End)

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