I am not one to promote racial stereotypes, so I'll preface this story by saying I do not intend to imply that all Asian men have little dicks. It's not like I've gone around measuring Asian cock, so, for all I know, they're all sporting trouser pythons. Anyway, it's not like I'm hung like a mule, though I've noticed some jealous stares from Chihuahuas when I'm pissing in public at my local park.
That being said, during my time in Japan, I did find the local condom brands to be a bit, shall we say, snug. And I wasn't the only one. In fact, a friend of mine brought a big bag of Trojans and Durex back from a trip home to Wisconsin, and he was kind enough to leave the unused leftovers with me when he left for good two or three months later.
However, the stash was almost depleted by the time my then girlfriend, the current Mrs. Louis, and I decided to take a trip to Bali. The good news, however, was that Mrs. Louis' guidebook for Bali mentioned that the Hard Rock Café store in Kuta, Bali's most popular shopping destination, carried American rubbers.
Well, of course, we already planned to eat at the actual café, so I decided to buy some cock coats there, even though Mrs. Louis insisted that wasn't necessary. Because my dick's not that big, you see.
Bitch.
Anyway, after dinner we strode on down to the store and looked around at the overpriced merchandise. We found, and purchased, some very nice Hard Rock huggers for like $100, but there were no willie warmers to be found.
Puzzled, I almost gave up, and even left the store, because Mrs. Louis insisted she would be embarrassed if I asked the clerk where the jimmie hatz were with her standing right there. So, she stayed outside while I returned to make the query.
It turns out she had good reason to be shy. She knows me all too well.
Confidently, I approached the young guy behind the counter, because even I get a little weird about asking girl clerks for love gloves. I figured my brother in arms there would help me out.
"Hey, man, listen, I read in our tour book that you guys sell American rubbers here," I told the clerk in a discreet tone. "Where would those be?"
"Excuse?" the clerk said.
"Rubbers. Um, condoms, American condoms, do you have them here?"
The boy just looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language, which, of course, I was. So I decided a gesture might be appropriate.
"Condoms," I repeated. "You know, for sex."
While saying this, I instinctively moved my right hand up and down, trying to show the act of preparing Little Big Man for some beaver wrestling.
However, it quickly became apparent that the clerk interpreted the gesture, combined with the word "sex," in an entirely different manner. His eyes widened in panic, and he began waving his hands in front of his face and backing away slightly.
"No, no, you go somewhere else," he said.
I froze, hand in mid-pump, and realized I had just made an unintentional solicitation for a hand job.
"Oh, no, no, wait, I, not that," I muttered, but it was pointless. There was no salvaging the situation, so I put up my hands in surrender and took my shame back out into the street, where Mrs. Louis was anxiously pacing.
Thus ended the quest for condoms in Bali. On the upside, the whole debacle was so embarrassing it caused my cock to shrink enough to make the Japanese brands feel roomy.