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NIs in Uzbekistan
by Rishi Fri Oct 18, 2013 11:15 pm
http://www.openthemagazine.com/article/living/nights-out-in-a-new-town
Some others in the group intervene, and peace is restored. Sharmaji goes off to relieve himself in the street while Jabir enters the bus and says into the mic: ‘This is not India. We don’t piss wherever we want.’
I’m walking into the hotel with Rajesh when the security guard at the hotel stops us to ask if we’re looking for girls. Rajesh is, and he’s told to go to the sixth floor of the hotel to make a selection. (Talking later with the security guard, I find that he thinks of himself as an artist. He’s broken-hearted after being dumped by his girlfriend of four years, and has written a song about it. He also plans to write an English novel and has got as far as the title: The Billionaire Living Inside of Me. From him I learn that in addition to Indians, it’s Pakistanis and Koreans who make up the bulk of sex tourists to Uzbekistan.)
I emerge from the hotel the next morning to see Rajesh in a red leather jacket and sunglasses, smoking a pensive cigarette on a bench outside. I join him and ask how last night went. ‘So-so,’ he says. He’d picked a blonde Russian girl and was told she’d come to his room, but a dark-haired Uzbek girl had showed up instead. He didn’t want to kick up a fuss so he’d made do with her and paid up.
The second evening’s gala dinner, at another Indian restaurant, features dancers who would be considered outrageously beautiful in any part of the world. They’re also accomplished belly dancers and the evening is a low-lit blur of skin and diaphanous fabric. The dancers are on a small stage in the middle of the dining area and there’s a sign that says the stage is only for performers. This does not stop Don from clambering up with an ecstatic expression and a bundle of soums. Sharmaji is next. Soon, the girls are down among the group, dancing between tables to Sheela ki Jawaani, Kajra Re and Munni Badnaam Hui, and the floor is carpeted with soums. There are many attempts to chat up the dancers, who smile coyly and accept money, but will not disclose even their names. Paras, the sari distributor from Surat, is in his thirties but often boyish in behaviour. He tries to woo a waitress by looking longingly at her and saying ‘Helllooo’ but it only causes her to break out in giggles.
It’s a drunk and slavering group that heads out of the restaurant. The sardars immediately get into a taxi outside the restaurant in the company of a mini-skirted woman. The rest have plans in or around the hotel, and head back in the bus. Four of us—Paras, Rajesh, a businessman from Gujarat in his mid-thirties, and I—are planning to sample a night-club near our hotel. Kakaji, who has danced with abandon and is slightly drunk at the end of the evening takes us aside to give us some advice after we alight at the hotel. ‘This body is all bones and flesh,’ he tells us, extending his arms and looking at himself. ‘It’s nothing at all—here today, gone tomorrow. Enjoy everything; enjoy all you want. But just keep one thing in mind—never enjoy yourself at anyone else’s cost; never hurt anyone else.’
Before we set off with the elder’s blessings, we want to leave behind in our rooms our passports and money in excess of what we need for the night. In the hotel lobby we are stopped by the security guard who tells us there are girls waiting on the sixth floor. We stop by on the way down from our rooms. The sixth floor corridor is dense as a railway platform with members from our tour group. They’re sprawled on the floor or sitting in small groups smoking and drinking whisky. They’re the ones who are sharing rooms with one or two others, and they’re waiting in the corridor while their friends are busy in the room. At one end of the corridor is a service entry passage where a half-dozen young women are waiting—leaning on the walls, sitting on the floor; one is seated on a toilet, the door to the stall open. A hotel security guard stands by smoking and checking his phone. The air is thick with perfume. The women array themselves invitingly as we arrive. Rajesh grins at the one resting on the toilet and asks if she’s finished. They all laugh obligatorily and resume radiating allure at us. They’re of different builds and hair colours, all in short skirts, high-heels and fresh make-up. From close up, there’s something strangely unreal here—a mechanical coquettishness that brings to mind characters from video games, where if you stop playing and just look at one of the characters for a while, you’ll see the rendered presence heave microscopically and twitch and blink in ways that are meant to aid verisimilitude but actually do the opposite once you pay any attention.
Rajesh is overcome with lust for one of the women. The transformation is startling—one moment he’s casting a cool, appraising eye over the women and the next he’s entranced by a blonde who’s standing with her back arched against the wall. ‘You’re very pretty,’ he says and kisses her tenderly on the cheek. He looks her over transfixed; he bites his lower lip and strokes the tattoo that’s partially visible over the waist of her skirt. She can be his for an hour for USD 100. ‘How much for full night?’ he asks the security guard, who’s also the pimp. USD 300. He turns to us like a man who cannot believe his luck. ‘Yaar, yeh mast hai yaar,’ he says, and transfers his gaze back to her. Paras tells him to take her if he wants, the rest of us will go on to the club. Rajesh thinks for a minute and snaps out of it. It’s only 11 pm. He’ll try his luck at the club and come back here if required.
A car with four women pulls up beside us as we walk to the club. A window rolls down and one of them asks: ‘Boom-boom?’ There’s a short conversation. USD 100 for 2 hours; USD 150 for the whole night. ‘Massage, boom-boom, everything,’ the woman says. ‘Exchange girls afterwards.’ But the night is still young and we move on. One of the hotel’s receptionists has given us directions to the club. When we get there, there’s a club, but not the one we are looking for. Girls go in and out; burly men fitting the archetype of night managers stand outside in track-suits or hoodies. One of them tells us the club now has a new owner, a new name and a fairly steep cover charge plus ‘table deposit’. There’s going to be a strip tease and there will be plenty of girls to be picked up. The other three are serious about following through, so I leave them there and walk back to the hotel. A couple of taxis slow down beside me: ‘Boom-boom?’ In the hotel elevator, a bell-boy asks, ‘Sir, you want massage in your room?’ It’s an achievement to return to the room with the night unconsummated.
In the morning over breakfast I learn that Rajesh and the others picked up girls at the nightclub, took a taxi to one of their apartments at 4 am, and have only just returned. They paid the girls USD 80 and are subject to eager questioning by others in the group who feel this is more boom-boom for the buck than they’ve been getting. Paras is adept at bargaining (no doubt from his experience in the sari business), and like all good strategists he knows when retreat is the best policy. He regales the group with an incident from last night when he invited four girls to sit at their table and asked if they’d like a drink. They wanted Red Bulls, which Paras, casting a quick eye on the menu, saw were USD 15 each. So he sprang up from his chair as if taken by the song that was playing, and lost himself in dancing until the girls were gone.
Some others in the group intervene, and peace is restored. Sharmaji goes off to relieve himself in the street while Jabir enters the bus and says into the mic: ‘This is not India. We don’t piss wherever we want.’
I’m walking into the hotel with Rajesh when the security guard at the hotel stops us to ask if we’re looking for girls. Rajesh is, and he’s told to go to the sixth floor of the hotel to make a selection. (Talking later with the security guard, I find that he thinks of himself as an artist. He’s broken-hearted after being dumped by his girlfriend of four years, and has written a song about it. He also plans to write an English novel and has got as far as the title: The Billionaire Living Inside of Me. From him I learn that in addition to Indians, it’s Pakistanis and Koreans who make up the bulk of sex tourists to Uzbekistan.)
I emerge from the hotel the next morning to see Rajesh in a red leather jacket and sunglasses, smoking a pensive cigarette on a bench outside. I join him and ask how last night went. ‘So-so,’ he says. He’d picked a blonde Russian girl and was told she’d come to his room, but a dark-haired Uzbek girl had showed up instead. He didn’t want to kick up a fuss so he’d made do with her and paid up.
The second evening’s gala dinner, at another Indian restaurant, features dancers who would be considered outrageously beautiful in any part of the world. They’re also accomplished belly dancers and the evening is a low-lit blur of skin and diaphanous fabric. The dancers are on a small stage in the middle of the dining area and there’s a sign that says the stage is only for performers. This does not stop Don from clambering up with an ecstatic expression and a bundle of soums. Sharmaji is next. Soon, the girls are down among the group, dancing between tables to Sheela ki Jawaani, Kajra Re and Munni Badnaam Hui, and the floor is carpeted with soums. There are many attempts to chat up the dancers, who smile coyly and accept money, but will not disclose even their names. Paras, the sari distributor from Surat, is in his thirties but often boyish in behaviour. He tries to woo a waitress by looking longingly at her and saying ‘Helllooo’ but it only causes her to break out in giggles.
It’s a drunk and slavering group that heads out of the restaurant. The sardars immediately get into a taxi outside the restaurant in the company of a mini-skirted woman. The rest have plans in or around the hotel, and head back in the bus. Four of us—Paras, Rajesh, a businessman from Gujarat in his mid-thirties, and I—are planning to sample a night-club near our hotel. Kakaji, who has danced with abandon and is slightly drunk at the end of the evening takes us aside to give us some advice after we alight at the hotel. ‘This body is all bones and flesh,’ he tells us, extending his arms and looking at himself. ‘It’s nothing at all—here today, gone tomorrow. Enjoy everything; enjoy all you want. But just keep one thing in mind—never enjoy yourself at anyone else’s cost; never hurt anyone else.’
Before we set off with the elder’s blessings, we want to leave behind in our rooms our passports and money in excess of what we need for the night. In the hotel lobby we are stopped by the security guard who tells us there are girls waiting on the sixth floor. We stop by on the way down from our rooms. The sixth floor corridor is dense as a railway platform with members from our tour group. They’re sprawled on the floor or sitting in small groups smoking and drinking whisky. They’re the ones who are sharing rooms with one or two others, and they’re waiting in the corridor while their friends are busy in the room. At one end of the corridor is a service entry passage where a half-dozen young women are waiting—leaning on the walls, sitting on the floor; one is seated on a toilet, the door to the stall open. A hotel security guard stands by smoking and checking his phone. The air is thick with perfume. The women array themselves invitingly as we arrive. Rajesh grins at the one resting on the toilet and asks if she’s finished. They all laugh obligatorily and resume radiating allure at us. They’re of different builds and hair colours, all in short skirts, high-heels and fresh make-up. From close up, there’s something strangely unreal here—a mechanical coquettishness that brings to mind characters from video games, where if you stop playing and just look at one of the characters for a while, you’ll see the rendered presence heave microscopically and twitch and blink in ways that are meant to aid verisimilitude but actually do the opposite once you pay any attention.
Rajesh is overcome with lust for one of the women. The transformation is startling—one moment he’s casting a cool, appraising eye over the women and the next he’s entranced by a blonde who’s standing with her back arched against the wall. ‘You’re very pretty,’ he says and kisses her tenderly on the cheek. He looks her over transfixed; he bites his lower lip and strokes the tattoo that’s partially visible over the waist of her skirt. She can be his for an hour for USD 100. ‘How much for full night?’ he asks the security guard, who’s also the pimp. USD 300. He turns to us like a man who cannot believe his luck. ‘Yaar, yeh mast hai yaar,’ he says, and transfers his gaze back to her. Paras tells him to take her if he wants, the rest of us will go on to the club. Rajesh thinks for a minute and snaps out of it. It’s only 11 pm. He’ll try his luck at the club and come back here if required.
A car with four women pulls up beside us as we walk to the club. A window rolls down and one of them asks: ‘Boom-boom?’ There’s a short conversation. USD 100 for 2 hours; USD 150 for the whole night. ‘Massage, boom-boom, everything,’ the woman says. ‘Exchange girls afterwards.’ But the night is still young and we move on. One of the hotel’s receptionists has given us directions to the club. When we get there, there’s a club, but not the one we are looking for. Girls go in and out; burly men fitting the archetype of night managers stand outside in track-suits or hoodies. One of them tells us the club now has a new owner, a new name and a fairly steep cover charge plus ‘table deposit’. There’s going to be a strip tease and there will be plenty of girls to be picked up. The other three are serious about following through, so I leave them there and walk back to the hotel. A couple of taxis slow down beside me: ‘Boom-boom?’ In the hotel elevator, a bell-boy asks, ‘Sir, you want massage in your room?’ It’s an achievement to return to the room with the night unconsummated.
In the morning over breakfast I learn that Rajesh and the others picked up girls at the nightclub, took a taxi to one of their apartments at 4 am, and have only just returned. They paid the girls USD 80 and are subject to eager questioning by others in the group who feel this is more boom-boom for the buck than they’ve been getting. Paras is adept at bargaining (no doubt from his experience in the sari business), and like all good strategists he knows when retreat is the best policy. He regales the group with an incident from last night when he invited four girls to sit at their table and asked if they’d like a drink. They wanted Red Bulls, which Paras, casting a quick eye on the menu, saw were USD 15 each. So he sprang up from his chair as if taken by the song that was playing, and lost himself in dancing until the girls were gone.
Rishi- Posts : 5129
Join date : 2011-09-02
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by Guest Fri Oct 18, 2013 11:44 pm
Tashkent is obviously doing much better than the currency. The roads are wide and lined by trees; the government offices look stately, the monuments impressive. The city exudes the clean, kempt, landscaped sparseness of a European city. During the twenty-minute bus-ride from the airport to our hotel in the centre of the city, Jabir (who addresses all of us as ‘bhaijaan’) gives us a quick introduction to Uzbekistan: independent in 1991 after the disintegration of the USSR; a country of 20 million people (though in fact closer to 30, if he looked it up on the Internet); languages spoken are Uzbek and Russian; Islam is the dominant religion. A glance outside the window is enough to learn that at least in matters of women’s clothing this is not a conservative Islamic country. It’s mid-afternoon, and the mini-skirts and tight jeans on the footpaths elicit longing looks and neck-craning from our bus.
Guest- Guest
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by MaxEntropy_Man Sat Oct 19, 2013 8:06 am
seeking the tooth in faraway places!
On the descent I share the chair-lift with Rajesh, who seems more fidgety than usual. I ask him if he’s okay. He tells me, quite casually, that in a previous life he’d been killed by someone who chased him and hit him on the head. It comes back to him occasionally in the form of knocks at the back of his head, accompanied by the feeling that he’s falling forwards. He’s receiving those reminders now. ‘Thak. Thak. Thak,’ he says, holding the back of his head. We’re suspended high above the mountainside—a terrible time to be talking of falling. I say something about how we don’t have to completely believe everything our mind throws up. ‘I don’t believe. I know,’ he says. The knocking soon grows fainter and we end up talking metaphysics all the way down. He talks about the Self with great conviction, almost entirely in unconnected aphorisms attributed to Osho. He considers himself a follower of Osho and has spent time in the Pune ashram.
MaxEntropy_Man- Posts : 14702
Join date : 2011-04-28
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by MaxEntropy_Man Sat Oct 19, 2013 8:15 am
this babur seems to have been quite fruity in addition to being a boy lover.Uzbekistan happens to be blessed in the matter of fruits and nuts. This morning, on seeing the laden fruit table at the hotel’s breakfast buffet, I’m reminded of what I’ve read about Babur, who founded the Mughal dynasty in India, but was to the end disdainful of the quality of fruit there. Babur, recorded as being obsessively passionate about fruit, spent his youth in what is now Uzbekistan. In his memoir Baburnama, he credits the township of Akhsi in Fergana with producing a variety of melon that he suspects has no equal in the world. He should know, being a near-maniac about melons: he’d pit varieties of melons against each other at dinner parties, and once, when in fruit-deficient India a melon was brought to him from Kabul, he wept. At the hotel buffet I fill my plate with large grapes, slices of apple, and cubes of watermelon and musk melon. I manage to hold back the tears, but there’s no doubt Babur was on to something—there’s a just-right combination of sweetness, juice and crunch to the fruits that’s remarkably satisfying.
MaxEntropy_Man- Posts : 14702
Join date : 2011-04-28
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by MaxEntropy_Man Sat Oct 19, 2013 8:17 am
LOLOLOLOLOL!. ‘Tum Indians na,’ he says, ‘paani bahut peete ho aur susu bahut karte ho. Kyon?
MaxEntropy_Man- Posts : 14702
Join date : 2011-04-28
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by MaxEntropy_Man Sat Oct 19, 2013 8:18 am
rishi this article is a gem. thanks for finding it!
MaxEntropy_Man- Posts : 14702
Join date : 2011-04-28
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by Rishi Sat Oct 19, 2013 10:34 am
We’re to first go to the hotel and settle in. Later we’ll go on a quick Tashkent City Glimpse tour before heading to an Indian restaurant for a ‘gala dinner’. A chorus of voices wants to know the further plan for the evening: ‘Arre, kuchh setting kara do yaar. (Fix something for us, mate).’, ‘Raat ka program batao. (What’s the plan for the night?)’, and so on. Jabir tells us there will be ‘night managers’ at the gala dinner. We are to manage our night by dealing directly with them. Jabir won’t involve himself in procuring women, but for USD 60 per person, subject to a minimum attendance of ten persons, he can organize a private dance show.
It is perhaps because Jabir’s Hindi has been learnt in an environment of sex tourism that he is matter-of-fact about vocalizing details that most Hindi speakers would be slightly coy about. His description of the private dance show is a marvel of specificity: ‘Ladkiyaan poori nangi hongi, aapke goad mein aake baithengi. Aap daba sakte ho, kiss kar sakte ho, par zyada zor se nahin. (The girls will be completely naked, they’ll come and sit in your lap. You can squeeze, you can kiss, but not too hard.)’ He adds, ‘No boom-boom.’ Someone says ‘Toh kya faayda. (Then what’s the use),’ to which Jabir giggles and says, ‘Baad mein room jaake soap ke saath... (Later in the room, with some soap...),’ and moves his fist up and down. I’m transfixed by the novelty of a 23-year-old saying these things to a group in which everyone is older than him, with a couple of men old enough to be his grandfather. What’s more, Jabir speaks Hindi with an accent that knows no hard consonants, which makes him sound like a particularly precocious and foul-mouthed toddler, and renders him altogether irresistible.
>>> Stupid NIs. They give a bad name to every other kind of Indians.
It is perhaps because Jabir’s Hindi has been learnt in an environment of sex tourism that he is matter-of-fact about vocalizing details that most Hindi speakers would be slightly coy about. His description of the private dance show is a marvel of specificity: ‘Ladkiyaan poori nangi hongi, aapke goad mein aake baithengi. Aap daba sakte ho, kiss kar sakte ho, par zyada zor se nahin. (The girls will be completely naked, they’ll come and sit in your lap. You can squeeze, you can kiss, but not too hard.)’ He adds, ‘No boom-boom.’ Someone says ‘Toh kya faayda. (Then what’s the use),’ to which Jabir giggles and says, ‘Baad mein room jaake soap ke saath... (Later in the room, with some soap...),’ and moves his fist up and down. I’m transfixed by the novelty of a 23-year-old saying these things to a group in which everyone is older than him, with a couple of men old enough to be his grandfather. What’s more, Jabir speaks Hindi with an accent that knows no hard consonants, which makes him sound like a particularly precocious and foul-mouthed toddler, and renders him altogether irresistible.
>>> Stupid NIs. They give a bad name to every other kind of Indians.
Rishi- Posts : 5129
Join date : 2011-09-02
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by Guest Sat Oct 19, 2013 10:46 am
--> the words in bold are not by an NI. They were spoken by the Uzbek guide who knows hindi.Rishi wrote:We’re to first go to the hotel and settle in. Later we’ll go on a quick Tashkent City Glimpse tour before heading to an Indian restaurant for a ‘gala dinner’. A chorus of voices wants to know the further plan for the evening: ‘Arre, kuchh setting kara do yaar. (Fix something for us, mate).’, ‘Raat ka program batao. (What’s the plan for the night?)’, and so on. Jabir tells us there will be ‘night managers’ at the gala dinner. We are to manage our night by dealing directly with them. Jabir won’t involve himself in procuring women, but for USD 60 per person, subject to a minimum attendance of ten persons, he can organize a private dance show.
It is perhaps because Jabir’s Hindi has been learnt in an environment of sex tourism that he is matter-of-fact about vocalizing details that most Hindi speakers would be slightly coy about. His description of the private dance show is a marvel of specificity: ‘Ladkiyaan poori nangi hongi, aapke goad mein aake baithengi. Aap daba sakte ho, kiss kar sakte ho, par zyada zor se nahin. (The girls will be completely naked, they’ll come and sit in your lap. You can squeeze, you can kiss, but not too hard.)’ He adds, ‘No boom-boom.’ Someone says ‘Toh kya faayda. (Then what’s the use),’ to which Jabir giggles and says, ‘Baad mein room jaake soap ke saath... (Later in the room, with some soap...),’ and moves his fist up and down. I’m transfixed by the novelty of a 23-year-old saying these things to a group in which everyone is older than him, with a couple of men old enough to be his grandfather. What’s more, Jabir speaks Hindi with an accent that knows no hard consonants, which makes him sound like a particularly precocious and foul-mouthed toddler, and renders him altogether irresistible.
>>> Stupid NIs. They give a bad name to every other kind of Indians.
Guest- Guest
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by Rishi Sat Oct 19, 2013 10:49 am
>>> I have to be honest here.
All said and done, SI men have a little more class than NI men. They practice more self restraint in their outward behavior compared to NIs.
This bunch of clowns who went to Uzbekistan were brazen and indiscreet. They did not give a $hit about what kind of image they were presenting about Indians in general to people in other countries.
All said and done, SI men have a little more class than NI men. They practice more self restraint in their outward behavior compared to NIs.
This bunch of clowns who went to Uzbekistan were brazen and indiscreet. They did not give a $hit about what kind of image they were presenting about Indians in general to people in other countries.
Rishi- Posts : 5129
Join date : 2011-09-02
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by Rishi Sat Oct 19, 2013 10:54 am
Rashmun wrote:--> the words in bold are not by an NI. They were spoken by the Uzbek guide who knows hindi.Rishi wrote:We’re to first go to the hotel and settle in. Later we’ll go on a quick Tashkent City Glimpse tour before heading to an Indian restaurant for a ‘gala dinner’. A chorus of voices wants to know the further plan for the evening: ‘Arre, kuchh setting kara do yaar. (Fix something for us, mate).’, ‘Raat ka program batao. (What’s the plan for the night?)’, and so on. Jabir tells us there will be ‘night managers’ at the gala dinner. We are to manage our night by dealing directly with them. Jabir won’t involve himself in procuring women, but for USD 60 per person, subject to a minimum attendance of ten persons, he can organize a private dance show.
It is perhaps because Jabir’s Hindi has been learnt in an environment of sex tourism that he is matter-of-fact about vocalizing details that most Hindi speakers would be slightly coy about. His description of the private dance show is a marvel of specificity: ‘Ladkiyaan poori nangi hongi, aapke goad mein aake baithengi. Aap daba sakte ho, kiss kar sakte ho, par zyada zor se nahin. (The girls will be completely naked, they’ll come and sit in your lap. You can squeeze, you can kiss, but not too hard.)’ He adds, ‘No boom-boom.’ Someone says ‘Toh kya faayda. (Then what’s the use),’ to which Jabir giggles and says, ‘Baad mein room jaake soap ke saath... (Later in the room, with some soap...),’ and moves his fist up and down. I’m transfixed by the novelty of a 23-year-old saying these things to a group in which everyone is older than him, with a couple of men old enough to be his grandfather. What’s more, Jabir speaks Hindi with an accent that knows no hard consonants, which makes him sound like a particularly precocious and foul-mouthed toddler, and renders him altogether irresistible.
>>> Stupid NIs. They give a bad name to every other kind of Indians.
>>> That may be. Jabir, the Uzbek tour guide was only giving information to his NI clients about the stuff they were seeking. He knew exactly why the NI bozos were there in Uzbekistan. It was no secret. He was only using the lingo of the sex starved NI visitors.
Rishi- Posts : 5129
Join date : 2011-09-02
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by nevada Sat Oct 19, 2013 11:19 am
Isn't it better that these men paid and got their fix instead of going around raping women?
nevada- Posts : 1831
Join date : 2011-04-29
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by Kris Sat Oct 19, 2013 11:25 am
>>>Dude, these were desperate guys on a sex tour and you are asking that they exhibit class?Rishi wrote:>>> I have to be honest here.
All said and done, SI men have a little more class than NI men. They practice more self restraint in their outward behavior compared to NIs.
This bunch of clowns who went to Uzbekistan were brazen and indiscreet. They did not give a $hit about what kind of image they were presenting about Indians in general to people in other countries.
Kris- Posts : 5461
Join date : 2011-04-28
Re: NIs in Uzbekistan
by Kris Sat Oct 19, 2013 11:32 am
>>True dat. I didn't know Uzbekistan was shaping up to be another Thailand. I knew many of the former Soviet republics had women fleeing to other countries to sell themselves out of economic desperation, but this 'keeping the jobs in the country' seems like a new trend.nevada wrote:Isn't it better that these men paid and got their fix instead of going around raping women?
Kris- Posts : 5461
Join date : 2011-04-28
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