The Day I Pimped a Woman

Itaewon is a hell of a place. I met more alcoholics my first summer in that small neighborhood than I have met in all my travels throughout the world. There is a Dominican proverb: "hang out with dogs and you'll learn to bark." Eventually I also became a habitual Itaewoner.
I'm a black guy with a mohawk, and in Korea that makes you something of a star attraction. People took one look at me and presumed that I was neither a teacher nor a soldier, and definitely not a cop. I was once drinking on a balcony and a random teacher walked up to me and started chatting me up. I tell her that I went to Yale and that I was a teacher, but she just says, "nah, you're a tourist! By the way, I have some weed that I need to get rid of."
She was too paranoid, so she just wanted to get rid of it, even if it was for free; possession in Korea used to be an instant deportation. I of course declined because I'm a morally upright man and wouldn't dare possess an illegal substance in the sober world of Korea, but I was proud that my unique appearance got me what was not available to others. Anyway, about that woman I pimped.
My first year in Korea was about work; I needed to pay off some debts I owed to a bookie called Sallie Mae, so I rarely went out to drink until the summer, just before I finished my year-long contract. The summer ended, I left for New York, and when I returned in October all of my drinking buddies were still up to the same shenanigans.
I walk into the Wolfhound and my Protestant Irish friend, Orla, is waiting for me. She was with one of her fellow teachers, and as soon as I walked in she started screaming. To celebrate my return, she told her colleague that I had a big dick, and that she should help me celebrate my return. Her colleague immediately dragged me into the toilet stall -- without telling me her name -- and took advantage of me. We exited ten minutes later, and then I learned her name when we sat back at Orla's table.
I thanked Orla for the nice welcome, and asked how I could return the favor. She informed me that she was into army men, and that she enjoyed taking up to three a night. "The bigger and hornier the better," she proclaimed. I then informed her that there was a nightclub called Kings -- situated on the street that intersects both Hooker Hill and Homo Hill -- and that army men could drink there for free on Thursdays, that I often went there, and that it was a veritable sausage fest. I pretended to be a GI, and it worked until the day that I showed up with my bespectacled Jewish friend; they immediately profiled him and then asked me for my military ID, those assholes.
So the Thursday after Orla helped me out we show up to Kings and I'm ready to return the favor. I'm drinking for free, and we're both hooked on vodka. Things are going well for my liver, and then Orla points out a big, black motherfucker who looked like the lack of pussy in Afghanistan was making his biceps accumulate liquid; she wanted his cock.
I approached him and informed him that my Irish friend needed servicing in the bathroom. He complied and she exited half an hour later, looking destroyed. Her make-up had smudged and her hair looked like she was swimming in sweat. The backed-up motherfucker who had tapped her was with a large crew, and he clearly bragged about his prowess to the rest of the group.
Nonetheless, he left Orla wanting for more. Orla told me that she was too shy to approach another guy in the group, and that she just wanted something quick, so she asked me to go over and act as intermediator. I felt like I had by that point returned the favor, but I was drunk and saw an opportunity to socialize.
I walked over and the backed-up motherfucker started thanking me, offered me a beer. I then asked the group: "any of you guys want to tap some too?"
A chubby Puerto Rican said, "of course, coño!" and then I jokingly told him that it was gonna cost him 20,000 won. He handed me $20 dollars, and then I immediately walked back to Orla and told her that she was going south of the border. Before Orla and the Puerto Rican were finished, I had already ordered fancy shots for myself, and needed 20 more.
I asked Orla if she could handle a third guy and she said, "oh, José, you're the male version of me! You're the brother I never had! Yes, I want another round."
I walked back to the group and made another 20. "Let's keep this to ourselves," I told the soldiers, and then walked back into a sea of dark anonymity. Orla eventually found me sleeping in a corner, and put me in a taxi. I paid the cab fare with the money I made. The next day I spent the remaining money on 9 bottles of makgeolli, and had fun until Sunday evening; a cheap weekend if I may say so.