A Day In Bangkok: June, 1968
The rapid-train that operated between Khon Kaen in Northeast Thailand down to Bangkok was crowded. Victor squeezed his way between two orange-robed monks who stood serenely at the end of the car surveying the secular masses. Sighing with pleasure, he slipped into one of the creature comforts found in first-class: a soft, self-reclining seat. Although he was bathed in sweat, the car’s air-conditioning would soon take care of that. He slumped back, noticing the other passengers were cautiously examining him, the only farang on the train. He threw them all a happy face. In the Land of Smiles he didn¹t want to appear any more of a stranger than he already was. The train rattled along and he found himself fascinated by the small boy whose face was buried inside half a watermelon. What was he doing in 1st class? Then, one of the ticket collectors knelt by his side and hugged him. Ah, free 1st class for the ticket collector’s child!
After a month on his assignment to work with Thai civil engineers on a highway to a satellite-relay station in the northeast, he was eager to return to Bangkok for some invigorating carbon monoxide and food with real chemicals.
He slept in half-hour snatches, suddenly sitting up when they made fast stops. At every station small children crowded the siding selling sweetened, dyed-red water (the dysentery was free) and skinny, fried chicken (as only the extraordinarily thin Thai chickens can be).
The capital was in pleasant disorder and after browbeating a taxi-driver down to half his demand, he went to a hotel where he anticipated a long shower and a slow screw. It took hours to get there in the capital’s traffic gridlock. He looked through his window at two plump Chinese businessmen in the back seat of a Mercedes gesticulating wildly.
Several overly made-up women strolled the lobby of the hotel. A small boy grabbed his bag and he followed him up to his room. It was plain: only a small television, a monstrous fan over the bed and running alongside it was a horizontal mirror attached to the wall. This place didn’t fool around. He tipped the kid 10 baht, stripped and turned the fan to full power.
Later, lying on the bed, he allowed the remains of the shower to slowly drip off his body on to a layer of towels. The windows were open, but screened. Good. He remembered the voracious mosquitoes from an earlier assignment in the far North and the night sounds of their droning in his ear, the gecko lizard scrambling across the ceiling snatching insects on the run and him waking up with bites over his ankles and fearing malaria or dengue fever. His fan didn’t seem bothered by being on high and he luxuriated in the breeze.
He must have fallen asleep. The hotel room was filled with alien shadows. A setting Asian sun was dying through yellow shades. He stretched, reached for a joint, lit it and looked around for the phone. After three good tokes, he dialed room service. A greeting in Thai: Sawadti, khrawp! Not wishing to chance a misunderstanding he replied in English. Shortly, another voice came on the line.
“Yes? May we help you?”
“I’d like a massage.”
“Yes sir. Some one will be up shortly.”
The knock came very shortly which pissed him off. He preferred to have his clothes on for the pleasure of having someone else take them off. She was quite short with long, black hair and a typically mixed Thai-Cambodian turned-up nose...in fact, just like any one of several million other young Thai women in the city whod drifted down from poor rural areas in search of work. She had a pleasant enough smile. He shrugged to indicate he wasn’t sure what to do next.
Poot Thai, dai mai? she asked (Do you speak Thai?)
Poot Thai, mai dai, he replied (No, I don’t speak Thai).
“Oh yes,” she said, switching to English. “You speak Thai very well.”
So much for chit-chat. He walked over to the bed, sat down and raised his eyebrows (an insult in polite society, but appropriate enough in the circumstances). She reached behind her and released her pasin, allowing it to fall about her feet. Naked, at ease, she didn’t even place a hand over the scant patch of pubic hair.
He lay back on the bed and felt himself getting excited. Getting excited was never the problem, it was what was supposed to happen afterwards. She curled alongside him, stroked his body with one hand and began to loosen his belt with the other. The room was a giant sauna. The fan no longer helped. On his back, he glanced up at her glistening face as she labored over him, massaging his chest, belly, tentatively skirting his groin and down his thighs. He loved it when she reached his feet and expertly popped each toe with a satisfying release of tension. He felt vast pleasure experiencing another person’s working so strenuously on his behalf. Her fingers traced the edges of his pubic hair. Instead of becoming aroused, he became restless, irritated and angry. Why wasn’t it working? The closeness of it all bothered him, not for any aesthetic reason, but from what seemed to be a purely mental tautness that had no bearing to the situation. His erection faded. Impotent. Why had he been such a fool to put himself, again, in this humiliating circumstance? She continued to touch him, aware that something had happened. She was careful not to look in his face. Was there something in the half-pouting position of her lower lip that reminded him of his old girlfriend, Murvise, and her child-like manners?
His pillow was drenched. He must have dozed off just after turning it over to feel the cool dryness on the other side. How long had he been lying there, sleeping, before coming back into focus to find a tan-colored face staring down at him? He reached up and brushed away a strand of hair from her eyes. He felt like crying and stamping his feet. He wanted to be mothered and punished and turned-on all at once. Did she have a clue what was needed?
Suddenly, she reached down and squeezed his cock as if that was all it took. Shit, this was no time for subtlety. He reached over and lightly slapped her face. Startled, she moved away. He smiled, leaned over and struck her again. This time, she merely tilted her head back and examined him through half-closed eyes. “Yeah, honey, I think you might be on to something,” he said in English. Mai khoawdjai, she replied. “You don’t need to understand,” he whispered. “You only have to do it.” She shuffled closer, cautiously. Victor kept his hands by his side and held his face out for her inspection. Slap! Right on the side of his face. Slap! She hit him again. He didn’t blink. Slap. Slap. His eyes watered.
Oho! she exclaimed, looking down at his erection.
“Ouch!” he cried after receiving a stiff punch right on his nose, which began to bleed. “Jesus, you don’t get it, do you!”
This was ridiculous. Blood was everywhere and she was still swinging.
He fell backward onto the bed, laughing hysterically and staining the pillow. Whoa! Suddenly, she was all over him, licking his blood for God’s sakes! Before he knew what was happening she’d guided his penis inside her and abruptly he came. She relaxed slightly when she realized what happened and moved closer to him, allowing his head to be cradled against her small breasts. Her fingers brushed his eyes as tears poured out. He heard her catch her breath. She began to rock him back and forth. He sighed deeply and fell asleep.
Something cold touched his face and he opened his eyes to see that his masseuse had brought crushed ice up to the room She’d wrapped it in a towel and was brushing it against his skin. She wore a loose housecoat, probably what she put on to go to the lobby for the ice machine. A glimpse of her breasts with erect nipples awaked in him the passion he thought he’d lost forever. Or, was it the ice itself that brought back memories of a snow-laced riverbank near Boston, of a time he had last felt innocent and clean.
