My friend in Bangkok already had a friend sleeping on his floor, but that Japanese friend was traveling to Myanmar the next day, so I booked a hotel on the same street for one night. I needed to shear my dick and balls, anyway. For the first time since my skateboard across Japan trip, I’d have some privacy.
I awoke in the morning, another day in Bangkok, played some music on my laptop, setting it on the hotel tiled bathroom floor since there was no room on the sink counter. Then I straddled the toilet and got to work with my cheap man-hair trimmers. My back hurt from leaning forward. After 30 minutes I was about done, the toilet water hidden in fine man-wool, a sort of toilet living seaweed, and I gave myself the final touch ups, stretching my sack tight and clipping the single stray hairs.
Satisfied, almost ready for the shower, without first flushing I took a shit. The toilet did not flush. Just my luck. I conceived of this possibility beforehand but figured it wouldn’t happen to me. Of course that’s the moment when it does. I flushed again. As the water got higher, the toilet monster almost surmounting the top and splashed down on my feet and laptop, but just in the nick of time I reached down and cut off the water valve.
I closed the lid so it couldn’t see me while I took a shower. After the shower I peeped under the lid. It still floated at the top.
Check out time, noon, was in minutes. In a rush I stuffed my belonging in my pack. Outside the door I could hear the noises of house maids and their rolling carts and trash bags. I didn’t want my face to be matched to the left behind abomination. The elevator was right across from my room; I could see it through the peephole. I waited until the coast was clear, opened the door and rushed for the lift, safe when the doors closed, and I checked out.
I walked down the street, towards my friend’s pad, weighed down by my new, overstuffed 50 liter Kelty pack. The heat in Bangkok is only tolerable if it’s all you know. Naturally, the sweat was wringed out of me. Some distance from the hotel, I got a strong feeling I’d left something behind. So I stopped and searched my bag. Sure enough, I was missing a shirt. Out of all shirts it was my favorite shirt, a white Levi’s one with two cowboys whipping some horses, which I’d bought in Times Square two months earlier. The same shirt a bat shit on. The same shirt I washed with a new pair of dark blue denim jeans, ruining it some would say. The same shirt that, if I don’t remove, is just long enough to soak up vagina fluids while humping when in missionary. Any other shirt and I wouldn’t have turned back.
If I was lucky the maids wouldn’t have made it to my room yet. At least not lifted the toilet lid to discover the wooly, stinky, seaweed monster. I told the clerk at the counter I’d forgotten my favorite shirt, and he gave me a keycard to access the elevator to my room. Of course my door was open. Standing there were two men with trash bags. Not women; it would have been better if they were, for such work is more fitting of original sinners. I’d have to face shame in the face. Feeling guilty I made little eye contact, but I forced a smile in greeting. If they smiled back then perhaps I could assume I was still innocent in their eyes. They didn’t smile, and I braced myself for whatever accusations or Muay Thai they’d throw at me when entering and exiting the room. But none came. For weeks afterwards, when passing that hotel on my daily walk from my friend’s, I thought I might be jumped or sneered at.
Ron and I went to a night market. A small one a station away. A place to drink and eat outdoors, and I met some friends of my friend. They all make a living through the internet somehow, whether it’s dropshipping, freelancing, or affiliate work, and they travel around banging girls and meeting like-minded people.
We got to talking. Although we’re much the much the same in our thinking and aimed for lifestyles, we have different preferences. For example, there’s this Irish guy named Shane, a banker in his past life, and he doesn’t mind licking ass. It’s much better to have your ass licked, I said. English friend Ron agreed. But such a sexual experience can be harder to experience than threesomes, if one is not forceful.
Furthermore, was the matter of blowjobs. Shane claimed he prefered sex, that he never had a good blowjob. This is coming from a guy who’s slept with many young girls, obviously inexperienced girls, but never any one for a long time.
Then I realized something: though I’ve not had the benefit of sleeping with nearly as many women as those I associate with, I’ve had a ton of blowjobs from the same women, as I’ve had several long-term relationships with Japanese girls. Some have said thank you afterwards; and all are keen to improve and become experts in due time. To fast forward progress, show them a Jenna Haze POV BJ video. Swallowing is another story—amazing considering they love fermented soy beans, food so stinky and nasty that – given a choice of the two – any man would rather swallow his own spunk.
The English friend, Ron, got up approached a table of two girls behind us. Although I was enjoying conversation with Shane, who already had an attractive girl with him, he gave me a look that said I should leave and play wingman for Ron. I’d be helping both of these white as porcelain, eyes like antifreeze, Harry Potter talking niggas.
Fucking hell. I sat down across from the obstacle, a girl who looked like a man, the friend of the girl Ron was talking to. At a distance, since I wear no glasses or contacts, faces are a criminal blur. So I thought my eyes might have deceived me but, in fact, it was a very masculine faced Thai girl, that is if she was telling the truth. Even her friend said everyone thinks she’s a ladyboy.
It’s a hard thing to do, to take in interest in talking to an unattractive woman of no relation that you will never see again. Especially when you reached 30 and would rather exchange ideas with friends or stay home and do something that could be called productive. I exchanged initial pleasantries, for the sake of politeness, and then took no initiative. If Manface wanted to talk, she’d have to do all the work, as I’m sure she’s accustom to do. And I would drink.
Things went well. Manface liked me. They all wanted to go to a club, my friend too. I was still jet lagged tired, only a couple of nights in the country, and I’d rather sleep. If Ron’s girl would have been the sort of catch you don’t knock in the head and throw right back in the water, then I would have went.
We returned to Ron’s, walking down that same long street, the hotel on one end and his condo complex the other.
There was a black, medium-sized, stray dog on a nightly stroll, a common sight in the area. Sometimes you see them traveling in packs. They even wait patiently at busy crosswalks before crossing. They climb the stairs to the skytrain to stay out of the rain. Unidentifiable breeds. Mongrels that look a new species.
Ron tensed. “Oh no. Not that dog.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“That dog followed me home growling at me last time.”
“Why didn’t you kick it.” Maybe that he was one of those kids who was bitten as a kid or never grew up around dogs.
“It probably has rabies. Rabies is serious. You get rabies you die. And that was the one shot I didn’t get before coming here.”
“You got shots before coming here?”
“Yeah, several. Didn’t you?”
“No. What the hell, should I be worried?”
“No. You should be fine. Just stay out of the jungle.”
The stray dog, being preoccupied with some house dogs behind a gate, paid us no mind.
In the condo, I fell right to sleep on the floor, my head rested on my pack.
A soon to burst bladder caused me to jump to my feet. It was dark and I didn’t know where I was. I went out the closest door, the front door, down a hallway, through an exit door to outside, and peed down 12-stories of stairs.
The next day I began to search for my own condo, one that only required a 6 month lease. Incredible heat. Dogs, like struck bowling pins, were strewn out along the sidewalks, sleeping, and I had to step carefully to avoid rabies.