by M. J. Woo
(01/23/08)
You can't be that gay, really, when you slide your hand up my skirt, and with one smooth motion, spread my
thighs apart like you own me. Pressing me against the wall in the bathroom of this sordid Bangkok gay bar,
your lips taste like cigarettes and spices as you open my mouth with your tongue.
Your nose bumps mine as we kiss. "Hard to kiss farang," you laugh. "More easy kiss Thai."
The night is thick with lust: slow, drowsy, intense. Beyond the door, the club throbs as one body,
packed wall-to-wall, flesh against flesh, a writhing pit of money and desire. The barman mixes vodka
lemons to Madonna, water drips from the ceiling and coats the floors, and everywhere boys, boys, boys,
here in the city of angels where the predatory night is about to begin.
The boys have flitted here arm in arm, from their early drinks in Soi 2, chattering like birds. They dance
shirtless onstage, vain in the glory of their youth, looking over slim shoulders at men whose pants bulge
with cold hard cash earned in cold hard lands. They are lighter than air, village boys most of them,
blown down from rice fields of immaculate emerald where summer never ends, to spend the currency
of their beauty under the hungry lights.
Outside, Bangkok is crowded with her terrible joy; elephants cry out on cue, taxi drivers
circle like hawks, women soften their hard eyes as customers stroll past, calling to them with sing-song voices
that rise and fall in the night. White men wade down to whorehouses and ping-pong shows, the ghosts
of tired old empires hungry for the frenetic skin of the New World.
I haven't been quite myself since I came here, this city under my skin like a fever. One block of it
teems with more life and more death than the entire land of my birth. The lovers pile sigh upon sigh like
silk on my bed back home, and yet I am not satisfied. A girl grows tired of pale respect. I would desire
as only men desire: bold, ruthless, unconquered, endless, entire.
I, too, am filled with terrible hope.
You slide your hand up my blouse, skin meeting skin in that first electric shock. You roll my nipple between
your fingers. My moan makes you rougher, pinching my nipple hard, bending down to bite my neck. You unbutton
my blouse and slide it open, baring my breasts to the chrome and the smoke. I lift your shirt above your head,
gliding my hands on your smooth back, your skin so perfect I am lost in it.
I grab your ass and press you closer to me, wanting to feel the hard bulge of your dick against my pubic bone,
my white breasts against your dark caramel.
Young farang girls don't often come here to fuck the sons of rice farmers, but it's hardly the
strangest thing this Babylon has seen. I am a soft girl in this hard sea of boys, an alien, but my desire makes
me shameless. When you slide your fingers down between my legs, under my skirt, to discover the place where
I am most strange, I am wet, wet, wet like the Mekong River in August, wet like the beginning of the rainy season,
wet enough for a thousand Songkrans.
Smoothly, you kneel down, looking up at me with your dark eyes, like a tiger lying motionless in the grass.
At the first contact of your wet tongue on my clit, I have to stuff my hand in my mouth to keep from crying out.
Your tongue darts out slowly, ever so slowly, circling and circling. I bite down on my hand, leaving marks that will
stay for days, muffling my pleasure to the old men outside.
You grab my ass with both hands as your tongue digs in deeper. My head rolls back, my eyes close.
I struggle to keep standing on legs made weak with lust. I am swollen with pleasure. You lick me like salt,
like sugar from mangoes cut open on the street, like juice dripping from the meat roasting on skewers outside.
You come back up. I unbuckle your pants and you thrust your hard dick into my hands like a present.
I weigh it in my hand, feeling the heavy balls hanging underneath, the little drop of pre-come at the tip.
"I imagine how you would feel inside me," I moan, my tongue in your ear. "Don't need to imagine," you
whisper in your low love voice, pushing my back down on the cold porcelain and spreading
my legs wide apart at last.
Cruel, you make me wait for it, standing over me with your dick in your hand like a lord, flicking your other
thumb across my clit. I can't stand it anymore. I'm going to die if I don't feel your cock inside me. I am crucified
by lust. My entire world is reduced to my cunt, to this swollen longing between my legs, aching to be filled.
A boy-whore must tire of never feeling like a man, here in the flesh pits of Bangkok. Take me: I am the
conqueror's pussy, million dollar empires rise and fall on my white skin, my round breasts, my wide eyes.
Fuck me, own me, possess me: I am Chanel, I am Prada, I am Starbucks, I am Ferraris on the floors of Siam
Paragon, I am Nokia phones dangling from tiny wrists, Gucci on the backs of the hi-so, Adam Smith's
prodigal daughter, the very wealth of the nations.
I thrust my pelvis up toward you in the oldest prayer in the world, like the upturned hands of women
selling garlands on the street, like the upturned mouth of boys in the bedrooms of the Malaysia hotel; My hunger
is no less than theirs, straining with my every nerve for your cock. You penetrate me at last, sheathing yourself
inside me down to the very last inch.
"You like Thai sausage?" you growl, your voice low, and I mumble incoherently, fingering myself.
You pound me like the women pound out spicy Som Tam, on the soi
with strong brown arms, slap-splap-slap, stretching out my taut and aching cunt. Your sweat drips
onto my stomach as you fuck me, reaching down to grab my breasts and by now I don't care who hears us.
In one last stroke, you slide your dick inside me to the hilt, squirting your hot come inside me in spurts,
I can't stand it anymore either and I come, clenching around your dick in the sweetest handshake of love.
You collapse on top of me, sweaty and sticky together, and all I can do is breathe, my limbs akimbo.
The boys outside grind their hips all the way down to the floor as the DJ drops the next track: a dirty
beat for a dirty night.
