"I say – he – not – love – me – he – look – at – other – boys – he – butterfly – he – say – he – not – butterfly – I – butterfly"
By Mr. E.
(Artwork by Tatsuya Naoki)
The problem with moving to Thailand is that now we have to endure hearing what Thai people think. The majority of which is not worth listening to; it’s generally something about “Som tam,” “sleeping,”or “playing facebook.”
Take my secretary for instance (please, just take him!). He doesn’t stop talking. He talks so much it has become the background cacophony of my daily life. A piercingly staccato, camp monologue about his family, boyfriends (Giks), food, and Lady-FUCKING-Gaga! He doesn’t even pause for breath, it’s incredible:
“He – say – he – my – boyfriend – why – I – not – go – to – Silom – wit – heem – I – say – cannot – he say – I – have – many – many – Giks – not – good -not – good – I say – he – not – love – me – he – look – at – other – boys – he – butterfly – he – say – he – not – butterfly – I – butterfly…”
“He – say – he – my – boyfriend – why – I – not – go – to – Silom – wit – heem"
At first, out of politeness, I would occasionally feign concern or even comprehension: “I think you should talk to him about it, let him know how you feel.”
Now, I don’t respond at all, he hasn’t appeared to notice; he happily carries on all day, every day.
I can see why so many of the “English teachers” in Thailand, who aren’t paedos, have become alcoholics. Being subjected to this incessant monotone all day is enough to drive anyone to drink. I like to think of Bangkok as the mausoleum of the 90′s. If you’re western, you should come here and drown in your own self absorbed excess. Drink it all, take it all, and fuck it all; just keep spending your money and don’t ever question the logic. Bangkok is the living end of post-modern nihilism. You are tolerated because you keep spending. The xenophobic Thai politic exclude every other lifestyle option to you, you are expected to be a total fuck-up.
The good thing about the passive aggressive Thai class system, is that anyone who doesn’t fit the desired aesthetic - i.e. Asian, white skinned, fake European plastic nose – is considered “low,” and therefore unattractive. This means you can have great fun fucking genuinely beautiful Thai people, who are considered to be ugly by their own people. Basically, they’re much more fun and dirty when it comes to getting a decent fuck on.
Just thinking about smooth, dark skin stretched over strong bodies makes me hard…
So, the other day I was in the office…
“… He – say – I – have – too- many – gik – I – NOT – BUTTERFLY – I – NOT – MESS – HEEM – AROUND – I – good – person – People – tell – me – I – vely – honest – person – people – say – I – more – like – Brit – than – Thai…”
Suddenly he stopped talking… Shit. If only I had payed a modicum of attention, I might know the correct response. I broke out the emergency automatic reflex response:
” Hmmm Yes. I think you should talk to him about it. Let him know how you feel.”
“… ChAAaaaaaAAAAaaaAi. Mister – you – vely – good – advice….”
I seized the opportunity to make my escape for an early lunch. I had a problem. In order to block out my idiot secretary, I had focused on thoughts of beautiful brown skinned men; so, I was ludicrously and inappropriately horny.
Luckily it’s Bangkok – There are always options. E.g.
- Find a cute motorbike taxi driver and pay him 5oo baht to drive me back to my apartment and fuck me.
- Go to the local massage parlour and pay the guy 500 baht tip for an oily wank.
- Go to my local sauna, however it doesn’t open until 6pm.
- Go to the temple and get felt up by the monks again.
Unfortunately, desperation had clouded my judgement. I panicked! It suddenly occurred to me just how ridiculous this city is, I actually had viable options for a pre-lunch wank. At what point in my life had that become acceptable? I regained my composure and decided to go to my local noodle shop for lunch. Maybe I could drown my erection in delicious noodle soup.
The chap that works there has an incredibly sexy body. He is slender and well defined, with gorgeous dark chocolate skin. The Thai kids from the local school call him an “Indian.” Like that’s an insult. Who cares what they think, they’re being taught by a fat, ignorant paedophille from Derby.
Noodle shop man always smiles at me and he flirts. Well, I say “he flirts,” it’s actually a bit more obvious than that, he generally greets me with: “You have very beautiful face… I like to fuck you.”
You know… Subtle. I had not planned this, but it suddenly occurred to me that I had taken an early lunch, and I was sitting in an empty noodle shop looking at a handsome, smiling, horny young man. I was hard. He asked me if I would like a massage and he pointed to a doorway behind the counter. When in Rome… He led me into a small multi-functional room that was shrine, utility room, storeroom, lounge, toilet and bedroom. He proudly motioned to the faded yellow picture of the royal family on the wall, and insisted that I wai them. I’m not 100 % sure on wai etiquette; however, I’m pretty sure I was supposed to give a high wai and a deep bow. Who knows? Who cares? I gave his small statue of the Buddah a wai. He smiled, is this what is means to pay homage?
He dropped his shorts and revealed a smooth, slender, long erection. It reminded me of a rather expensive cigar I once smoked at the Cobden club in London. He kept on his apron, merely hoisting it to one side, and with a lazy, wank motion he slid on a condom.
(Better bumming tips:) There are none… You’re basically getting fucked by a peasant in the back of his shop because your secretary is a whining cunt.
My face was wedged up against the picture of the royal family, and my trousers were around my ankles. I was crouched forward with my hands flat against the wall, he was hanging on to my hips and fucking me from behind like his life depended on it. Could this get any classier? Oh yes it could! I looked down between my legs, and I noticed that he still had on his grimy pair of lime green Crocs. You know, the ones comically designed to look like animal feet? Brilliant. His legs were spread wide in order to give his frantic thrusts more traction. It was one of the most liberating experiences of my life. I had an epiphany, who the fuck cares!
He came quickly and graciously furnished me with the desired reach around, so everyone was happy.
After he pulled up his shorts and adjusted his apron; he washed his hands, preyed to the Buddha, and went back to cooking my noodle soup.
It’s great to know that you’ve been fucked by a penitent man who has good standards of personal hygiene. For the briefest of moments, I felt completely ashamed of myself. Then it dawned on me, who really cares? Noodle-shop man doesn’t care. Why should anyone care? It’s like it never happened. Everyday I continue to ignore my idiot secretary, and I pop out for noodle soup made by a man who calls me beautiful. I’m not sure I’ll ever fuck the fast food man ever again, but it was an experience.
Oddly enough I can no longer stomach the taste of MSG, or the sight of lime green Crocs.
Mr. E. is the pseudonym of a British essayist an playwright. This piece is excepted from his book A Year in Shorts.