Naughty Mark

31 Tuesday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in Dancing With the Devil, The World of Thailand's Gay Gogo Bars

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Just what was it that Mark had done to earn him his new nickname? That’s what all of us wanted to know, were dying to find out. But Can-Can wasn’t telling secrets. And Mark was keeping mum.

We were at the end of a two week trip to Thailand, and had just got back to Bangkok, checking in once again at the Swiss Park. As usual in those days, Can-Can, the hotel manager, was waiting for us on arrival. It was my third trip to Thailand with my friends Ann and Char, a pair of dykes (yes, I collect pairs of dykes). We’d also brought along another friend, and third dyke, Karen, and to ratchet up the testosterone level, one of my roommates, Mark. The girls and I had spent a few days in Chiang Mai. Mark flew north with us, then took off on his own for a bicycle trip to the Burma border. Mark was an avid bicyclist, a gruelling hobby the enjoyment of which I can’t quite grasp; his resulting thick, muscular and meaty thighs possibly the sole reason for his chosen sport. Mark loved his thighs. Especially when there was some hot male flesh enveloped between them. Which was often.

Naughty Mark was in his early thirties. A short blonde haired little macho stud of Italian descent, the boy could score male booty in a women’s prison. A different enough outlook on life and his mellow attitude made for a perfect addition to our group of travellers. In Hawaii, Mark rented a room from me in the humongous house I leased in Manoa. He’d been living there for just short of a year when the girls and I decided it was time for another visit to the Kingdom. I had more frequent flyer miles than I could ever use, Mark was interested in joining us, so I traded my miles for his cash and we were both happy campers.

His boyfriend, John, wasn’t as thrilled with the idea of Mark heading off to a foreign land filled with dark skinned boys. Mark had a well-known affinity for dark meat, and a less than stellar track record for refraining from straying. But Mark promised to behave on the trip and John decided to believe his lie, incorrectly thinking the rest of us would play chaperone. Wrong group. Bad idea.

We flew JAL in those days. The airline offered the best deal for the trip from Honolulu. And by showing up with cream puffs from Liliha Bakery for the flight crew, we always got upgraded to the front of the plane. That was a great and cheap way to score first class seats, a sugar coated bribe that always paid off and is unfortunately no longer allowed since 9/11. Yes, the Twin Towers were a disaster; the loss of my free first-class seating an even more horrifying result.

After a too long layover at Narita, the trip got us in to the old Don Muang Airport a little after 11 pm, so it was usually the beginning of the next day when we finally got to our hotel. Ann and I had found the Swiss Park on our first trip to Thailand and made it our official residence when in Bangkok. We’d also met the hotel manager on our first trip and became fast friends. She had one of those Thai names no Westerner could pronounce so we collectively decided to call her Can-Can. Occasionally we’d get a ‘can not’ from her, but usually, whatever was asked from her received a ‘can, can’ in reply. I think it was her version of ‘ka’ for the English speaking world; she’d lavishly pepper any conversation with a series of can, cans.

God knows what time it was back home, but after over twenty hours of travel and finally a bed in sight at 1 am, the best plan was to catch almost a full night of sleep before waking to a new day in a new country and then hit the ground running. Mark had other plans. When we met for breakfast the next morning, he regaled us with his visits to three gay bars in the area the night before. He didn’t reveal what beyond the visits he’d been up to, but Ann made a dubious threat about having to call John.

Our first day in town was spent doing cultural touri things, the Grand Palace, Wat Pho, etc. Our first night, to introduce Mark and Karen to the pleasures Bangkok had in store, we hit the Telephone pub on Soi 4. On Ann and my first trip to Bangkok, we’d made friends with one of the waiters there, Ot. We’d spent the night sitting outside watching the gay boys. Ot had spent the night bringing us drinks and trying to figure out who, or what, we were.

On that trip, late into the evening I made a visit to the mens room on the second floor. Ot satisfied his curiosity by waiting just outside the facility then hugging me and grabbing my crotch when I came out. Probably a safe move even with a straight guy in a gay bar. Since he didn’t get punched, and I returned the favor, he adopted us and spent the rest of that trip with us. Finding a bed mate was not one of my travel plans. But Bangkok has a mind of its own and fortunately it decided I needed a hot Thai boy to wake up to each morning.

Ann and Ot became good friends, Ot and I good fuck buddies. They emailed constantly between visits and he was always thrilled to see her again. I ignored him between trips, and he was always hard to see me again. Ot had a knack of appearing in the most unlikely of places during my trips to Bangkok over the next ten years. Seemed every trip, with or without the girls, I’d run into Ot somewhere in town; at a mall, on one of Bangkok’s streets, at a BTS station, though seldom at Telephone. We hadn’t seen him yet on this trip though so he was excited to see us again and immediately sat down at our table to catch up with Ann and Char. Mark was a bit more action oriented. After a few minutes of idle chitchat he leaned over and whispered, “Come on, I’ve got something you have got to see!”

His first time in Bangkok, my sixth, and already he was playing tour guide. We left the girls and Ot chatting away and Mark led me back through the warren of streets that make up Patpong, I’m pretty sure we headed toward Suriwong; there was no hesitation on his part, he knew exactly where he was headed. Turned out his initial exploration the night before had taken him a bit further afield than Sukhumvit. He’d made it to Patpong. And found a gay gogo bar.

I’d been in the girl bars before, both with the Ann and with my running partner Dave. Hard to miss, the touts offering ping pong shows and a litany of acts involving things going into or coming out of pussy were hard to miss walking through Patpong’s night market. But the gay gogo bars, you’d have to go looking for. There were several in the area, not hidden down dark alleys, but not the street full of places offering Boys, Boys, Boys like there are today. No problemo. Mark already had the scene scoped out.

The place was cavernous with a good hundred patrons standing, crowded around a small stage on the far side of the room filled with hot young guys wearing skimpy shorts. But not for long. We’d barely ordered drinks before the underwear came off. And I fell in love with Thailand. Looking back, it’s amazing that I’d managed to miss the gay gogo bars on previous trips. I’d found tons of bars, discos, girl gogo bars, and had even frequently – with Dave – offed a bevy of girls from one of the hostess bars in Patpong. The bar scene and commercial sex scene in Bangkok was already a routine part of my itinerary. But then so was Ot. So there was no need to look further. Until Mark shared his version of Bangkok with me.

I’d love to be able to tell you the name of the place. But haven’t a clue. And it was several years later before I started hitting the gay gogo places on my own and never found that bar again. I’ve asked Mark, but he has no idea, and he was the one who discovered it. Maybe a reader knows. It had a street level entrance, not an upstairs bar. But certainly sounds like the original version of Twilight. The location sounds right, the show seems a match, too. But – and correct me if I’m wrong – Twilight has always been up a flight of stairs. Whatever its name, the place was too good to be true. Hot guys parading about naked. Telephone paled in comparison.

Seedy comes to mind thinking about that bar. These days, for me, it takes a place like Nature Boy to claim that title. But seedy is in eye of beholder. Take a first time visitor to Bangkok’s gogo bars to Jupiter, and his jaw will drop. The naked male flesh on display and the constant “You want boy?” come-on from the mamasans will prompt the seedy moniker in his mind, not knowing that just across the street there’s a soi filled with bars with boys fucking on stage.

Neither of us offed a boy that night. I had to get back to where we’d abandoned the girls. And Ot and I had some reunion sex to take care of. Mark had heard of yet another place he needed to visit. He grabbed a tuk tuk and headed off, I strolled through Patpong back to Telephone fulminating on how I’d manage to dump the girls and get back to that bar the next night.

The next morning Ot and I joined Ann and Char for breakfast. Mark showed up a bit later dragging along Jeep, a dark skinned beauty, a duck farmer on the prowl for a farang who Mark had met at Babylon. Jeep’s English was practically nonexistent, but neither he nor Mark seemed to care and Jeep spent the next three days as the newest member of our group. Then he went back to his ducks, the girls and I headed to Chiang Mai, and Mark was off on his bicycle tour of Northern Thailand.

Can-Can greeted us on our arrival back at the hotel when we returned to Bangkok. When we checked in, she informed us with a look that implied there was something mighty foul in the air, “Mark here.”

“No, Mark won’t be back for a few days.”

“Mark here. Mark in room. Naughty Mark.”

Huh. Seems Mark had cut his trip short, had already returned, and done something Can-Can was not pleased about. Can-Can was not a prude. When the hotel you run is a few short blocks away from Nana Plaza, guests bringing new guests home for the evening is the norm. She knew we were all gay, and hadn’t raised so much as an eyebrow at Jeep having joined Mark during the earlier part of the trip. Same with Ot joining me. She even knew Ot on sight from previous trips, and welcomed him as warmly as she did the rest of us. But Mark seemed to have worn out his welcome. Curiosity got the better of me, “Naughty?” I asked. “What did Mark do?”

Tsk, tsk replaced her normal can, can. Details, however, were not forthcoming. She wasn’t willing to divulge a guest’s secrets, but wanted to make sure – whatever it was he’d done – that we knew he’d been up to no good. Ann invited her to lunch in an attempt to smooth her ruffled feathers. I made a beeline for Mark’s room to find out what in the hell he’d been up to.

Mark answered the door. Ot, as was his wont when he knew we were coming to town had shown up at the hotel to wait for our arrival, found Mark, and the two of them decided they needed to get to know each other better. Ot, laying naked in bed, covered his face with a pillow in embarrassment, leaving the more interesting parts of himself exposed. Mark turned red. I laughed. Can-Can evidently was more upset than I, labelling Mark ‘naughty’ for his indiscretion.

That night we had dinner at the hotel, guests of Can-Can who imperiously directed the staff to prepare and serve whatever dishes she thought up. The girls took great delight in grilling Mark about his adventures. Ot was a bit uncomfortable and not sure which of his boyfriends he was suppose to be with. Can-Can had no trouble with Ot, treating him as well as she did the rest of us, evidently only finding fault with Naughty Mark. Whom she completely ignored.

During one of Can-Can’s trips into the kitchen, Mark begged the girls to ease off. I told him that him and Ot having a one off was no big deal. Can-Can was headed back to the table as Mark quietly told me, “No. Not that.”

We flew home the next day. Naughty Mark’s misadventures forgotten until we got home and all had to lie to John that Mark had behaved himself during the trip. Two months later, at Christmas, Mark was touched that Ann had bought him a gift. Until he opened it. He wasn’t thrilled with the toy jeep with a stuffed duck in the driver’s seat she’d given him. And had to act clueless when John wanted to know why.
Naughty Mark eventually moved back to the mainland. We kept in touch for a few years. Unexpectedly one day I got a package in the mail from him. He’d sent a pile of photographs from our Thailand trip. It was great fun seeing the gang and the places we’d visited. One picture, however, made me curious. It was a group shot of the staff at Swiss Park. I didn’t remember him taking it, and couldn’t figure out why it was included either.

I called him that night and thanked him for the pictures. Then brought up the staff shot. This picture wasn’t worth a thousand words, it was worth one: naughty. Finally, Mark came clean. Can-Can was not upset about him and Ot. She was upset about him and her staff. Two of them. In the short time before the girls and I got back from Chiang Mai, Mark had bedded two of the bellboys (separately). That in itself was a no-no. The ensuing argument between them caused a problem that escalated when Ot showed up and added a third notch to Mark’s bedpost. Poor Can-Can had her hands full with her horny and jilted staff thanks to Mark. It wasn’t what he’d done, it was who he had done it with.

Ah, Naughty Mark!

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Stupid Touri Trick #457

30 Monday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in Thailand Travel Tips and Tales

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Stupid Tourist Tricks

Memorial Day Eye Candy

29 Sunday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in Dancing With the Devil, Eye Candy

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That's Gay

This is Memorial Day Weekend in the U.S. The actual holiday is on Monday, moved from its original static date of May 30 to the last Monday in May each year so that we could always have a three day weekend to kick off the summer season. Memorial day honors U.S. soldiers who died while serving in the military. Americans celebrate the day with car races, beach parties, and spending the weekend in a drunken haze. So pretty much like any other weekend, but an extra day to nurse your hangover. Or to nurse your hangover, but not at work.

Before I get working on mine, it seemed like an appropriate time for some pseudo-military beef eye candy. Enjoy.

Gay of the Week: Louis Antoine Smith

28 Saturday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in Gay of the Week, It's A Gay World, XXX Games

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Olympics, That's Gay

British Gymnast Louis Antoine Smith

Since the last Gay of the Week post on Dutch gymnast Jeffrey Wammes, more young hot Olympic gymnast hopefuls have come to my attention and I thought I’d share. This week’s honoree hails from the other side of the channel and will be representing the games’ host country in 2012. Jeffrey publicly came out, now a proud gay Olympic athlete. 21-year-old British gymnast Louis Antoine Smith has not. But consider his answer during an interview asking about his first time . . . and he was not talking about gymnastics:

“It was the most painful few hours of my life. I was shaking and sweating. … I said ‘Are you nearly finished?’ He just laughed. I know it’ll be worse next time because it will be longer and more painful. But what’s a bit of pain? I’ll take it. It’s like the sacrifices you make as a gymnast. It hurts and it stretches you to your limits. But, in the end, it’s worth it.”

Louis Smith’s Fine Form

The official word on Louis, though, is that he is straight. The official word from his website is that his favorite magazines are GQ and Men’s Health. Add in his interests in fashion (he’d like to start his own clothing line) and participation in a men’s choir (loves to sing and auditioned for X Factor), and . . . well, you get the picture. If you don’t, take a look at his cameraphone photo, perfectly framed and ready to post on Grindr.

Say iDo to the iPhone

Louis won a bronze metal in Beijing in the pommel horse, becoming only the second black male gymnast to win an Olympic medal. On the same apparatus he recently claimed the gold at the British Men’s Gymnastics Championships with an almost flawless performance that earned him a top score of 15.925. Flawless is also a good adjective for this hot young star’s bulging muscles and killer bod.

Louis Strikes A Pose

I haven’t even started checking out the U.S. hopefuls, but with Jeffrey and Louis already on board, the next Olympic games promise to be an eyeful.

(Oh, almost forgot: Louis’ interview answer? He was talking about getting his first tattoo.)

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Try Protein, Not Prozac

27 Friday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in It's A Gay World, Smells Like Science

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That's Gay

The secret to a healthier, happier life.

Thanks to science we now have proof that cum and porn are good for your mind, body, and soul. A study by psychologists at the State University of New York (SUNY) at Albany found the junk in semen might be nature’s own antidepressant. Yup, spunk just might make you a bit spunkier. The researchers found that the hormones in jisim have a mood-boosting effect. The study also reports that for men, watching porn is evolutionarily natural and good for you, allowing porn addicts to now claim their obsession is just part of their daily health regime.

The study asked 293 sexually active college students about their sexual histories and each took the Beck Depression Inventory (BDI), a widely used measure of depression symptoms. Students who preferred unprotected sex scored lower levels of depression symptoms than those who usually used condoms, as well as those who only masturbated, indicating that the physical act of sex itself wasn’t the mood-boosting factor. Though if done right, it too will usually put a smile on your face.

The science of jizz is that semen is a complex mixture of different compounds; sperm actually only makes up a small amount of it. When you remove the sperm, what’s left is seminal plasma, a fluid that contains a bunch of ingredients, including estrogen, prostaglandins and oxytocin. Estrogen and prostaglandins have been linked to lower levels of depression, while oxytocin promotes social bonding. These and other compounds in semen could function to make your sexual partner happier, and keep coming back for more.

It’s good for every body.

Gordon Gallup, Jr., a psychologist at SUNY Albany and lead author of the study, says that jiz not only makes a strangely potent antidepressant but can also turn its recipients into addicts. Gallup found the beneficial effects of semen result in many using sex as a form of self-medication, “It’s discovered after the fact that being inseminated has effects on mood, and they use sex to modulate their mood.”

The study also showed that men who use their imaginations to achieve orgasm shoot a load not nearly as potent than those who watch explicit porno movies. So sitting alone in a dark room, watching porn while jacking off may sound depressing, but your load will be filled with happy dust. So masturbation is not about you, it’s just prep work to make your next fuck buddy happy (not that you’ll ever meet your next fuck buddy if you are busy sitting alone in a dark room, watching porn while jacking off). In any case, a good fuck flick means a happy load and that explains the smile on the face of guys who eat their own little swimmers.

Man chowder is not only good for the mind, but at only 5 to 7 calories per load, is good for the body, too. Primarily water, cum contains trace amounts of almost every nutrient the human body uses and has higher amounts of commonly deficient minerals, such as potassium, magnesium, and selenium. A typical load of spunk contains 150 mg of protein, 11 mg of carbohydrates, 6 mg fat, and 3 mg cholesterol. It also provides 7% of the U.S. Recommended Dietary Allowance (RDA) of potassium and 3% of the RDA for copper and zinc. It also contains vitamin C, so it’s good for preventing colds. And much more fun than swallowing handfuls of multivitamins.

Man or Machine?

For those who want to be happy and healthy but just can’t find the time to bust a nut a dozen times a day, a group of Chinese inventors based in Jiangsu recently unveiled a new machine to cultivate the manjuice your body craves. Debuting at the Shanghai Medical Convention, the aptly named Sperm Collector, available on-line for a mere $2,800, features a cylinder pump which they claim feels just like ‘the real thing’. A bit more high-tech than the popular Fleshlight, the Sperm Collector can be adjusted to taste: tighter, looser, faster, and slower. Plus the height of the pump itself is adjustable. There’s also a screen that can play your favorite porn in a wide variety of file formats while the machine pumps the cum out of you. The Thais, of course, have had a much better version available for decades at the much cheaper price of only 1500 baht per use.

There is, however, a problem with being too happy. Getting rid of an over abundance of stored sperm in your possession can prove difficult. Especially if you intend to dispose of it in Oregon. House Bill 2478., ignoring the state’s motto ‘She Flies With Her Own Wings’, would make it a second degree Class C Felony to propel “a dangerous substance at another person.” That substance being semen flung out of sexual desire.

Evidently spunky gangstas in Oregon are a bit more into cum than those in the rest of the country as such behavior is part of a gang initiation ritual in the Beaver State. But thanks to diligent lawmakers, giving someone a pearl necklace may soon be illegal.

The proposed law is the result of an incident when a man threw his semen at a non-consenting adult at a Target store. Target is known for its hatred of gays, and evidently is also against sperm. Especially when it is flying about its aisles.

Sperm Attack!

The man was convicted of assault, but lawmakers thought the crime should fall into the category of a sexual assault. ”The bodily fluid in question was not the same thing as throwing a coke at somebody,” said Republican Representative Scott Bruun during an interview about the bill. A pretty obvious statement, but necessary for Republican voters who need things spelled out: Coke, good. Cum cocktail, bad.

It should be noted, however, the wording of the bill clearly differentiates between those who are willing recipients and those who may be punked with spunk:

“For the purpose of arousing or gratifying the sexual desire of the person or another person intentionally propels any dangerous substance at a victim who does not consent thereto.”

So it is still cool to shoot you wad at those waiting with baited breath or open mouths. Sneak semen attacks will land you in jail. At least in Oregon. San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors is considering a similar bill though their version makes such acts mandatory.

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I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy: Ho, Ho, Oh!

26 Thursday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in Dancing With the Devil, I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy

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Butt it’s almost Christmas!

It’s the middle of May so of course everyone’s thoughts are turning toward Christmas. Okay, maybe not everyone’s. But this is the time of the year I start hearing customers claim they are doing their Christmas shopping. Already. I hate those people. I mean I love that they hand me wads of cash, but being all set for the holiday season by June . . . they need to spend some serious time on a therapist’s couch. Obviously we are talking women here. Men don’t do their Xmas shopping until the 24th of December.

One of the gay genes I missed out on was the shopping thing. I don’t care for show tunes either. So it’s a happy trade off. Wandering aimlessly through a mall is just not my idea of a good time. If there is something I need, I make a direct beeline for the most appropriate store, buy whatever it is I’m after, and get the hell out of Dodge. If I find a pair of pants or a shirt I like that fits well, I tend to buy a dozen or so in assorted colors. That avoids the need for future shopping excursions.

But the Xmas holiday shopping season is a bit different. I like the hustle and bustle of the crowds that time of the year. The air is crisp and everyone is rushing about to find the perfect present for their loved ones. It’s the perfect time for me to perfect my skills at the Asian cultural technique of sidewalk stopping. You know, where you come to an abrupt halt and just stand there blocking the sidewalk for no apparent reason. It’s most effective just inside a doorway or at the foot of an escalator. Knowing most Americans never make it to Asia and miss out on this experience, at Xmas time I give them a demonstration. My little holiday gift to my countrymen. When the grumbling turns to cussing or to cries of anguish, I move off on my annual shopping spree. I find the gifts I need, stock up on supplies, and discover the latest consumer trends. The stuff everyone else knew about in March.

During the rest of the year when I’m forced into a store I invariably find small items that I know Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, would enjoy. Small stuff, $5 to $20 items. And I always end up buying them. Each trip I make to Thailand I have a handful of small gifts for him. Passing them on has become routine. I pile them up on the table of my hotel room and on our first night together he makes a quick perusal of his gifts, nods a few times, and then we get down to the important stuff: sex.

Thais don’t get all gooey about gift getting. The other side of the coin, gift giving, is a foreign idea to them. When you give a gift to a Thai, unless they are familiar with western custom, they rarely say thanks and prefer unwrapping their present later in private. It’s that face thing. If your gift sucks, they don’t have to act like they are thrilled with it. So it’s more about your face than their’s.

When I hop into the shower, Noom takes more time to go through the stuff I’ve brought. He makes no comment, but clothing that’s a hit gets carefully hung, ready for wear the next day. If I picked out a dud, I’ll know: it gets a new spot at the bottom of the pile.

The first time I met Noom, after spending a few days together, on my last night in town he hauled me through the streets of Patpong on the hunt for a specific vendor. If he’d told me what he was looking for I could have led him to the right stall. But instead we missed that one and he settled for second best. We ended up at a booth selling incense, gift boxed with a few other smelly items. He bought two. One for me, one for my mom. An incredibly sweet gesture. And the first gift giving occasion in our relationship. So it’s his fault. He started it.

Christmas Candy

Since then, I always have given Noom a Christmas present. And a birthday present too – his ‘Thai’ birthday is December 4th. So he gets a two-fer when I get into town. Thais don’t really get the Xmas thing. Especially since it is so close to New Years. New Years they understand; they celebrate several each year. And the Chinese version involves gift getting, so you can understand their confusion when we pack the familiar, New Years, in with the unfamiliar, Xmas, all within the same week. Noom goes with what is more familiar to him and always has a New Year card for me. He spends time picking one out each year, and carefully signs it: Love Noom. That’s the only time of the year either of us uses the L word to each other. A great way to start the new year. Even if it is at Christmas.

So Xmas was coming and I’d decided even though my annual year end trip means I don’t get into Bangkok until a few days after the event, I wanted to give Noom a Xmas stocking. I like doing Xmas stockings. Adults rarely get them. A tradition for me in the past, friends, family, roommates, and lovers have always enjoyed getting a stocking filled with goodies on Christmas morning. It brings the child out in them. So then later, they are easy to abuse.

If the Xmas thing is a foreign idea to Thais, the whole stocking part of the holiday is even more iffy. Just when they kinda got a grasp on the dead guy on a cross birthday thing, you throw in the big fat guy in red. No wonder they are confused about our traditions. And think we are strange. So a few months in advance, I started prepping Noom for the idea of a Xmas stocking. I asked him if he knew about the tradition. Of course he nodded in the affirmative; a Thai will never admit they don’t know something. But I’ve become adept at reading his nods. This was the ‘yes, I don’t know’ nod. So I spelled it out for him. He kept nodding – the ‘I understand what you are saying, but you don’t make a lot of sense’ nod – as I told him about Santa, his sleigh and reindeer, shimmying down the chimney, good stocking/bad stocking, nice gifts or coal. He patiently listened to my story, undoubtedly thinking I’d had a bit too much to drink. A fat farang sneaking into your house in the middle of the night to fill your socks with stuff . . . I got the ‘I love you but farangs are very weird’ nod.

Come Xmas that year, on our first night together Noom’s pile of goodies was a bit slimmer than usual; I’d hoarded the good stuff for his stocking. Before we slipped into bed for sleep – that’d be our second slipping into bed of the evening – I got out the empty Xmas stocking I’d brought. It had his name on it in gold glitter. He was curious, a bit confused, slightly remembered my telling him about the tradition, but liked seeing his name. Especially since it was in shiny gold caps. I explained the Santa thing to him again, and made him hang the stocking up. Noom has a thing about positioning. So he had to try a few spots out before settling on using a cupboard knob above the microwave oven. Not quite a chimney, but it was in the ballpark.

Santa’s Little Helper

The next morning. I snuck out of bed early and filled his stocking with all the stuff I’d brought. Lots of chocolates and holiday candy, a pair of sexy underwear, candles, hand lotions, and bath stuff cuz he likes smelly things, and useful but boring things like socks and batteries. And toys. Lots of toys. My version of a Xmas stocking is that you start with the biggest stocking you can find, and then cram it full of goodies. Overflow hangs precariously from the top and if necessary you can pile up more stuff below. Crass commercialism is what the Christmas holiday is all about.

Mission accomplished, and vowing to start a diet before the new year in fear that I was starting to look a bit too much like the guy in red, I quietly slipped back into bed. An hour or two later we officially woke up. Noom rolled over, pulling the sheet down to display what Santa had brought me. This is an act Noom performs regularly, stretching out and then laying there naked with his hard member exposed, the perfect start to any day. Of course his stiffy is not because he is glad to see me, but rather that he’s in need of a piss. So on this non-Christmas Christmas morning, he got up to stumble into the bathroom as usual, and then made quick work of his business having eyed his stocking brimming with gifts.

My gift was the huge smile on his face as he returned to bed, naked, hugging the stocking to his chest. It’s a clear, crisp mental picture that makes me smile every time I summons it. Which is often. That morning, I played dumb, “Oh? Santa was here?”

Not fooled, he emphatically replied, “Noooo. You.”

I could have worked on the Santa angle a bit longer, but the sight of him as he hopped onto the bed, naked, legs crossed with the stocking resting in between left me dumb struck. Hard. And a bit giddy. I no longer have any other memory of Christmas mornings past.

Eight Pack Santa

He began pulling each item out of his stocking, making a careful inspection and then assigning it to one of a number of piles he’d started across the bed. (That positioning thing of his again). What was not easily recognizable he’d hold out to me for an explanation. The chocolates, wrapped in colorful foil in Xmas and winter shapes, he’d identify before setting into the candy pile. That he knew ‘snowman’ surprised me. That I had to tell him ‘penguin’ did not, but then an arctic bird is a bit of a stretch even for Christmas. The smelly stuff got carefully sniffed, placed in their pile, and then often pulled back and sniffed again. After the third scented personal grooming item, the ‘smelly’ pile got subdivided: ‘loom’ smelly stuff in one, grooming scents in another. The gifts still in the stocking had to wait until the division was made.

He had to stop, get off the bed, and run one of the toy cars across the floor; the socks and batteries got the same degree of disinterest as they would’ve when I was a child. And I thanked the gods the underwear got placed into their proper pile instead of being tried on. I’d included several small items with an Om on them, a symbol Noom is particularly taken with. Those required careful alignment on the desk across the room. Watching his gorgeous ass make that trip each time reminding me to make sure I had more Om items in years to come. I’m not sure which of us enjoyed his stocking more. But the hit, his favorite, was a shaggy, blue stuffed animal, which he properly named, “Dawg” before crushing it to his chest. It was love at first sight.

On that trip we went to Chiang Mai for a few days and Phuket for a week. He packed his dawg in his suitcase and it made the trip with us. Nightly, he’d lay it on his chest, cradling it under his chin as he drifted off to sleep, a smile infused with love on his face. Nightly, my heart would sigh at the cute sight of Noom and his dawg curled up together in bed, Noom naked, the dawg in its red Santa hat.

The next year, a few months before my year end trip, I asked Noom if he still had his stocking. I got an ‘yes, how fucking stupid do you think I am’ nod in reply, and then it slipped my mind. I brought a new one with me in December, just in case. But on our first night together he unpacked his original stocking, carefully unwrapping it from the tissue paper he’d stored it in. Noom is big on tradition. So I was a bit surprised that night when instead of the annual New Year card, I got a birthday card instead (mine’s at the end of December). A different holiday, a different celebration, a different card, but the same carefully inscribed, ‘Love Noom.’

A different hotel this time too, and another difficult decision in finding the perfect place to hang his stocking. When he woke the next morning, he pulled back the sheet, showing himself off as usual. But I noticed his eyes immediately went to where his stocking hung, once again overflowing with small gifts that’d bring me a huge amount of enjoyment. He was in no hurry, content to lay there next to me. But his eyes kept circling back. Thinking that maybe he needed an invitation, I nodded in the stocking’s direction. Instead of scurrying over to where it hung, mimicking my nod toward the stocking he said, “No. You.”

Santa Baby!

Fetch? WTF? I looked at him, a bit higher up than I’d normally be staring at this time of our morning together. But then thought, what the hell. Delivering the stocking wasn’t going to be nearly as much fun as watching him retrieve it in the nude, but I needed to pee anyway. So I slipped out of bed , a twofold purpose to my trip. Finished with the more important task, I went to grab his stocking and came to an abrupt stop. Hanging next to it was a small stocking, baby-sized, with my name carefully glittered in gold. All four S’s, his preferred spelling. And from the other side of the room I heard, a bit smug and a lot satisfied, “Oh? Santa here?”

My stocking had two cards in it, carefully rolled to fit. A New Year card and a Christmas card. Both signed, Love Noom. There was a small, framed picture of the two of us together taken the year before in Chiang Mai. And a ring. Made of ivory (don’t go there).

I could have cried. I should have cried. But Noom came running, gave me a quick kiss, made an attempt at saying Merry Christmas, and grabbing his stocking headed back to bed, the sight of that gorgeous ass quickly bringing me back to my normal emotional state. In lust.

I don’t wear jewelry, especially not rings. But I slipped his gift on my finger, or tried to find one it’d fit. Noom pulled it off, thumped my chest and proclaimed, “Good design.” I make jewelry for a living, necklaces and amulets of stone using silver I buy in Thailand. His ‘good design’ was him telling me that that was the purpose of the ring. My next trip, as soon as he saw me he checked to see if I was wearing it and what design I’d come up with. It met with his approval, and I got a ‘Good Job, yup, that’s what I had in mind’ nod.

It may be too early to start Christmas shopping, but I like hearing ‘Merry Christmas’ anytime of the year. It makes me think of Noom. And of some of the best Christmases I’ve ever had.

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Toast

25 Wednesday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in Thailand Travel Tips and Tales, Tips

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Stupid Tourist Tricks

A promised future.

I am a child of the ‘50s. Ike, McCarthyism , and the Red Menace were all the rage. And the American Public School system thought it not enough to teach reading, writing, and arithmetic. They taught terror, too. If you went to public school in my country in the late ‘50s – early ‘60s, before you learned to speak properly, you were taught to fear for your life. Daily.

In kindergarten, you got off easy. The major change to your daily routine was scary enough. Class was for half a day, and that included a long period for a nap. The only thing they taught you in kindergarten was how to sleep well with others. It was a lesson I learned well. I don’t know if naptime is still part of the curriculum, but suspect if it is, the custom has changed. When I was a tyke, every student brought a small rug to class the first day of the school year. That, and the floor, was your bed for school naps. Since the Red Menance has been replaced with Terror Alert Level Islam, perhaps the school authorities are not as fond about good little Christian boys and girls laying their wee heads on what could easily be a prayer rug. At the very least, I’m sure teachers have been instructed to make sure no child’s rug is inadvertently pointed toward Mecca.

Death and destruction, however, reared its ugly little head when you hit first grade. In preparation for a major conflagration sweeping through the school and burning all to a crispy state, we learned how to participate in a fire drill. The alarm would sound and we’d all line up behind the teacher to quietly walk in file to our designated safe spot in the parking lot. This was an excellent system for a fire drill. For a real fire: not so much. When a fire breaks out in a crowded space, it’s every man for himself. Darwinism rules the day. The meek, mild, polite, and those trained to quietly walk in file to safety become the bodies you trample as you flee. So if you are ever in a fire, look for the Americans; they’ve been trained to be fodder. Your quickest way out is over their bodies.

But a fiery death was not the only possible bloody end to our young lives. Those damn commies had our school zeroed in and the school’s administration was sure the big one would be dropping on our heads any day. So we learned how to participate in air raid drills, too. Not as popular as fire drills since it meant remaining in the classroom, air raid drills involved nothing more than diving under your desk for safety. A more useful drill in California would have been one for earthquakes, but federal funding that mandated the terror indoctrination didn’t allow for earthquakes. A major tremor hits: sorry kiddies, you are on your own. Of course it’s a good thing the bomb never dropped as we now know hiding under your desk doesn’t keep you alive, it turns you into a human pancake (Uh, we do all know that, right?)

Duck, cover, and die.

As scary, but not as catastrophic, was my first grade teacher’s amateur piano playing and her demand we all sing along regardless of desire or musical talent. I know there is an argument about whether the causation is nurture or nature, but I’m pretty sure her love of show tunes sent several of my classmates down the pink brick road. But that didn’t mean living in a constant state of terror in grade school, the obviously gay kids would have to wait for middle school before fear became part of their daily lives.

Not all forms of death can be covered by classroom drills. The school system, however, did not want to miss out on alerting us of more ways we could die. School safety assemblies were the answer, an opportunity to bring terror to each and every child at school in one fell swoop. The topics would change, but all assemblies started with a stern warning by the principal. In those days, when the principal spoke you listened. In those days, if you misbehaved the principal could beat you. A sadistic bastard, since he couldn’t beat all of us, he spoke at great length describing how any one of us could die in a freakish accident. When enough tears of terror began to flow, he’d start the ‘safety’ movie.

Psycho was the scariest movie being shown in those days. Newspapers reported audience members fainting or fleeing the theaters in terror. The film rating board would not allow a movie to be more horrifying than Psycho. Unless it was to be shown to a group of six-year-olds.

I know none of the safety films warned about riding your bike without a helmet. That we were encouraged to do. I remember one film about the dangers of playing inside of refrigerators that I thought was pretty cool. Even at that young age I felt anyone stupid enough to lock themselves inside of an icebox deserved the slow suffocating death headed their way. There were numerous other films, each detailing a particularly gruesome way to die, but most had no lasting effect. At least on me. The worst, the one that scared the hell out of me, the one I clearly remember and can still watch the scene play out in my head, was exceptionally cruel for an audience of kids; it was set at a roadside carnival. A happy place. A fun place. A travelling amusement park to enjoy with your family and friends. And a place where an embarrassing death waited.

Like horror flicks today, there wasn’t much of a plot. And there was no reason to set the scene at a carnival. I’m sure the director was a retired grade school principal no longer able to inflict his rage on America’s youth in person. The set up was a common occurrence: a burned out light bulb. One in a row throwing colorful splashes of light onto a game of chance. The game operator went to change the bulb (cue scary music) and the money shot was the guy stepping into a puddle of water, the resulting electrical current flowing through his body and frying his ass before he fell to the ground to do the funky chicken; a final epileptic seizure, death, spittle and indignity. I don’t think it was his death that got to me, but rather that it was such a humilating way to go. Traumatized for life, today I still get nervous unplugging an appliance from an electrical socket.

Thailand, being a Buddhist country, is not so enamored with death. To Buddhists, death is just part of life. It’s not the end of life, but rather somewhere in the middle. So I doubt the Thai school system terrorized their students with safety films. If they did, no one was paying attention. Thanks to my schooling, I know water and electricity are not a good mix. In Thailand, mounting an electrical heating element in the shower is a fairly standard practice. Forget about grounded electrical cords, and never mind the dangers of overloading a socket; there are entire streets in Bangkok lit at night by plugging in mile long strings of lights, one piggybacked onto the next. Bundles of electrical cords drape the front of businesses and residences, nicely exposed to the city’s frequent downpours. Light some incense, light your home, good fortune or death, it’s all at the will of the gods.

You’re Fired.

Surprisingly, other than taking note, that doesn’t bother me. Cringe worthy, however, is a common sight at breakfast buffets. There is always a nice selection of sliced bread available. Laid out in neat rows next to a toaster. With a set of metal tongs to use in preparing your toast. Invariably, since the country has not yet figured out that bread should be sliced to a thickness that would match the slots on a toaster, you’ll see one of the hotel’s employees cramming the tongs into the still plugged in toaster to try and free a slice of bread. If no tongs are available, a metal fork or knife work as well. Buddha must be more forgiving than the Christian god; I’ve yet to see a death by toaster in Bangkok. But I’m patient. Whether it is a hotel employee or guest, I know one of these days I’ll see some poor fool become toast.

The 7 Shot Rule

24 Tuesday May 2011

Posted by Bangkokbois in Malaysia

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

Malaysia & Indonesia & Singapore, Photography

The Shot

It seemed I was destined to collect old men on my second visit to Penang, Malaysia. Old-timers appeared with an ominous frequency during my trip. Admittedly, I’m probably closer to being a contemporary than not, but in my mind’s eye I’m still in my late twenties. And everyone who knows me will tell you I have the maturity level of a twelve-year-old. But the old guys in Georgetown seemed to be quite taken with me, and I in turn was fascinated by them.

There was the old fisher guy in his blue aloha shirt who’d taken me out fishing on his tiny boat one morning, mostly to amuse himself. And a stick thin, dark skinned local man who started out as a photo op – his white beard so magnificent I wanted to cut it off to take home with me to hang above the fireplace – but ended up offering a fascinating cooking demonstration, a personal chef with flair who forced me to eat a dish I’d not have considered trying on my own and instead sought out again and again during that trip.

And then there was my chance encounter with a self-proclaimed professional photographer, a visitor, maybe an expat, possibly even nothing more than a crazy bum washed up on the island’s shores – his build and outfit certainly reminded me of a gnarled piece of driftwood that had been floating aimlessly for years – who offered a piece of sage, professional advice. That bugs the shit out of me even today.

I was standing on one of the smaller streets in Georgetown, impatiently waiting for the crowds to thin so I could take a picture of a small shrine hanging on a support post, a common foundation for the plastered canopies that shade many of the town’s sidewalks. I’d become fascinated with these tiny religious tableaus, and taken a dozen or so shots of them already. Each one I came across was special, maybe a bit better than the last. And I wanted my shot.

The problem with standing, not moving, on a sidewalk, camera in hand, oversized telephoto lens proudly displayed (yes, size matters in all things) and camera bag slung over your shoulder brimming with gadgets is that your lack of movement makes for easy prey, your photography equipment a target. And a conversation starter.

“What are you taking pictures of?” came sailing in from over my shoulder. Tattered shorts, beat flip flops, a tank top more suitable for someone decades younger, my inquisitor had a ready smile, a look of genuine interest in his eye, and a world class chin. The type that movie stars would pay big bucks for. It sat at the bottom of his face like a perfectly sculptured marble masterpiece. Very heroic looking. Like Dudley Do-Right. Like Kirk Douglas before the dimple in his became a basin for the constant drool of octogenarian spittle.

Rickshaw Rest

His chin prompted me to reply instead of acting like I don’t speak English (a ruse I often rely upon when I don’t wish to be bothered). I pointed toward my intended subject with my eyebrows and explained, “That shrine.”

“Why?” came back his immediate reply.

“Um, the colors. It’s something different. Unusual. Exotic.”

Satisfied, or bored with my answer, he tried a different track, “Been taking lots of pictures today?”

“Yup, I love Georgetown. So much to shoot. The people, the architecture . . .”

“That’s wrong.”

WTF? All of a sudden The Chin is a critic? Was there some taboo against photography in Penang? But no, his observation was more general, but his declaration quite specific. “Seven shots is all you need,” he proclaimed. “Any location, any trip, you should limit the number of photographs you take to seven.”

Interesting. We all choose rules to live by. His was rather unique. He explained he was a professional photographer and had travelled the world with his camera (conspicuously absent that day, evidently back at the hotel taking a rest). From his years of travel and years of experience as a photographer, he’d progressed to where he’d refined his art to a science. One that dictated a bagging limit of seven.

Always interested in details, and curious as to how he’d defend such a restrictive dogma. I asked, “Why seven? Why not six, or eight, or a dozen?”

“Only your country refuses to use the metric system,” was his curt reply. A bit off subject, possibly a little obfuscation to hide that his choice in number was but an arbitrary and capricious one. And even using the metric system, something I am loath to do as an American as he so rightly pointed out, his choice was either short by three or over by two.

Sometimes they just refuse to smile.

At the same time, I could appreciate the ascetic nature of his doctrine, though in photography the monastic minded usually rely on black and white shots as their constraint. His concept required an admirable feat of restraint. But seven? On an entire trip? I could see, perhaps, seven as a limit for each locale. Possibly seven as a quota for the day. But then I’d taken more than seven pictures on this street alone. Hell, I’ll snap off a dozen or more shots of a single subject, later picking out the best and discarding the rest. Maybe that’s what he meant. Not a limit on the act but on the product. “You mean at the end, after the trip, pick out the seven best?”

Ooops. Grasshopper was being dense. Master was not pleased. “No. Seven. Seven photographs. You only take seven. Period. No more. Seven,” he barked.

That was pretty definite. But a bit too restrictive in my view. Maybe I could get some leeway with logic. “But how do you know? If I don’t take this shot now, I won’t be able to later. It’ll be too late. Maybe this was one of the seven shots I was suppose to take. What then?”

Yes, what then must we do? An artistic soul flying on New Age wings, possibly a Star Wars fan imbued with Yoda-like wisdom, but without the phrasing, thumping his chest he said, “You’ll know. In here. You’ll know if that photograph was meant to be.”

Seven is a good number. There are seven chakras, seven basic principles of bushido, seven colors in a rainbow, and it’s the title of my favorite Brad Pitt movie. Seven is considered a lucky number in many cultures. It’s a favorite payout symbol on slot machines, and a come out roll of seven is a quick win in craps. Seven is a highly symbolic number in all of the world’s major religions, and in Christianity there are, of course, the seven deadly sins; I’m a big fan of all seven of them. Gluttony is one of my favorites, especially when it comes to photography (though I guess sloth too plays an important role; I rarely get out of bed in time for sunrise shots). While The Chin’s rule of seven had an appeal to it, by habit, I could not get my mind to agree. I tried. I liked the idea. I liked the number. I even appreciated the abstemiously self-imposed restriction on creativity. And I can get behind the idea of less being more. But my iconoclastic nature balked at such a restrictive ideology. It seemed an appropriate time to take another picture. Possibly my seven hundredth of the day.

Embossed

I raised my lens and pointed it at The Chin, who immediately gave me the finger. No, not that one. The one your mother used when you were about to misbehave. The warning finger. I laughed. He shook his head as you would at a mischievous child. An appropriately petulant response, I turned my back on him and took my fucking shot. Seven of them. All of the same small doorway shrine.

Having provided all the advice he could or would, or recognizing a failed convert when he saw one, he moved off while I snapped away, our conversation and my instruction for the day completed. I moved on too, taking picture after picture. Georgetown is a photographer’s wet dream. But his seven shot rule keeps running through my brain. I want to believe, I want to be as disciplined, I want to be so austere in my photographic habits that I too can self-righteously lecture an amateur hobbyist on the finer principles of photography one day. But then a larger part of me wants to post seven photos on this blog entry alone.