“Oh god, I just know he’s going to come busting through that door any minute now.”

A simple, “Good Morning!” would have sufficed. And would have been a much better accompaniment to the early morning blow job that Phil – my not a bar boy boyfriend and current contender for the honor of being the love of my life – was in the middle of giving me when current affairs decided to impose their will in the middle of my orgasm. And he had a point. Though I wished the point he’d been paying attention to was the one busily sliding in and out of his mouth. When your blood is rushing to your head that really counts, intelligent conversation can be difficult. Fortunately I quickly remembered another good way to make conversation nigh impossible, and using Phil’s adorable little ears as talking points, directed his part of our discussion back to the subject at hand.

I’m not exactly sure what a whirling dervish actually is. But I suspect whoever it was who came up with that term was familiar with Noom, my bar boy friend and the other current contender for the honor of being the love of my life. For someone whose primary joy in life is taking a nap, the energy release when he walks into a room is both surprising and an awesome sight to behold. Provided you are in love or in lust with him. Otherwise, not so much. His sudden exhilarating presence can be a bit overwhelming. Noom and a black hole share many common traits. But that along with that energy release he also releases all inhibitions, stripping down to his underwear at a maximum as he enters a hotel room, I feel, is one of his endearing qualities. And an added bonus if you are in the middle of getting a blow job. Unless you are the one with your mouth full. Perhaps.

Phil and I enjoying a quiet night, and morning, together – if you ignored the low moans of pleasure – was thanks to Noom having decided to spend the night next door in his brother’s room, a thoughtful and tactful concession to Phil and my status as a couple and a deviation from the three of us wrapped up in a naked tangle of bodies as had been the nightly norm ever since we’d landed in Bangkok, a trip whose primary purpose was so that the two of them could meet face to face. As it were. They’d become friendly through email before the trip, shared in a level of anxiety leading up to actually meeting, formed a quick bond upon doing so recognizing in each other a shared interest (me), and other than an occasional bout of playing whose dick was bigger – okay, a non-stop bout of playing whose dick was bigger – were now getting along quite fabulously.

So I thought it a bit rude of Phil to be concerned with the inevitable – that yes, Noom would be busting through that door any minute now – when the private time we were spending together was thanks to Noom’s graciousness in the first place. But not quite as rude as those who opt to spit instead of swallow. So, all things considered, I cut him some slack, forgave him for his lack of gratitude, and laid back to allow him to show me just how un-rude he could be.

At least until the whirling dervish, as promised, burst through the door. About two minutes too early. No problemo. Noom was in mid being Noom. With an agenda in mind and no time for sexual dalliances, he leapt onto the bed, quickly lent a hand to bring matters to a speedy conclusion, and took over life as is his personality’s wont. “Come, we go!” he said brusquely with a final tug. And I did. Then we did.

Playing tour guide for first time visitors to Bangkok has become a familiar routine for me. It’s a routine Noom too is familiar with since he usually comes along for the ride. Day #1 is a cruise up the Chao Phraya to Wat Pho to throw coins in the monk bowls lined up alongside the temple’s ginormous Reclining Buddha, a quick photo op with said first-timer showing proper reverence to the not quite as ginormous but nonetheless big phallic statute in the courtyard, followed by a non-happy ending massage at the temple. If we leave the hotel early enough, a visit to the adjacent Grand Palace is in order. If not, a quick round of playing Scam the Scammer since The Grand Palace Is Closed! works just as well. I’m told by those who get the full Wat Pho/Grand Palace experience that both count as temples. Which also means being told said first-timer has seen enough wats. As though there were any such thing.

Knowing better, I typically manage to sneak in at least one more wat on Day #2. By Day #3, I take mercy on their soul – even if by doing so means the gods then won’t – and instead head for a destination of equally religious significance for most gay men: one of Bangkok’s major shopping malls. So we’d already been there, done that, and Phil had picked up some 99 baht T-shirts. As had, of course, Noom who never wants to be left out of the joy of carrying a shopping bag.

Day #4 depends on said first-timer. There are a lot of options for experiencing everything Bangkok has to offer. For those who have yet failed to enjoy the personal services provided on Soi Twilight, a visit to the massage shops around Soi 11 always provides a happy ending to the day. Ditto for those who did take advantage of the personal services provided on Soi Twilight and who no longer care about any of the other experiences Bangkok has to offer. A visit to Khaosan Road is a good choice for Day #4 too. Because who doesn’t enjoy a day of slumming? And if said first-timer has been a bit too vocal on that seen one wat seen enough wats thingy, the trek out to the Erawan Museum (the three-headed elephant attraction with a – shhhhh – wat on top) makes for a fun day for them. Not too mention a nice fuck-you-I’ve-heard-enough-whining-about-too-many-wats experience for me. Noom went with option C: none of the above. He’d decided we needed to redo Day #3.

Noom is big on traditions. Or maybe it’s just that part of him that refuses to struggle with his OCD tendencies. Nonetheless, that meant, as it always does, our taking the BTS to go to MBK with an abbreviated urge to get off at Siam followed by a suddenly remembered exit at National Stadium instead, followed by walking back toward Siam until I’ve had my giggle for the day and correct him by pointing out that the entrance to MBK is in the opposite direction. Like Noom, Phil is a laid-back in attitude, gregarious kind of guy. Unlike Noom he has a sense of direction. My raised eyebrows in response to his slight frown of confusion over our once again living through Noom’s failings at being tour leader put a contented, what-the-hell-I’m-on-holiday smile back on his face. By Day #4 he’d already come to realize that the method to Noom’s madness often meant retracing the exact route taken many, many times before. Step by step. So we were both equally confused – and stupefied – when upon entering the mall proper Noom turned left instead of right.

Turning right leads you to the escalators, which in turn leads Noom to the floor of 2.8 million cell phone dealers where his favorite ladyboy vendor will add apps and tunes to his phone for free in exchanged for one of his beaming smiles. Turning right leads you to the escalators, which in turn also leads Noom to the food court, along with an abbreviated urge to get off at the fifth floor followed by a suddenly remembered exit at the sixth floor where the food court actually is instead, followed by his walking back toward the middle of the mall until I’ve had my second giggle of the day and correct him by pointing out that the entrance to the food court is in the opposite direction. Traditions. What can I say? But he’d never turned left before. It was not just a road less taken, but one never considered in the past. And I wasn’t sure if that boded well or not. I shoulda known. The answer was not.

Noom likes smelly things. They are good for his loom, our hotel loom, the car he doesn’t have, and making merit to Buddha, or Ganesha, or both. They ain’t bad for making merit at my favorite Bangkok shrine: his body, either. We regularly stock up on lotions, oils, shampoos, body washes, soap, and room fresheners at any Thann counter we run across. And as often stop to test every single product available for testing at any other manufacturer’s counter or shop we stumble upon. Which usually gets the attention of the sales staff, thinking they’ve landed a live one. Until they catch on to his mutterings and obvious displays of disgust that nothing they have compares to the scents offered by his favorite brand. However, we’ve never stopped at the counters selling knock-off colognes at MBK before. Much less made them our primary destination. In the past, at best, he’s muttered an imperious, “Not real” as we’ve walked past.

Why we were stopping there on this day was beyond me. As with all of the Thann lotions, oils, etc., etc., etc. that we buy him, Noom has a preferred scent when it comes to cologne. He carries a bottle with him. And when he moves into my hotel room for the duration, one of the first things he unpacks is his bottle of fragrance. Which gets stored in the refrigerator. I’ve never made the mistake of buying him some other brand of cologne as a gift, thinking any scent would be well-received. I know him too well. I did once make the mistake of mentioning how much I liked his natural scent, but then he’s dealt with enough farang to accommodate their silliness. Usually. Accommodating Phil’s choice of scents, however, was not in the cards.

Perplexed at his choice of stores I asked, “What are we doing here?”

As quietly as he could, which wasn’t very, Noom gave a slight nod toward Phil and replied, “He smell.”

Huh. Thais are big on personal hygiene. And I know from experience, not all farang are. I love the scent of a man. At least when that man is someone I love. Strangers who’ve been perspiring all day, not so much. And even though I quite enjoy burying my nose in Phil’s armpits when I’ve been the cause of his perspiration, I know he is as careful about his bathing regime as is Noom. And is as fond of spritzing a bit of cologne around himself too. Offended on his behalf over an olfactory offense I wasn’t aware of, I objected, “He does not smell!”

“Yet. He do. He smell like me.”

Double huh. With a duh thrown in for good measure. The problem wasn’t with Phil’s scent but with his choice of scents. Noom and he both wore the same brand of cologne. Which I’d not noticed. Nor had my nose. I think. Though the fact that I was attracted to a guy who smelled like a guy I was attracted to may be worthy of reflection at some time in the future. But presently, there was a slightly odorous problem to be dealt with.

I turned to Phil and lied, “Um, Noom wants so buy you some cologne.”

“No thanks. I’m good”

“Um, no babe, really, he wants to. You should at least try a few to make him happy.”

The mist of – I’m guessing Chanel 5.5(d) – that came blasting over my shoulder and hit Phil in the face settled the matter. And stopped any reply he may have thought he’d have the breath to make.

“Jesus! Do they know eau de toilette isn’t suppose to smell like a toilet?”

What was labeled as Cool Water and yet still managed to smell like toilet water cut his critique of the scent short as a healthy spritz floated his way. And I thought how lucky Phil was that Noom had only two hands. Phil’s unoccupied hands weren’t quite as lucky for Noom.

One of the problems with dating younger men, even when you are only talking a decade in age difference, is that they often act like children. And that can be problematic when said children have armed themselves with bottles of cheap, noxious smelling scents masquerading as designer brands. It becomes beyond problematic when they engage in a battle of dousing each other with the ferocity of cage fighters. Noom went with labels that at least looked vaguely familiar. Phil grabbed anything that had a picture of a big piece of fruit on it. The two young sales ladies manning the counter screamed and decided it was time for their morning break. And standing too close to the fire, I suddenly experienced the symptoms asthmatics get to live with on a daily basis.

An even bigger problem than that which had got Noom’s nose out of joint in the first place was that despite having been on the receiving end of a different variety of fragrances, they still both smelled alike. Except now you could smell them from several blocks away. And what looked like perspiration drenching their shirts smelled worse than even the most rankest of unbathed farang.

Regardless of Noom’s original intentions for the day, we did not end up buying a new scent for Phil. But did learn a nifty little trick for getting a BTS car practically to yourself. After an unplanned pit stop back to the hotel to change clothes, and then shower when that didn’t prove to be enough to douse the reek of cheap cologne that permeated the air, we headed back out to the Emporium Mall where the air of men’s fragrances was a bit more refined. Not to mention much more pricey. Fortunately the MBK battle of aromas did not enter into round 2. And Phil’s wallet won anyway; he bought Noom a new bottle of a new cologne whose appeal to Noom, I assume, had more to do with its price tag than its scent.

With the three of us sharing a bed again that night, and freshly showered once again since even our less disruptive fragrant shopping experience still resulted in the two both sporting the aroma of several different, conflicting scents, I let out a sigh of relief that what could have turned out to be a disastrous day had not. Unless you include the aborted blow job that had started it off. No problemo. With the lights turned off, cuddled together in the dark, it gave me an excuse to bury my face into each of their armpits in turn to take a deep breath of one of the greatest gifts the gods gave to man: the scent of a guy you’re crazy about. And as for identifying who was who, rather than relying on my sniff test, I went with whose dick was bigger.

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