Wit’s cock throbbed, keeping time with the thumping bass of some almost familiar song from the ’80s that was reverberating through the bar, and he laughed at the sight. Then sighed with the relief that came from twisting off the torn condom he’d been using to keep his member stiff and engorged while on stage. When he’d first started working at the bar that had not been necessary. The sight of his barmates, naked, stroking themselves erect had been enough to do the job; hard had been his state of being back then, permanently aroused before, during, and after the show. He’d been embarrassed, worried what someone might say if they noticed that he didn’t need to massage himself to get hard, concerned that if he did stroke himself it might go too far. But then to his barmates, as for himself now, what the other boys were doing to get themselves ready for their turn on stage paled in comparison to their utter mindless absorption in their own lives.
“Fucking wax!” he muttered. Wit hated doing the candle show. Scraping the melted wax off of his oiled chest was bad enough. Picking off the drops that had splattered down onto his cock was just too much. Thai silk my ass, he thought, wishing while on stage he could drape his penis in tin foil instead. And when tiny rivulets dripped through the silk and hardened in his pubic hair . . . seriously, what man should have to deal with picking wax out of his pubes? He’d oiled himself there too along with his chest before taking to the stage, a trick of the trade, a lesson learned through experience and remembered pain.
His cock still tumescent, Wit gave it a few tugs while looking at the beautiful ass of Chai, a young boy from Chiang Mai who’d just started working at the bar who Wit fantasized about fucking. Huh. Maybe Chai needed the experience, some training. Maybe Wit could offer to show him how it was done. Maybe, he thought, he was letting his fantasies run a bit too wild, ‘cuz with an ass like that surely someone had already been there. That thought pumped more blood back into his cock and he stroked it again thinking there could be worse jobs than one that allowed you to stand around naked, playing with yourself, in front of a guy you seriously wanted to bed. Shame the two of them were not on stage now. Then, at least, he’d be earning some baht too.
On his way to work Wit had stopped at the internet shop to check his email, hoping he’d find a reply or two to the messages he’d sent out the day before. Each had been carefully cobbled together from emails that had paid off for other bar boys in the past. What were these about again? Oh yeah. Dear whatever your name is again, please send 12,000 baht I want take English school better I speak you you come Bangkok. He’d carefully cut and pasted the word ‘German’ to replace ‘English’ on one of them, the Aussies and Americans all used English like the Brits did so those went out without further work. Although why they all still spoke differently made no sense to Wit. But then farang seldom did.
He didn’t think he’d get 12,000 from any of them. But one or two might send him $100, saying that’s all they could afford. For now. That was fine with Wit. 3,000 baht was more than he got from a long-time off and an email was half the work. He’d have to remember to send another message to those who didn’t send money, reminding them of promises they’d never made. ‘Cuz guilt paid well with farang. And those that did cough up with some cash needed to be thanked. Demanded it in fact. Like a puppy who’d just performed some trick you’d taught it in need of praise. But so far he’d had no replies. He needed to find some replacement farang soon.
That customer who kept catching his eye tonight might work, Wit thought. He had the look of a first-timer, a bit out of place, a bit nervous. Undoubtedly hard as a rock. As farang went he wasn’t all that bad looking either. Not young, as if that mattered – or was expected. But not so old that he’d let himself go yet either. And he was dressed nice. There might be some money there. If Wit was lucky, money for years to come too. He slipped into his underwear and hustled back out into the bar thinking still being a bit hard wasn’t a bad thing. If needed, it could help him close the sale.
The bar was dark, the house lights down between acts, but Wit remembered where the farang was sitting. He sidled up behind him and began massaging the man’s shoulders. With newbies you needed to make body contact quickly. Before they got lost within their indecisiveness. With one hand still cradling the farang’s neck, Wit moved into the empty seat next to him, leaned in closely as though the music might be too loud for normal conversation, and slipped into his routine. “My name Wit,” he cooed into the farang’s ear, allowing their closeness to make up for his limited English.
Up close, Wit could see the farang was of medium build, nice-looking in an indistinctive way, with mildly sharp features capped by jet black hair and underscored by a chin that looked like it had sliced its way down from the rest of his face. Another quick glance was enough for Wit to calculate the cost of everything the farang had on. Satisfied with his potential, amidst the growing silence he tried again, “Where you from?”
This time he got a reply. “The U.S.,” the farang mumbled.
Wit did the translation: “Ah, Amerika!”
“Yes,” the farang laughed, agreeing. “Kansas,” he added, which he seemed to think even funnier. Wit wasn’t sure what a Kansas was but knew enough to laugh. A small chuckle worked wonders whenever he didn’t understand what some farang was saying. Not that this one was saying much of anything right now.
Definitely a newbie, thought Wit. Experienced customers, repeat visitors, and butterflies, knew the score, knew how to move things along. But far too often also knew a bit too much. Or thought they did. Either of which meant more effort on Wit’s part. Knowing actions spoke louder than words, he allowed his hand to slowly move from the man’s neck, down his chest, to lightly rest on his thigh. “Where you stay?” he asked, allowing the vision of his hotel room to beckon in the farang’s mind.
The farang, rudely using his index finger to point in the wrong direction, replied, “Sukhumvit. The Landmark.” Wit knew the hotel, had been there before. There wouldn’t be any problem with his visiting, no one would comment or interfere when they headed for an elevator. Better yet, it was a nice hotel. This farang had money. Even if he did waste it on expensive hotel rooms when others were available at cheaper prices.
“How long you stay Bangkok?” Wit asked as a follow up, and then smiled when the farang let him know he might be good for several days of business. It may not be the 12,000 baht he’d emailed his roster of farang for, but it could be close. And there was always the chance they’d spend a day or two shopping too. Wit moved his hand, softly brushing the farang’s crotch, leaned back in and whispered into the man’s ear, “I lie you . . .”
It was a calculated move, one that held promise but wasn’t so bold as to offend. You had to be careful with the first timers, Wit knew. You had to be cautious about where and how you touched them at first. Some scared easily. Others misconstrued the signal as permission to grope, as if that was a right that didn’t first require an outlay of cash. Or at least the purchase of a drink. This one just breathed a bit deeper. Wit could feel the farang’s erect cock stiffening further in his pants. Softly caressing the farang’s arm, gently pulling on the hair he found there as if to suggest the farang’s body hair in some way captivated him, some how fulfilled his desires, when in fact it reminded him of a monkey, Wit unknowingly held true to his last statement, offering the compliment that always worked, no matter how unbelievable it was, “You hansum man.”
The farang beamed. And then, as an after thought, told Wit how attractive he was too. Wit took that one at face value, the truth was hard to deny. As was the prodigious bulge throbbing beneath his hand. The little spot of wetness Wit could feel dampening his finger tips told him this one was just about ready to reel in too. He hoped he would last long enough to pay for a booking. Once, a customer had his orgasm right there in the bar with little more enticement than what Wit had just provided. And all he’d earned off that one was a 100 baht tip.
Out of the corner of his eye Wit watched the farang watching the boys on the stage. How he responded told Wit how best to play his hand, whether he needed to fem it up ‘cuz the farang zeroed in on the younger, effeminate boys, or butch it up a bit if his eyes were drawn to the boys like So, those with muscles, those who were obviously a man. Wit could be whichever type of boy a customer fantasized about. That, he believed, was his job. It was what landed him customers, what brought in the baht. His friend So often chastised him about the way he viewed customers, saying he was too greedy, too grasping. But then So was a dreamer, always waiting for his knight in shining armor, the elusive jai-dee farang who would sponsor him and provide the life So dreamed of having. That had been Wit’s dream once too. But he’d learned. Now it was about the money he could get today, not the fantasy of money in his future.
Wit didn’t see it as any different than haggling over the price for something at the market. The seller tried to get as much as he could, often praising his merchandise above what its true value was. And the buyer, if he was smart, tried to get the price lowered. That was how business was done. It wasn’t a win /lose proposition, it was about meeting somewhere in the middle, a deal that afforded each to save face, that each could be comfortable with. That farang rarely understood this wasn’t Wit’s fault. That they believed whatever he told them – because they wanted to – wasn’t either. Even if it did work in his favor.
So and Wit had argued over this many times. What So didn’t realize, Wit felt, was that once the deal was struck, once he was back at the farang’s hotel room, he lived up to his promises. Or at least most of them. He became the boy the customer fantasized about; he fulfilled his customer’s dreams. Just as he would if he could convince this farang to book him tonight. Because that’s how you earned a good tip. And that’s how you convinced a customer that you loved him as much as he professed to love you. Which could mean years of money coming in from over-seas. Som nam na, Wit thought; you deserve what you get. And Wit was a firm believer in getting everything he thought he deserved.
Besides, Wit obviously had a live one on his hands and So was busy preening, striking the poses he thought would draw a customer to him. Which, Wit had to admit, often did. So worked hard on building his muscles, relying on his physique to bring customers to him. Wit, somewhat envious, and even more so in lust with his friend and roommate, was a star in his own right, but often had to approach customers to snag their business. He looked across the bar, taking So’s beauty in, noticed the farang’s gaze following his, and decided he’d better make his move before this one got away. Pressing downward on the farang’s hard bulge, he cuddled in even closer and asked, “I go wit you?” in his sweetest voice, one an octave higher than normal that never seemed to fail.
The farang’s nod was enough. Wit signaled the mamasan, unpinned his badge from his underwear, handed it over, and then told the farang he’d get dressed. While the mamasan attempted to tally up the farang’s check bin. And undoubtedly tried to get a tip out of the transaction too. Sometimes Wit waited to see how generous his customer was, this time he already had a good feeling. Besides, he could always bump up his take by asking for taxi money when leaving the farang’s hotel room if necessary.
Leaving the bar a few minutes later for the short walk up Soi Twilight to Suriwong where they could catch a taxi – at a fixed fare because this farang didn’t know that a short walk in the other direction would mean a driver who’d use his meter – Wit caught the eye of his friend Tik, a barker for the bar next door, to signal he’d be back later to party after the soi closed down for the night. His farang stuck close, trying to avoid the grasping hands of the barkers from the bars across the soi still trying to pull him into their establishments.
With a night breeze quickening on his face, he noticed an elderly customer sitting on the patio at Maxis carefully watching as Wit strolled by, a calculating but now disappointed gleam settling in his eyes with the realization that he’d waited too long, that the boy of his dreams had already been taken. Wit gave him a small smile of sympathy. And promise. Maybe he’d be tomorrow night’s booking. But tonight, at least the next two hours, belonged to this farang. Wit slipped his hand down into his customer’s, bonding, promising friendship and context beyond what was paid for. The farang’s hand responded, tightening around Wit’s grasp. Wit smiled. Who knew? Maybe this farang would be the one.
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