Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, is one of those people who kiss with their eyes wide open. Not that I blame him. Considering what he does for a living I wouldn’t’ want to take my eyes off a customer either. But then considering who he does for a living, I’d shut my eyes as tightly as possible as soon as I walked into a customer’s hotel room too. When you are a bar boy, you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Still, he’s in the minority. According to a recent opinion poll, 4I percent of people keep their eyes closed when they kiss. 20 percent admit to peeking. And 8 percent keep their eyes wide open. There was no statistic on how many people open their eyes in the morning and wish they’d not been kissing what they woke up next to the night before. ‘Cuz that can be a real eye opener.

Bar boy or not, the act of kissing itself too is a case of damned if you do, damned if you don’t. On the plus side, a quick, romantic kiss burns two to three calories. Use your tongue and that soars to over five. But wait! There’s more! The bodies of those engaged in kissing produce a substance that is 200 times more powerful than morphine in terms of narcotic effect. That’s why those locked in a lip embrace often experience feelings of euphoria and bliss. Not to mention feeling the growing erection of the guy you’re kissing. Which, in Thailand, probably isn’t a good thing when it turns out the girl you thought you were kissing is a guy. Then again, speaking of opening your eyes . . .

Kissing someone you are attracted to elevates your blood pressure and causes your pulse rate to race faster than a bar boy who just snagged 500 baht for taxi money. But keep smooching and as those morphine-like hormones in your blood rise, your life-expectancy diminishes. Science says that for every 90 seconds of tongue action you engage in, you shorten your life by one minute. No problemo. I’d rather spend time locking lips with a hot guy than living longer without any day of the week. Or every day of the week when I’m in Bangkok. Besides, celibacy is not an easy virtue to carry into the nocturnal hours.

Being a top, I’m always interested in if a potential playmate bottoms. Especially when I’m paying for it. But if he doesn’t, it’s not a deal breaker for me. I’m not one of those people for whom making love ends with a particular act. For others, cock size is all important. For some it’s about body hair. There are those who want to know if a bar boy is gay or straight, as though there is such a thing as a gay or straight penis. And most of us know of at least one punter for whom skin temperature means the difference between a night of bliss or a night of getting the cold shoulder treatment. Generally, I’m not that picky. There’s always something fun you can find to do with a hot stud. But he does have to kiss. Not necessarily well, but if lips and tongue are not involved, my hand can do the job by itself. So it was probably prophetic that the night I met Noom I never got around to asking him if he kissed before we left the bar. Fortunately for me, he did.

When we returned to my hotel room that night it wasn’t long before our lips met. He’d not even removed his clothes yet, which for Noom is an integral part of walking into a room. That night was more years ago than I care to remember, but I can still perfectly recall our embrace, the sly smile that lit both of our faces, and the almost chaste kiss we shared as the door swung shut. It’s also when I first discovered he kisses with his eyes open. Which I shouldn’t have as I don’t. But I’d already succumbed to the depths of his beautifully expressive eyes, so deeply black they make midnight jealous. So I peeked. And saw an eyeball staring back at me. We laughed. And then he finished walking into the room. I quickly forgot about his beautiful eyes. And got busy kissing all those body parts that couldn’t stare back at me. Although I’m pretty sure at least one of them winked at me.

That quickly became habit. Not the part about kissing all those body parts that couldn’t stare back at me (well, okay that too) but rather meeting eye to open eye while our tongues played with each other. I can’t tell you if kissing with your eyes open or closed is better. But that eye contact, at least with Noom, seemed to be the more intimate of the two. It was, and is, as though neither of us wants to lose focus of the other. And the feel of another man’s eyelashes flickering against yours is extremely erotic to boot. So I’d like to tell you that it was prophetic too that the both of us entered into what became a long-lasting relationship with our eyes wide open. But as the evening progressed (which is the polite way of saying we’d stopped kissing and started fucking), as things heated up, and as those things that had heated up got hotter and hotter, my handsome muscle hunk who kissed with open eyes, firmly clamped his eye lids shut. The smile that had been infusing his face was still there. But it was obviously evident that that smile no longer included any acknowledgement of my presence. Bummers.

Noom, if you are either new to these tales or of an age where memory enjoys playing its tricks, is straight. Or considers himself to be. Even though he’s had tons more dick than pussy in his life. And I’ve never held a bar boy’s sexual identity against him anyway. Because their dicks never seem to care much about how their mind identifies itself. So when a straight bar boy needs to close his eyes to what is going on so that he can run fantasies through his mind about what isn’t, no problemo. I think having sex with a gay bar boy who loves everything about dick but still closes his eyes when he is with you might be even worse.

In any case, I’m confident enough in myself (read oblivious) that if and when a bar boy needs to fantasize about tits and twats instead of the dick I’m shoving in his face, I can still thoroughly enjoy myself. Or as author and Noble Prize winner Saul Bellow put it: A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep. So Noom went from kissing with his eyes open to stroking himself to a climax with his eyes closed with fantasies that could only be more disgusting than I’d ever want to consider playing in his mind and we both managed to enjoy what we had wrought. The next night was the same; possibly with even more kissing, but ending happily once again in the dark for at least one of us.

When your romance – even for just a night – is based on a financial transaction, no matter how passionate the kisses you exchange may be they’re still bought and paid for. They may include a heavy dose of lust, but its about sex, not emotions, and love never raises its little head. Unless viewed through those rose-colored glasses you insist on strapping around your head. And I can, and have, lived with that too. The ability to ignore facts is a handy trait to master. So while Noom had me at first kiss, it wasn’t until years later that he cemented our relationship with a quick peck on the lips.

It wasn’t during the throes of passion, we were not naked or soon on our way to being in that state. I don’t even remember what it was that lead up to that kiss. But do remember it was unexpected, in public, and the type of kiss you don’t first think about. It was spontaneous. And natural. It was affection, possibly even love, an expression of emotions that had totally zip to do with sex. And it opened my eyes to the fact that our friendship with benefits had turned into a loving relationship. Even though when sex did enter the picture, the pictures playing through his mind still held not even a bit part for yours truly much less a starring role. No problemo. Just because his eyes stay closed doesn’t mean mine have to, and watching him cum always has been, and is, a picture of delight.

I admit I once considered kissing Noom during those final, climatic moments together. Just to see which eye lid position would win that round. But that’s the problem with tinking too much. We’re often locked in an embrace – lips included – during those times. And his eyes stay closed. So I’m not sure who it is he is kissing then. Not that my dick, which is fully in charge of things by then, really cares. Besides, when he comes, as he comes, his eyes pop open anyway. It’s a mixture of surprise, delight, and satisfaction. And regardless of who it was he was fantasizing about, at that moment it’s just about the two of us. At least until our post-coital kiss. Then his eyes close again and he drifts off to sleep. And I’m not concerned about being someone else’s understudy then because I already know where I stand. I’m his substitute for a pillow.

You’d think whoever that it is who is in bed with us while Noom’s eyes are closed would bother me. But then many think I should also be bothered by whoever it is that Noom is in bed with when I’m thousands of miles away. One is a fantasy, the other reality, of the two the latter should probably be more of a concern. Except that Noom considers what he does as a bidness and is always trying to improve his customer service. Which often means he’s learned a new trick of the trade or two between visits. Then I move from pillow stand-in to guinea pig. He’ll try whatever it is he just learned out on me, then back away watching my eyes for a reaction. An arched eyebrow usually results in his reply, “Customah.” Occasionally, instead, I get a giggle and, “You!”

Nine times out of ten whatever he’s considering adding to his repertoire is a plus. Which is a good thing since five time out of ten his new tick is something he picked up from me. Still, Noom adds his own twist to whatever it is. It’s a good thing there is a fluidity about his sexual identity, more so that his body is limber enough to allow for a fluidity in positions too. And while I’m not sure that variety really is the spice of life, there’s nothing like a few new unexpected moves to spice up your sex life when that act is one you’ve performed for a decade or more. It’s like being a butterfly even though you keep offing the same bar boy again and again.

So I’m seldom surprised – but always delighted – when Noom adds some new and unexpected twist to our bodies being twisted together underneath the bed sheets. And while he’s never learned the trick of keeping his eyes closed while kissing, he has adapted and switched up his kissing moves, techniques, and skills. Some of which I’ll take credit for. But there are tricks and then there are tricks. And sometimes it’s not about being with a trick. As I discovered one night not long ago when I looked deeply into his lids closed, fantasy playing eyes as he neared his happy ending only to realize they weren’t. Never seen before, his eyes were wide open. And looking back into mine. Our lips may have not been locked, but our eyes were throughout. And the smile that played across his face only had room in it for me.

I have to assume, afterwards, when we kissed, that his eyes remained opened as they usually do. Mine didn’t; my mind was too intent on replaying that fantasy that had suddenly became reality. It’s been the same ever since. But that night, as we cuddled together to drift into sleep, he threw his leg over mine, shifting into a closer position and sans giggle offered a content and dreamy sigh, “You.” Because sometimes it takes time for us to see what our eyes should have been open to all along.

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Timing, as they say, is everything. But try explaining that to a premature ejaculator. Sometimes, things come gushing out before the time is right. And then when the big moment comes, you’re already spent. Finished. Pau. Kaput. Like today’s tale for example. If I’d been paying better attention to the calendar I woulda figured out how to tie this one in to Groundhog Day. Not an easy task to accomplish. Other than to note there are some things better off left to dwell in the shadows. But then this post isn’t about Sunee Plaza, and instead I’ve got a salute to Valentine’s Day on my hands. And Cupid’s big day is still two weeks away. No problemo. It’s not exactly a Harlequin Romance anyway.

Not that those have ever been big on the Boy Meets Boy brand of story telling. A bodice being ripped off as part of the cover art never looks right when the exposed chest is flat. And hairy. But with two weeks to go, maybe I can convince Dave – who’s been busy learning what it means to be a gay man – that he needs to try drag. Dave as a ripe serving wench ready to be plucked might work. But then with my luck, he’d look good. And then I’d have to start hanging out at the ladyboy bars in Nana instead of on Soi Twilight.

Boy Meets Boy Meets Boy has never been done by Harlequin either. Romance novel wise, it’s uncharted territory. And even in the slightly more traditional Boy Meets Boy love story, by chapter four that Boy Loses Boy is pretty much a given. Throw in a third boy and you can be fairly certain things are not gonna end happily. But that’s a love story, that’s a fictitious tale. In reality, when Boy Meets Boy Meets Boy happens, things don’t start off happily either.

“I don’t think Noom likes me very much.”

“No, no, I’m sure he likes you. He’s still just getting to know you, that’s all.”

Dave and I have been friends for years. Decades in fact. All of which passed with us being buddies instead of lovers. Now that’s changed. What hasn’t is that even though we’re new to being a couple, we act like an old one. We don’t exactly finish each other’s sentences, but then words are seldom necessary. A familiar look is usually all it takes. And the one he’d just shot in my direction distinctly said: Dude, you are so full of bullshit.

“Okay, so maybe he’s not all that fond of you.”

“You know why?”

Huh. An invitation to list all of your boyfriend’s faults is always fraught with danger. At least it is when you are stupid enough to consider actually voicing those thoughts. My not-so-pregnant as much as six months overdue pause may have clued Dave in on where mine were busy dancing. Another significant look thrown in my direction put a stop to that rumba. And I punted.

“No honey, those pants don’t make your ass look fat at all!”

I didn’t even earn so much as a semblance of a smile for my witty effort. Dave was being serious. Which is not something he does often. When he does, it gets my dick hard. He looks so cute when his face composes itself into one of thoughtful contemplation. I considered reaching over to help get his dick to the same state of arousal as mine. ‘Cuz a look of thoughtful contemplation combined with an erect penis is just that much more cute. But that wasn’t the ending – happy or otherwise – he was going for.

“I’m the competition.”

Huh.

“And it’s all your fault.”

No matter how cute a guy looks, when he’s assigning a dish of blame to your table setting, erotic thoughts go straight out the window. My dick went back to doing what it does when it’s not hard, or getting hard: thinking about how much fun it would be to be hard. Which still allowed enough blood to flow to my other brain so I could participate in a conversation I didn’t really want to have.

“What did I do now?”

“I fell in love with a bar boy? Really? You know better. And now look where that’s gotten us.”

Having done so myself, that so many men fall in love with a bar boy in Thailand has never surprised me. The circumstances that places men in a position to fall head over heels in love with a complete stranger, one who they often times meet under commercial circumstances, vary greatly. The reason, is almost always the same. A hot, younger, exotic, and seemingly willing man who whispers sweet nothings in their ear that even their mother wouldn’t believe. But this is Bangkok, a world where fantasy reigns supreme. And in that world that the lust of your life could also be the love of your life makes perfect sense.

The problem arises when a farang mistakes Bangkok for an innocent world in which inarticulate people can tell one another adequately of either their pain or the yearnings of their heart. A world where they can momentarily be someone’s knight in shining armor, no longer just tilting at youthful windmills, accepted for all their faults and even, perhaps, loved despite them. They come to Thailand with the same sense of excitement and expectation generated in pigs when they get a downwind sniff of a trough brimming with swill. If they sufficed with the pleasure of a few nights of rutting, life would be good. Instead they convince themselves that theirs is not just some tawdry, temporary affair of the loins but a grand passion. Even a great love.

The result is the often posted threnody that appears on the gay Thailand message boards with monotonous frequency. A tale of love lost, heart mangled, emotions trod upon until they are a bloody pile of refuse smeared across the floorboards. It’s the sustenance of the disgruntled, the air the disenfranchised sexpat who swears no bar boy should ever be trusted, that every moneyboy’s sole goal is to empty your bank account, breathes. Because that’s what the inculcation of a false romance does to you. It’s a self-induced siren’s song whose jarring notes are seldom heeded until too late. And then those small notes of discord are lovingly gathered and embraced, a symphony of proof of some Thai boy’s lies, untrustworthiness, and greed. ‘Cuz that’s all the farang has left of his relationship. Whether it was weeks, months, or years of happy endings, that relationship often ends unhappily. Because one person’s love alone is never enough to sustain a relationship. Especially when even that love was never anything more than a hymn to a false god.

It’s funny how people never really see each other. They invent each other in their minds. And then see what they’ve invented. It’s an image born of needs, often one-sided and inevitably unrealistic. But their boy, of course, is always different. The farang tells himself: No, no, He does care. And then to keep that fantasy alive the farang start attempting to remake that boy in the image of his own dreams.

The relationship begins its predestined downward spiral. And even though he knows it’s a house of cards built on lies, he keeps the faith anyway so he can stand to live with the way he’s being used. Looking smack dab at the snake-cold indifference the boy shows so openly in his eyes, he thinks: No, he does care, really. I know it. That’s just his way. And instead of facing what that boy has become – a cheat, a traitor, a user, a broken dream – he will instead believe that boy is striving to escape his circumstances, to get away from his upbringing. With him. To be with him in some future time. Some future relationship. Where there will be no more loneliness, no more abuse.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy that requires no crystal ball. The record is rife with the shattered debris of those relationships. Farang Meets Boy, falls in lust, calls that love, and then begins emptying his bank account in pursuit of his dream. ‘Cuz everyone knows it’s money that buys happiness. Harlequin ignores that standard tale too. Not because it’s a gay storyline. But because even with fiction the plot still has to be believable. And if you haven’t been to Thailand, haven’t meet a sweet Thai guy,his eyes brimming with love and desire, haven’t ignored that the gleam in his eyes was merely a reflection of the needs of your own soul, that story is as believable as a Bush dynasty extending into a third course.

Years ago I started posting these I Fell In Love With a Bar Boy tales on SGT, which in those days was a thriving community of sexpats, sex tourists, and occasional visitors to Thailand’s shores. Regardless of the subject of a thread, sooner or later some, or several, or a bunch of sexpats would chime in with their oft repeated warnings against falling in love with a Thai. They took great delight in heaping ridicule and predictions of doom and gloom on any stupid farang ignorant enough to trust a bar boy. Or ridiculously claiming he was in love. Or that he now had a boyfriend in Thailand.

Newbies to Thailand’s bar world often turn to the internet for useful, knowledgeable, advice. Instead, many find the message boards. Forewarned is good. Hearing only one side of the story, not so much. So a big part of sharing my tales of Noom was in opposition to the preponderance of bad bar boy stories. The ‘I Fell In Love’ part of was meant as tongue-in-cheek. Because I’d been taught better than to be so unmindful of my own well-being. And I had not fallen in love with Noom. I just enjoyed our times together. Immensely. And thought sharing that relationship might show there was a different possibility, an alternate path, another option that didn’t end in misery. That even in Thailand you can in fact have your cake and eat it too.

Now, years later, looking back at those initial times I realize that I did fall in love with Noom. Possibly at first sight. Although to be totally honest I still don’t think it was love. Affection, for sure. Love, not so much. If anything, my initial feelings about him were of admiration. Which hasn’t changed. As for love at first sight, I’m not enough of a romantic to believe in that fairy tale. Or possibly it’s that I am too much of a romantic to fall for that one.

Noom, however, knew better.

Years younger, with the flush of youth still glowing seductively across his skin, you’d think what I would remember most about those first few days we spent together would be his gorgeous body. And the things I did to it. But instead, it’s his eyes. No, not so much his eyes; the expression in his eyes. The childlike softness in his eyes. The boy sitting behind them and laughing with the world in delight. There was a certain ingenuousness about the way he looked at me. An uncorrupted sincerity, honesty,integrity. It was a look you could rely on. It was a look I wanted to rely on.

But I’d been properly schooled on the message boards and compartmentalized any messy emotions of love deep in some unreachable corner of my soul where they belonged. Locked away to rot in their own miasma of the road not taken. I embarked on a fling instead. One that kept lasting year after year after year. Gradually, that ‘I Fell In Love’ part of the equation became less and less tongue-in-cheek. Not that I wasn’t still on guard. There were tests. Many of them. Spread out across those years.

But evidently I passed each one of those.

That’s the part the Bar Boy Done Me Wrong crowd seldom mentions. There are as many Thai guys who have been burned as there are farang. It’s not one-sided. They are often as guilty of failing to realize that what they see in our eyes is only a reflection of their own needs too. Bar boys don’t have an internet message board to turn to. They don’t need one. Gossip on the soi is much more immediate. And Bad Farang stories abound. When I met Noom he was not a newbie to the soi. He’d heard those stories, had even experienced one himself. So which of us was more wary of the other is still debatable.

Noom likes to remind me that before I met him I was a butterfly. That now I am no more. And that he knew that was the way it was going to be from the first night we met. He also likes to reminisce about how our meeting was part of a set of circumstances that turned his life around. That made him happy. Note that I don’t get full credit, only a minor acknowledgement based more on presence than on intent, value, or worth. Which I’m completely cool with. I have too many of my own needs to ever be the total answer to someone else’s. It was years before either of us used the ‘L’ word. But by then, it was evident. Both of us had passed the tests the other threw out, together we’d managed to avoid the pitfalls that so often crop up between a Thai and a farang, we’d moved past the roadblocks of cultural differences, financial inequality, differing needs, and distance. Begrudgingly, out of concern and the need for self-preservation, we allowed our relationship to grow.

Between us there was trust. Respect. And yes, even love. Life was good. We were good. Boy Met Boy, Boy Got Boy, and both boys were destined to live happily ever after. Even if thousands of miles apart. Then: Enter Dave.

Dave was not the first boyfriend I hauled along to Thailand. In fact, it was becoming an annual event. Phil was last year’s model. Phil was a good guy. Is a good guy. And he’s hot. Noom liked Phil. Not at first. It took about five minutes. But they quickly became friends. And still are. Both looked at meeting each other with some trepidation, both concerned that jealousy would ensue. Noom looked into Phil’s eyes, proclaimed Phil was gay (as he is wont to do) and then immediately embraced him as part of the family. There was no rivalry in Noom’s opinion, there was no concern that what Phil and I shared would have any impact what Noom and I shared. Sometimes that little bastard’s worldly wisdom just blows me away.

With meeting Dave, not so much.

The two had met once before. And had slowly warmed up to each other’s existence. But that was before. That was back when Dave was just a good buddy whom I lusted after. Back then, the night they met, Noom too had done his eye stare thingy and proclaimed Dave gay (as he is wont to). It just took several years longer for Dave to reach the same conclusion. With the change in relationship status – and sexuality status – I looked at the two meeting again with some concern. As did they. That night, Noom didn’t even take the time to look into Dave’s eyes to read his entire soul. He just edged his chair closer to mine, got busy attending to my every need, and made it abundantly clear to anyone and everyone who may have cared that the third wheel in our triangle was – clearly – Dave.

Boy Met Other Boy. And wasn’t pleased. Neither was Other Boy. Who seemed to think it was all my fault. Noom, on the other hand wasn’t interested in assigning blame. He was too busy protecting what was his. The two didn’t hit it off so much as they immediately begin attempting to score points off of each other. Which was amusing. Okay, so a better man would not have enjoyed the emotional discomfort of those he loves quite as much as I did. But then the better man moniker has never been one I’ve ever claimed. Besides, in case I haven’t mentioned it before, Dave looks cute when he’s pouting too. And that look too gets my dick hard.

So the days passed, the two eventually called an uneasy but ever-vigilant truce and tried to get along. And Dave eventually found a moment away from Noom to voice his concern. And demand I do something about it. As if. He really should know me better by now. I’m no one’s knight in shining armor. And if you are foolish enough to have me drop to a knee to be knighted, your best bet would be to put that sword to it’s originally intended purpose. I don’t know if honestly is always the best policy, but it is a convenient excuse to stick with your faults.

Noom on the other hand has never had a problem in identifying my faults. When you live in a world based on fantasy, reality is the only thing that keeps your head above the water. He has dreams too, but they are in black and white. He knows that I love Thailand, but not enough to ever live there. He realizes that while the dream of moving to America is a heady one, he wouldn’t be happy living anywhere other than in his home country. He knows I will always be there to help him, but that he has too much pride in himself for my help to ever be anything more than the occasional leg up. Just like I know that I love him, for everything he is, and everything he’s not, but not enough to sustain that love throughout a full-time relationship. I did fall in love with a bar boy, but the mercurial nature of our relationship is part of what makes it work. Ours is not a grand passion. It’s a warm friendship in which both equally provide for the other’s needs. Out of love. Without any attempt at changing the other into someone he’s not. Because we both love and respect each other for who he is.

And yes, timing is everything. Dave should have waited another day before addressing his concerns. ‘Cuz Noom – my bar boy friend and current love of my life – did it better.

“I tink Dave lub you.”

“I hope so.”

“I tink you lub Dave.”

“Yeah, I tink you’re right.”

“I tink maybe you lub him more.”

“More than he loves me?”

“No. More dan me.”

“Noom, how I feel about Dave,” was as far as I got before his hand pressed against my lips.

“It okay. He good for you.”

“Yeah.”

“I tink now I lub Dave too.”