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.”

“Where’s all that cash I gave you?”

“Why?”

“I want to put it in the safe before we head out today.”

“It okay,” Noom – my bar boy friend and current love of my life – assured me, patting his back pocket where he’d tucked his newfound riches safely away. That little reminder – not of his wallet but what lay directly beneath it – made me momentarily forget my goal. As he knew it would. Money in the bank is one thing. A incredibly beautiful ass bulging with muscle quite another. And when you carry your riches with you, a wad of baht of any size is of little concern.

No problemo. I have a trick or two up my sleeves of my own. “We’re going shopping,” I told him. And if there’s one thing Noom knows it’s that the last thing he needs on a shopping excursion is his own money. But I’d lied. Kinda, sorta. ‘Cuz it’s rare that whatever we do for the day in Bangkok doesn’t end up including some shopping in one form or another. That’s the problem with a city whose streets are filled with sidewalk vendors. Especially when your bar boy friend is in a constant state of need.

Years ago we’d started a tradition of taking turns taking the other guy to some place in Bangkok he’d never been before. Without forewarning. And without revealing where we were going until we got there. Doing so, I’d opened Noom to the many wonders his city holds. He usually returned the favor when it was his turn by cheating. I’d enjoyed the experience of riding in three different types of buses and a canal boat in the past, each of which qualified under Noom’s version of the rules. But I have to admit that canal boat trip, my first time using the waterways that crisscross the city as a way to get around town, almost made up for him being the sneaky little bastard that he is.

Today was my turn. He just didn’t know that yet.

Allowing my focus to drift from its usual target, I noticed the sandals he’d put on. “Um, no, today you have to wear shoes,” I told him. “With socks,” I added because it was necessary. I didn’t specify clean socks. But kept an eye on those he pulled out. Just in case.

Noom began to balk at that imposition. But then his brain processed the request. And arrived at the wrong conclusion. “Oh, shoes!” he exclaimed with a sly smile. Noom likes shoes. He may have been Imelda Marcos in a former life. And having heard shopping and shoes mentioned so closely together, he’d deduced he was in for a new pair. Wrong, Grasshopper. Kinda, sorta. ‘Cuz with that yearning in his eyes I knew no matter how big of a hit our destination for the day turned out to be, we’d probably be stopping for a bit of shoe shopping before returning to our hotel.

On the second day we’d spent together – far too many years ago to count – I’d bought Noom a pair of Adidas. He hadn’t asked for them. Or even made a sly attempt of putting the idea of that purchase in my mind. But we were out at a mall and I noticed the tired, worn condition of the shoes he was wearing. And with that $125 purchase on my Visa card, for Noom, it was love at first swipe. I think he became a bit more fond of me that day too.

He donated his old pair of tennies to another guy working at his bar. And kept his new pair carefully wrapped in the box they came in, stored in his locker at work, only to be taken out and worn when circumstances warranted it. It was the night that I noticed one of his ‘brothers’ walking out of the bar with the customer he’d landed for the night, his feet decked out in Noom’s new shoes – and the proud look of satisfaction on Noom’s face – that it dawned on me just how extraordinary owning a brand new pair of name-brand sneakers was for most bar boys. And how much status they gained from it.

Since then I’ve indulged Noom in his shoe fetish. He owns at least a dozen pairs now. Including a garish pair of custom-made Nikes with his name imprinted on each heel. All carefully wrapped in tissue and stored in the boxes they originally came in. Most of the time he just wears flip flops. Or when he thinks he needs to dress up, sandals. Today’s excursion required a step up from those. Even if it was more about a shoe of an entirely different shape. And having coaxed Noom into slipping a real pair of shoes on, I turned my attention to Dave – my not a bar boy boyfriend and current love of my life – to check out his attire for the day. Sometimes – singular or plural – having a boyfriend can be a lot like having a child.

“Come on dude. I know you have a shirt with a collar somewhere in your suitcase, it’s time to ditch the T-shirt.”

Noom snickered. On general principle. And then quietly changed into a shirt with a collar himself. I told ya I had a trick or two up my sleeves of my own .

Properly dressed, finally, off we rode on one of my favorite mounts in Bangkok – the BTS – to hop off ten minutes later at Siam Station. Noom’s smile grew in appreciation of his superior abilities in predicting what the farang was up to. “Oh!” he attempt to say nonchalantly when his pride in himself said otherwise. “MBK!”

Noom is big on traditions. And/or sucks at directions. I’ve never been quite sure which applies in this case. But in his mind the Skytrain station for the MBK mall is Siam. So whenever we’re headed to MBK and I let him take the lead, we get off at Siam. And then wander a bit. And then get back on the next train that pulls in to take it to National, the next and final stop on the line and the station that leads directly into MBK. Not so today. I headed to street level instead. And Noom’s smile dimmed by a few watts.

Now if you’ve never been to the Royal Bangkok Sports Club for an afternoon of horse racing – or if you have a Thai’s sense of direction – you’d think your best bet would be to get off at the Ratchadamri station. It’s the closest station, even if the race track is close and visible from Siam Station. At times, once you’re at the track, it even appears the horses are racing with the BTS trains using Ratchadamri. But your bet would be wrong. Just like most of those you’ll place on the races. ‘Cuz Ratchadamri is on the wrong side of the track. Both literally and figuratively. Siam is you better bet. Then it’s only about a ten minute walk to the club. Or, if you are really in a gambling mood, you can take a tuk-tuk.

We opted for walking. Not just to keep our destination secret from Noom as long as possible, but because otherwise, with a tuk tuk, he’d insist on providing the driver directions and then who knows where we’d have ended up. And it worked. We were practically at the club’s entrance before Noom figured out where we were headed. Maybe it was the scent of horses in the air. More likely it was the scent of money. Because his smile – the one that had become nonexistent the further we walked away from the shopping malls of Siam – suddenly reappeared. In full wattage. “Oh! We make bet!”

Which should clue you into why I’d started the day attempting to wrestle away his wad of baht. Because Thais, like most Asians, consider gambling a deeply religious experience. Regardless of the cost. Which may explain why proper footwear and a collared shirt is required at the club (you can ‘rent’ either at the entrance if needed) just like when entering a major wat. Although that comparison quickly dims once you pay your 100 baht entrance fee and make it inside. Which is really more about being outside.

There are no gold encrusted statues to the gods, no red carpet covering the floors, no teak wood carved dioramas from Buddhist tales. Instead there’s a lot of dirty concrete rising into the stands. In fact, those are the stands. And the seating too. All decorated with spalling, trash, and puddles of spit. There’s barbed-wire encompassing parts of the arena too, just for a bit of color. And while the inhabitants may share an age with the venerable Buddhist monks you’d find at a wat, it’s quickly obvious that there is little holy about this group. That almost ever spectator is chain-smoking cheap Thai cigarettes alone should be a clue. Especially since they wash them down with copious amounts of beer and rot-gut whiskey. There are few women in evidence at the track. Nor many farang. It’s mainly older, local men. The kind whose thoughts make them wake each morning with a longing that seldom finds satiation.

A program is available in Thai for 10 baht, or in English for 100 baht, the only dual pricing scheme available at the track. Neither is really necessary. Because even if you are a horse racing aficionado back home, handicapping the field in Thailand is a lesson in futility. A tip off would be the ‘D’ and ‘M’ designations on the guide. They stand for ‘doped substance’ and ‘medicated substance’. Because to a Thai, why wouldn’t you use performance enhancing drugs in a sporting event? No problemo. The horses aren’t exactly thoroughbreds anyway, so much as they are one stop away from the glue factory. And the safest bet at the track is that each and every race is fixed.

Not that that stops the crowd from placing a wager. Even if the local custom is to only do so when there is only a minute or two left before a race begins. Everyone bets on one of the two top mounts. Because one of those two always wins. And then so may you. Which, despite knowing nada about betting on horses, Noom was eager to try his hand at. After reaching it out towards me first.

“I need 1,000 baht.”

“Why? You can place a bet for only 50 baht.”

“I win more.”

“Yeah, but if not I lose more.”

“I know. But I lose, it your money.”

Huh. Whoever it was that said honesty is important in a relationship needs to be shot. They shoot horses for much less serious offenses don’t they? Meanwhile, Dave had paid the 100 baht for a program in English and after studiously pouring over the form had decided he’d handicapped the field and knew who’d be the winner in the next race. Because the horse’s name stirred some pleasant memory in his soul. Noom used a much more scientific approach. He took the advice of the old Thai man sitting next to us who’d been busy pounding back shots of Mekong whiskey all afternoon. Not sure if the lady at the betting window would understand quintella in English (even though it is one of the only four bets allowed) I wheeled mine for a trifecta, betting every combination of the top three horses on the tote board. It’s my version of that old adage about there being safety in numbers.

The horses run on Thai time. Not only in the speed used to get around the track but in how long they wait at the gate before each race begins. The track announcer – screeching in Thai like a cat caught in a cuisinart – begins a countdown to the start of the race so everyone can suddenly decide it’s time to place their wager. (Making sure you are not standing between the crowd and the betting windows is your safest bet.) And then, almost as an after-thought, the barriers at the gate drop and the horses take off to the accompaniment of a thousand fans screaming at the top of their nicotine-laced voices. So it’s more of a throaty rumble. Punctuated by a lot of coughing.

It’s quickly obvious that the horses running in Thailand are all on their last lap. The diminutive jockeys not so much. They look young enough to make a Sunee bar boy proud. And appear to be just as skilled at their chosen profession too. They don’t steer their mount around the track so much as hang on for dear life. And for photo-finishes the track probably still use a Polaroid camera from the ’60s. ‘Cuz there’s usually enough time between when the first and second horses cross the finish line for you to order your choice of the numerous cheap Thai snacks readily available in and around the stands. If anyone attends the horse races at the Royal Bangkok Sports Club with a claiming race in mind, they must be a rep for a local pet food company.

Not that you could tell from the amount of noise my companions were making. Noom reverted to his native language, hoping that would more quickly reach the ear of the Buddha to whom he was fervently beseeching for an assist. Just in case that wasn’t enough he employed some hand gestures too: a sweeping encouragement of his entire arm, shooing his horse along to what he hoped would be a happy ending. Dave had reverted to his native language too, a choice selection of cuss words that I hoped others nearby wouldn’t understand. Mostly because it sounded suspiciously like a power bottom’s bad dialogue from a gay porn movie from the ’80s. I took that time to decide which of the two would be more fun to make go collect my winnings once the race concluded. But at least the two were getting along well for a change. Assuming the punches to each other arms and backs were all thrown in the spirit of friendly competitiveness.

Dave quieted down first. His horse was far back in the pack. Like still at the gate. Noom’s was doing a bit better. Although I suspect the advice he’d received from our friendly neighbor was more about keeping the odds in line than a serious tip about who would win. Or place. Or show. And hey, fourth place isn’t anything to sneeze at. Even though Noom kept looking at the betting slip in his hand like it was contagious. Or that by some miracle the number would change. I let Dave collect my winnings for me. And then handed over another 50 baht note for Noom to try his luck on the next race. Because it’s not about winning. It’s about who is funding your gambling addiction.

Fortunately for Dave’s wallet we’d only made it to the track for the last five races of the day. His subsequent bets fared no better. Noom on the other hand is no dummy. After watching Dave saunter off to collect my winnings twice in a row, he waited for me to place my bets and then followed suit. So at least Dave had a companion on his after-race trips back to the betting window on my behalf. I’m sure he appreciated that.

Noom came out a winner, pocketing just over two hundred baht for the day. He pulled it back out and counted it – loudly for Dave’s benefit – several times during our walk back to Siam station. It stayed tucked away in his wallet however when we hit the BTS and he reminded us of where we were supposed to be headed with an exuberant cry of, “MBK!”

‘Cuz you may be able to lead a horse to water – or the correct Skytrain station – but you can’t make a bar boy pay for his own shoes.

(If you want to try your luck, the horses run weekly on Sundays in Bangkok, trading off between the Royal Bangkok Sports Club and the Royal Turf Club, although you should check each venue’s website first because assuming a race will be held when and where it is supposed to be is never a sure bet. This is Thailand after all.)

Traditions are a big part of the holiday season. We all have them, those little observances that we participate in each year, many of which bring fond memories of Christmases past. For some it’s all about the tree. Where its placed, the ornaments hung, what gets the top spot and when and who gets to place that one. For others it’s songs, the carols we all learned as children and continue to sing as adults, getting just as many of the words wrong as we did as a child.

Movies are a popular holiday tradition; Jimmy Stewart is part of many people’s Christmas every year. As times go by, I’m sure the old black and white holiday favorites are losing their appeal and being replaced by more contemporary tales. I don’t know which newer holiday movies are becoming the standard for Xmas observations these days, but I pull out “The Long Goodbye” every year for my holiday movie viewing tradition. Its a great Xmas movie, it has everything: Santa, snow, Xmas carols, car chases, explosions . . . and Gina Davis makes one of the baddest ass heroes Hollywood has ever seen. Tom Cruise would be so lucky. But then Gina’s balls are twice the size of Tom’s anyway.

It seemed appropriate for my blog to have a holiday traditional post, but I blew my wad back in July. Four years ago. No problemo. A bit of updating to remove the Xmas in July references, and I’m re-posting a Noom story today. I hope you enjoyed it before and will enjoy it again. And will enjoy it as much next year when I post it for the sixth time. (But for those of you who only drool over the pictures of hot guys anyway, I’m updating and adding new pix too. So enjoy.)

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 Xmastime 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 theirs.

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.

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 Year’s. New Year’s 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 Year’s, 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.

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.

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 cuddle it to 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.”

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.

Traditions are a major part of our Christmas holiday celebrations, and I now have a new one. And so does Noom. There are a lot of cherished memories from Christmases of my youth, many more of Christmases I’ve spent with the family I’ve made of friends and lovers. But few of them measure up to the warm fuzzies I get remembering the holidays I’ve spent with Noom. Finally, Santa brought me what I really wanted for Christmas.

“When you come back Bangkok?”

That Noom – my bar boy friend and current love of my life – wanted to know when I’d be returning to his arms once again was sweet. That I’d just landed and we hadn’t even spent a full evening together yet, not so much. If his sense of humor was more subtle I’d have to have taken that comment as, “When are you leaving?” But the scrunched up condition of his forehead said it was something else that was going through his mind.

Usually, combined, Noom and my communication skills work well. I speak more Thai than I let on; he understands less English than he pretends to. Effort too plays its role. If whatever I’m trying to communicate is important enough I try to remember to use a more basic vocabulary. And cut out unnecessary or confusing words. Like pronouns. And if he thinks what I’m attempting to communicate is important enough, he actually listens. Instead of just picking out a few key words and ignoring the rest. I’d just done my part, Noom was still acting on his. But then actions speak louder than words and my action had him both confused and a bit worried. So I knew I’d have to try again. After I allowed his current train of thought to play out. As if I had a choice.

It’s not that Noom has a one track mind so much as it is that he’s a linear thinker. His train of thought moves from station to station to station. And does not go in reverse. So I had to wait for it to reach its terminus before re-boarding. And the fare for that ticket – if I haven’t beat that analogy to death quite yet – was answering the still floating question he’d posed.

“Sometime in late December. Around Christmas. As usual.”

“Good.”

Okay, so he didn’t actually say good. It was more of a quasi-affirmative grunt. But I knew that he meant good. ‘Cuz in addition to my purposefully basic English and his basic ignoring of most of what I say, after years of being together I speak Noom fluently. It usually doesn’t take me long to figure out where our conversation jumped the track either. And with some inkling of where we were now headed, I waited for him to reach the next station.

“I have stocking.”

Yes he does. The Christmas kind. Years ago I introduced Noom to the joys of the farang Christmas stocking tradition. The first year it didn’t make a lot of sense to him. I explained, but all he heard was Santa and stocking and neither held any value in his world. No problemo. On our version of Christmas morning – which is always a few days to a week late as it runs on Thai time – all he needed to understand was that he got a stocking crammed full of gifts. The following year when I began laying the track for a return journey for the tradition he surprised me. He’d kept his stocking. Tenderly wrapped in tissue paper, quite proud and attached to it. Partially I’m sure because it bore his name spelled out in gold glitter. Which is only right.

Christmas stockings are a cool tradition, even more so when yours is personalized and used again year after year. Sometime in my early childhood, our next door neighbor knitted – or crocheted, I’m not really up on my fabric crafts – a stocking for me and each of my brothers, each with our name on it. They were humongous, a good three feet in length. Because even in Christmas stockings, size matters. Which is a good thing because she used a diminutive form of my name that I abhor. Even as a child when it was more appropriate. My mom still has those stockings and still hangs them above the fireplace every year at Christmas. Santa no longer fills them. Which kinda dampens the warm-fuzzies I get when I see mine. But then when it comes to having been naughty or nice, I’ve opted for the former for decades now. So it could be worse. My stocking could be filled with lumps of coal every year. I’m just glad fracking wasn’t all the rage when they came up with that Christmas tale.

So now every year on the first night of my visit closest to the holiday, Noom unwraps his stocking and hangs it above the chimney with care. Except since hotel rooms in Thailand do not generally include a fireplace its spot of honor is above the microwave instead. That’s our Christmas tradition. And Noom is big on traditions. So if I’m booking a different hotel than the one I usually stay in around Christmas, I always have to make sure it includes a microwave oven on its list of room amenities. Otherwise Santa wouldn’t know where to put all the goodies. But Santa had not yet come to town; a quick shake of my head told Noom his train was headed down the wrong track.

“Dis my birday.”

Wrong again, Grasshopper. And it was getting time to derail that train. Noom’s birthday is December 4th. Just like half of Thailand’s is. Even though he was born sometime in the spring. Thais have a full year to register births and since nothing could be luckier than to share a birthday with the King, many local’s official birthday is around December 5th. Not on the fifth mind you. That would be a bit presumptuous. And probably violates lese majeste laws. In any case, we celebrate Noom’s (meaning I give him a present) either during my annual visit at the end of the year or, depending on the dates, when I hit town in the late fall. So he says tank you. And opens any gift I give him immediately. Which was part of the current problem.

Noom had already thanked me for the pile of gifts I bring on every visit – small stuff I’ve run across while shopping since my last trip that I thought he’d appreciate or enjoy – just because. And had already gone through the pile, carefully re-stacking each in accordance with its value (to him). The stuff that as a Thai I’d be grateful for the custom of unwrapping gifts later when the gift-giver isn’t around gets put at the bottom of the pile. Anything that’s a real hit gets placed on top. because he’ll need to go back and check it out again soon. And often. So with those gifts dispensed with, with the confirmation that Santa was still headed to a microwave oven near you, and that he’d still have to wait for my next visit to celebrate his birthday – along with my annual festive reminder that his nickname – which means young man – is well past its shelf-life, it was finally time to switch trains to a new line.

“A few months ago, Phil came up with the idea of taking donations on my website to allow regular readers to pay off their debt for the occasional laugh they have at your expense.”

“Oh. Dis from Phil.”

Noom liked Phil. Still does. Not that ‘dis’ was from Phil. But misconception is a gift in its own right, and was greatly appreciated since it trumped the gift bearing-less Dave who was sitting on the bed watching our conversation like a fan at Wimbledon. Ignoring the dig at Dave, I tried again.

“You internet star. Dis from my blog. A gift from readers. For you. Not for Christmas, not for your birthday. Just because they lub you.”

“Oh. Not from you?”

“Uh, well, no. It’s from them. Kinda like a booking they paid for later.”

“Oh! Dey my boyfriend now?”

Bastard. Even Dave got a laugh out of Noom’s joke that so perfectly summed up the typical Thai bar boy / farang relationship. But the joke was on Noom. I know how his mind works. And knew where that train was headed.

“Yeah well it was a one-time booking. Don’t expect another wad of cash to show up again next year.”

“Oh. Butterfly.”

And you thought my not letting go of the train analogy was bad.

Now knowing where the unexpected largesse had come from, or what it represented – or more importantly what it did not – Noom quit waving it around in the air while he talked and decided, since the gift givers were not present, he should count the cash and see just how well lubbed he was. That got another, “Oh.” Then he counted it again. And then, even though I’d already arranged the bills by denomination, Noom being Noom and Noom being a sufferer of his own brand of OCD, he rearranged the cash from largest to smallest bill. And then counted his haul yet again.

“I can take my shoes off if that would help.”

Noom would probably have had a quick rejoinder for Dave’s comment. But he was busy counting his money. One more time. I don’t blame him. It was a large number. Especially for cash you weren’t expecting to receive. And especially when you are expecting even more cash to still come your way for Christmas. And your birthday.

When how much he was holding finally sunk in, Noom got serious. Money does that to him. There was, undoubtedly much going through his mind. And much he would have liked to say. But rather than take a chance on miscommunication, he went with a simple, but heartfelt, “Tank you.’

I’m sure that was directed toward y’all and not me since I’ll get my thanks around Christmas. And Noom’s birthday. I always think I come out better on that gift exchange anyway. And I’ll add my Tank You to his. Some donated about what I’d expected. Some a bit more. A few blew me away. All donations were appreciated, regardless of amount. All told, 86 of you coughed up some cash for a total of 68,000 baht. Give or take an exchange rate percentage or two. I rounded it up to an even seventy. Even though I should have withheld some for expenses.

Dave, by the way, didn’t know how much it was until Noom counted it. He is still giving me strange looks. And all kidding aside, Noom was sincerely touched at your generosity, realizing what that money represented. To him, that meant a lot. And for that gift, I thank you.