So wasn’t ready to begin his day. But he had little choice. The farang was. Maybe, So thought, if he stayed quiet, his eyes tightly shut, if he kept completely still . . . maybe then the farang would fall back to sleep. But they seldom did. Sometimes it seemed they were just waiting for So to make the slightest nod toward consciousness. Like a tiger waits quietly, watching for the first hint of a herd’s lapse in judgment, the first sign its prey isn’t paying attention to what it should. But this was a good farang. He’d booked So before. Maybe he’d be satisfied to lay there. And just look. Maybe he’d ignore his appetites. For a while.

This farang wasn’t the kind that woke So rudely, he wasn’t one of those who radiated a sense of desperation, of ruthless drive, their hands always reaching for what seemed to be the only thing they ever focused on. The bed jiggled, jostled by, and then mimicking, the undulating movements of the ample rolls that surrounded the farang’s waist. So heard the fleshy padding of the farang’s feet on the floor. The bathroom door shut. The toilet flushed. The shower came on. So rolled back over, drifting into a lazy slumber. He had a few minutes more to enjoy his morning.

There were benefits to a long-time booking. Morning was not one of them. It usually meant a larger tip, a not-that-good night’s rest, and – with luck – at the very least breakfast. Sometimes it meant the customer would take So shopping. Sometimes it meant they would visit the places visitors to Bangkok always wanted to see. Far too often it meant the customer thought long-time meant a second round of sex, never satisfied with the orgasm bought and paid for the night before. But this farang wasn’t like that So remembered. Or was. And was just too polite to act on it.

Shopping was always a good thing to do with farang So thought, smiling as he drifted back into sleep with a chiaroscuro of vague forms coruscating want and desire filling his dreams, more an emotion than a picture, an intimation of all of the marvelous merchandise that cluttered the shopping malls of Bangkok, all those things usually beyond So’s reach vying for a place in his morning’s reveries. From days spent in the past with customers So was familiar with the city’s glitzy malls, though he would never shop at any of them on his own. His needs were better met at the street markets that sprang up across the city, those that catered to Thais, were staffed by Thais, shopped by Thais, and priced at what Thais could afford.

It was nice when a farang bought So an expensive shirt, some electronic gadget, a bottle of cologne, or a piece of jewelry. And like with his barmates, there was always the thrill and pride of showing off whatever a farang had bought him. But designerwear, an iPod knock-off, and grooming products didn’t put food on the table. And the joy a new shirt brought So faded quickly when he returned home to Noi, his wife, and her look of disapproval that what could have been more baht wasn’t.

So turned over in bed, stretched, and giggled at the thought of asking his farang to buy him a shirt for his wife. But he knew better. Farang tipped more when they thought you didn’t like women. So had learned it was best to say yes when a customer asked him if he was gay. Trying to figure out farang was a hopeless endeavor. Any Thai could tell So wasn’t gay. He was a man. There was nothing effeminate about him. But So had made that mistake once, the customer hadn’t booked him, and hadn’t bothered to tip him for the short time they’d spent sitting together at the bar. Wit, his barmate and friend, had laughed at him. And then told him what the customer had wanted to hear. Farang. They went on and on about being honest and not telling lies, but then were the first to turn you down when you told them the truth. Customers from Singapore never asked those questions. But then they seldom took you shopping the next day either.

So heard the shower turning off, the ending of its soft, monotonous murmur subtly changing his perception of the room. He sighed, opened an eye, and debated over turning on the tv or getting ready to spring out of bed and head for the bathroom as soon as the farang vacated it. Laying in this big soft bed for a few moments more would be the preferable option, not yet beginning his day a worthy goal. But to farang that was almost an invitation. Better to get up, get his day off to its start, and hope the farang would tip him soon so he could get back to his life. Still, the lure of a shopping trip permeated the haze of the morning, a pleasant siren’s song casting its spell over the reality of a day begun in a strange room, with a strange man, under circumstances all too strangely familiar.

This farang had taken him shopping before. So had been careful, he’d not asked for anything, had not allowed his eyes to linger too long on the piles, stacks, and displays of merchandise they walked past. Accompanying a farang on his shopping excursion was always fraught with the danger of miscommunication, of unintended meanings stirred by overly suspicious minds. Some farang were eager to buy you things, others quick to find offence if you even looked like there was something you’d like to have. Or needed. And Wit, long ago, had warned So that some farang would buy you small gifts, but then would give you less of a tip. As though it had been your money being used to make those purchases.

Wit was a good friend. A brother. He was always good for a laugh, ready to share what he had. So didn’t mind that Wit booked customers more often than he did. Wit was lucky. He was small. And customers liked his youthful appearance. Even though Wit was well past that age, farang never questioned him when he said he was 19. Farang couldn’t tell how old So and his bar mates were any better than it seemed they could tell which of them might be gay. Maybe in their country men looked old at an early age. Most of the farang So met certainly did.

This farang was a tall fleshy man with a hound-dog face – wrinkled like yesterday’s shirt – an averageness saved from the point of tedium by a couple of faint things that must have been freckles spaced on either side of his nose. A hansum man, So thought, smiling at yet another small lie that meant the difference between booking a customer or another night of returning home to Noi to hand over nothing more than a small handful of baht he’d earned as tips.

The noises his farang was now making as he sat on the edge of the bed, bending over to tie his shoes, belied his claim of being “not that old”, while the odd, alarming color his face took on from that exertion matched the soundtrack of his years. So sensed, more than felt, the farang’s attentions turning toward where he laid. Too late to reach for the remote as a defense, So hopped out of bed and headed for the shower, reminding himself to adjust the spray’s temperature first because farang always set it too hot.

It was an odd habit these foreign visitors to Thailand had. They turned the hotel room’s air-conditioning to its coldest, the shower to its hottest, as if to prove they had control over every facet of their life, as though their world required constant adjustment and attention when the natural balance of life would otherwise easily take care of those things for you. It often seemed to So that being a farang must take an awful amount of work.

Finishing his shower, So wrapped himself in one of the hotel’s thick towels, thinking to himself how easily both he and Noi could fit inside, how good it would feel for the two of them to be enveloped in its softness. Still damp, with the room’s cold air-conditioning prickling at those areas of his skin left exposed, So walked back into the bedroom to slip into his underwear while, as he knew he would, the farang watched. Why farang always closed the door when they used the bathroom, but then couldn’t grasp the concept of privacy when So tried to get dressed in the morning was just another reminder of how foreign foreigners could be.

That thought quickly dissipated as the farang started speaking English at So in a jumbled rush of far too many unfamiliar words. Slightly panicked, So reminded himself to turn on the tv next time. Before he go out of bed. The sound of Thai blaring from the television tended to dissuade farang from engaging in too much conversation, as though it would be impolite to interrupt the flow of words they could not understand. But he heard breakfast, and smiled in acknowledgment. And then: shopping. Maybe So’s night’s work would pay off handsomely after all.

Related Posts You Might Enjoy:
The Boys In The Bar: So’s Dream	Bangkok Gay Gogo Bar Dos And Don’ts For The Newbie: The Hotel Room Edition	Ode To A Towel