It was a typical night in Thailand, atypical for that time of the year up north where the frigid winter weather – a brisk 85 degrees – usually chills the city’s residents to the very marrow of their bones. Bundled up to brave the expected arctic-like temperatures, heavy coats were being doffed right and left as Thailand’s second largest city, a university town, reverted back to its normal climate with an average evening temperature ramped up by humidity on steroids being pretty close to hell’s. Earlier, the rains had come and gone, thick and warm like piss, leaving a night that was hotter than two rats screwing in a wool sock and the city’s ever present debris, the effluence of a populace to whom a trash can was an unknown entity, battling for place in the potholes and gutters of the dark and dank streets.

Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, was still a bit chilled, keeping his lightweight fleece jacket zipped up to turtle-shell height. The girls had abandoned their flannel dyke-wear for more feminine attire, lightweight, frilly cotton camisoles that would have exposed their concession to being female if either had ever graduated past an A cup. Chris, whom Noom had dubbed Pretty Boy earlier in the trip in recognition of his long, fluttering eyelashes and limpid, deep brown eyes while gallantly ignoring a nose that could easily make the local elephant population snort in jealous rage, was dressed to kill opting to ignore the humidity’s decree on attire and going instead for what he assumed was sexually appealing, not realizing that a skintight woven shirt on a skinny boy whose lifestyle doesn’t provide for exercise only served to highlight a set of protruding rosebud-like nipples that would look more appropriate on a pre-op tranny. But then Pretty Boy was a true bottom and our night’s outing was his call. He’d dressed for what he hoped would be success. Damn the heat, he was in heat. And Pretty Boy was on a mission.

Two nights before we’d boomeranged through the press of bodies bartering their little hearts out at Chiang Mai’s Night Bazaar, the city’s nightly tribute to the gods of consumerism, the street filled with pale-skinned touri on the hunt for the perfect souvenir and local vendors offering machine-made handicrafts from neighboring countries whose prices seemed ridiculously inexpensive to visitors and laughably dear to those camped out next to the small rolling cages that made up their storefronts. Noom had stocked up on goodies from the North that would serve as reminders to his family, friends, and co-workers that he’d been on a holiday and they hadn’t. The girls had spent the night ignoring the SE Asian inspired merchandise on offer in favor of that which spoke more clearly to their souls: shoes. And Pretty Boy had moped along looking like a bulldog chewing a wasp, his sullen demeanor loudly proclaiming to all that he was in Thailand damnit and it’d been two whole days since he’d last gotten laid.

“So where’s the bars?” he asked earlier in the evening while the rest of us perused menus offering a comforting blend of western and Thai dishes, his mind fixated on a different form of sustenance. Pretty Boy had begun the trip swearing he did not like Asian men. He’d upped that ante after a visit to Tawan, Bangkok’s palace of testosterone gone wild, avowing he didn’t like macho guys with muscles. And he’d finished off the night proclaiming he was too young and too okay looking to be hiring a local boy for sex – just minutes before succumbing to the delights offered by a young, muscled, Thai bar boy, a pleasurable act that he’d adopted as his nightly ritual while in the Kingdom. And Pretty Boy was ready to sample the men that Chiang Mai had to offer.

“Sorry dude,” I lied with the utmost insincerity. “This ain’t Bangkok. Chiang Mai is about kicking back, visiting wats, taming tigers, riding elephants, flirting with the pros in the girlie bars who aren’t pro enough to recognize a gay man when they see one, and wading through the night markets.”

“Yeppers, I know,” Pretty Boy quickly agreed totally discounting whatever unimportant thing it was I’d had to say. “But where are the bars?”

With a vague wave of my hand in a direction that may or may not have been accurate. “Over that way somewhere,” I told him with little interest in his needs. “Grab a tuk tuk, tell the driver you want a boy and he’ll take care of you.”

It’s easy to ignore the scattered grouping of bars offering the northern version of male flesh in Chiang Mai when you’ve brought your own with you. But though Noom as a companion on visits to Chiang Mai has become de rigueur in the recent past, I’d never bothered checking out the local gogo bar scene on trips made to the rose of the north before I met Noom. I party my ass off in Bangkok; I flee to Chiang Mai for a much needed break, a few days to recharge my batteries before heading back to Thailand’s capital city to gorge licentiously on its beefy male dezinens once again. The bitch of adopting a travel companion as your tour guide means you get stuck with their version of wherever it is you are visiting.

With visions of being raped from not being accompanied by a spotter, or perhaps not feeling adequately sure enough of his capabilities in negotiating Chiang Mai’s bar world on his own, which could result in the disappointment of not being raped, Pretty Boy wasn’t thrilled with the idea of tackling his desires on his own. “Okay, I’m taking Noom with me,” he tried.

“I shopping,” came a quick reply from someone engrossed in selecting a dozen small fake silver hair spikes that he’d already gotten down to five baht a piece. Never try to get between a Thai bar boy and a farang’s open wallet. Later that night alone together in our hotel room Noom revisited Pretty Boy’s attempt to waylay him from his true calling, part of his nightly replay of the day’s events, with a snort that evidenced the frugality that Chris had already demonstrated was central to his being. “He want me pay tuk tuk!”

Disgruntled, Pretty Boy attempted to put a dampener on our night’s excursion, his face moving from a pout to a sullen glower, not realizing that none of the rest of us really gave a fuck whether he got fucked or not. The bitch of travelling with a group of type A personality companions whose egos all put their own needs at the top of their respective agendas is that your desires become but an echo of a blip on their radar screens.

Noom laden with bags full of cheap trinkets, the girls laden with footwear, and Pretty Boy laden with the unfulfilled needs of his soul, we finished off the Night Bazaar and my suggestion of catching a baht bus back to the hotel was discarded in favor of Noom’s plan of strolling back through town instead; there were still streetside stalls he’d not yet managed to peruse. Halfway up Loi Kroh Road a pink mirage of flickering neon blinked life into the nearly deserted neighborhood, a street-side foot massage business coalesced out of the gloom; an oasis of pleasure for the weary feet beckoned. The girls, never being able to pass up the opportunity of pampering themselves, decided a massage, possibly even a pedicure, was in order. Noom, spotting a small confabulation of street vendor stalls across the road decided the area offered an indulgence worthy of occupying his time. And Pretty Boy’s libido let out another plaintive wail, frustrated that the only rubbing in sight was not gonna be pleasuring that part of him that ached for relief.

Plopping down on worn tattered lounges, cushions cocooned in sweat from an evening full of weary travellers’ broad backsides, the girls succumbed to the ministrations of the local massage ladies. The chubby, cherubic no-longer-a-girl who drew Helena as a customer focused her skills on the knotted muscles of Helena’s legs while focusing her desires on the much cuter Dee lazing in bliss in the next massage chair over. Noom, who’d tarried long enough to see to the comfort of his charges, gave a quick nod and a not-so-quiet announcement confirming what was obvious to all, “She lesbian!”

Noom was a happy camper. He’s big on tradition and one of ours is collecting a new lesbian on each trip we make to Chiang Mai. Helena was a happy camper too ‘cuz she was being stroked both physically and figuratively. Dee wasn’t quite as happy of a camper; she wasn’t thrilled to have run into the local lesbian population, deep in a battle for her relationship with Helena a horny outside influence was not what she needed right then. And Chris, whose entire focus was on pitching a tent, with no available poles in sight was pissed that the damn lesbians had found companionship, their damn friend had his damn boy friend to cuddle with, and he was left feeling like a dam about to burst. With no boys for sale in sight Pretty Boy did what any gay boy would do and channeled the lesbian within him, sinking into the next available chair to have his feet, if not his best buddy, rubbed.

The 30 minute foot massage became a 45 minute ego massage that became an over hour long massaging of the amount of expected tip leaving the girls and Chris in a state of blissful relaxation and the massage crew in a state of ecstacy from being tipped by a group of farang who hadn’t a clue to the appropriate gratuity and so, as Americans, had forked over wads of baht that dwarfed the initial cost of the massage. Sated and content we headed back to our hotel where Noom took Pretty Boy’s happiness firmly in hand by suggesting he take himself firmly in hand. “You chuck wow, you happy again tomorrow at breakfast,” Noom advised him as we retired to our room while Pretty Boy retired to a night spent much as he did back in the States, hammering home his frustration of spending the night in bed alone once again.

The next morning at breakfast after Noom once again embarrassed Pretty Boy by grilling him on whether he’d followed Noom’s advice, we planned our day. The gang was satisfied to follow my lead on whatever exotic adventures I had planned for them during daylight hours. But come night, the girls were adamant about spending hours having their feet attended to by their new friend. “We have to go to the Saturday Night Market,” Helena informed me. “They’re setting up shop there.”

“Um, they didn’t happen to mention exactly where at the market they would be by any chance?” I asked. I’d never visited the Saturday Night Market before but if it was anything like the Sunday Night Market, it’d be a few thousand vendor stalls spread out over an entire neighborhood of streets jam packed with touri and locals alike. Noom, who pays close attention to farang conversation but rarely speaks up relying instead on the given that I will see to his interests, heard the concern in my voice. And became concerned himself.

“We ever not been,” he cooed using his submissive child-like voice, the one that is supposed to tug at my heart strings. Which it always does.

“I know,” I replied. “But it’s the same vendors that will be at the Sunday Night Market.

“Yes,” he reasoned back not agreeing with me. “I need go shopping.”

“What do you need to buy?”

“I need choose.”

Of course. Dummy me. The girls had spent the previous night buying enough footwear to shoe an army. Noom was feeling left out.

No problemo. After a fun filled day we were off to market for a night of massage for the girls and shopping for Noom. Three hours into our excursion we’d wandered the length of the market twice, had not found the lesbian foot masseur, but had found three pairs of choose for Noom. Pretty Boy suggested there might be a gogo bar nearby we could hit instead. Helena whined about her aching feet, neglecting to mention it was really her ego that needed stroking. And Dee, who still wasn’t convinced adding more lesbians to the mix was in her best interest, finally owned up that she might have spotted their new BFF earlier, a block up the street and around the corner.

Sure enough, the massage place had staked out a less-populated stretch of the street for business. Hugs and kisses all around with the masseurs beaming smiles that only a Thai with visions of soon to be riches can, the girls and Chris settled in for a few hours of being fondled while Noom tugged me back out into the fray, still a few pair of choose short of his goal.

Two hours later, we hooked back up for a long walk back out to the main road that effectively negated the bliss of the recently relaxed muscles in the girls legs and feet. Noom couldn’t decide which pair of his new footwear to slip on for the hike back and had gone with the traditional approach of spitting the baby in half. On his right foot he wore a bright white sneaker with glaringly red laces, on his left a rubber sandal with more velcro straps than an astronaut’s spacesuit. Pretty Boy, much more chipper than a massage missing the happy ending should have left him in dropped back for a sudden heart to heart.

“Did you see him?”

“Who?”

“That guy doing the massages next to me.”

Chris, possibly the first to have ever done so in Thailand, had fallen in love with a massage boy. Who only did feet. It was a case of being heels over head in lust.

“Do you think he’d go out with me?”

Noom had been eavesdropping and decided his assistance was required. “I go ask.”

“Noooo!”

It’s not many farang who get the chance to relive their junior high school years in the middle of SE Asia. Three nights without sex had turned Pretty Boy into a teenage girl. It was a good thing he didn’t know the guy’s name or he’d have spent the night writing their names together inside of little hearts. I decided my only recourse was to start acting like a twelve-year-old bitch myself and ran up to tell the girls all about Chris’ romance. They too immediately devolved into the roles they’d played thirty years earlier and began razzing him mercilessly. And Pretty Boy was left once again to seek solace from his hand.

Fortunately for Chris, unfortunately for my wallet, the girls had agreed to another round of having their feet pampered the next night at the Sunday Night Market. Proving that you can in fact teach old dogs new tricks, they’d obtained an approximate location where the massage place would be setting up shop. Pretty Boy spent the day in nervous anticipation, temporarily turning into a blubbering ball of pure grief when the sky opened up, possibly dousing his chance of scoring the hottie of his dreams.

With a location in mind we didn’t spend hours aimlessly wandering through the market that night, much to Noom’s disappointment. Pretty Boy led the way like a bitch in heat scenting out her prey. Once again we were greeted with beaming smiles over the joy of lesbo camaraderie and ridiculously profligate tips. Chris went with the demure act, hanging back while sneaking furtive glances at the man of his dreams.

Helena came to his rescue, telling her new BFF that tonight Chris wanted ‘that’ man, rudely using her finger to point out the young hunk whom Pretty Boy had become enthralled with. Noom decided the opportunity to shop with my wallet could wait; even he wanted to watch the soap opera that had become Chris’ holiday, and he absconded with two ubiquitous plastic stools from a nearby shop for the two of us to sit and watch the drama play out.

Pretty Boy nestled into his lounge chair, closed his eyes and allowed an anticipatory smile to spread across his face. Unfortunately Helena’s new BFF’s skills were at giving massages, not with speaking English. She’d tuned into the gist of Helena’s request, the specifics however had escaped her. Her reading of the situation was that this time around Chris wanted a man, not a woman, to massage his feet. And that he wanted the type of massage only a man could give.

I think Pretty Boy had carefully considered his plan of seduction. He waited with eyes closed to feel the gentle caress of the man he hoped would be soon sharing his bed. I’m sure his plan was to then rely on his best feature, to flash those soulful eyes in greeting, accompanied by a shy smile that held promise, romance, and friendship.

The gnarled sandpaper-like hands that grasped his legs and began pummeling them into submission was not the touch that Pretty Boy had envisioned. His eyes popped open wide, leaving his prodigious nose in shadows. A whimper escaped his lips at the sight of the elderly, nut-brown troll who had been assigned as his masseur. He’d been expecting a gentle Thai foot massage and had landed an expert at Rolfing instead. And to add insult to his multiple injuries, the boy of his dreams took the chair next to him and began administering to the ghastly feet of an obese German woman.

The best laid plans of mice, men and Pretty Boys often go awry. The bitch of sharing those plans with your travel companions is their hysterical laughter when things don’t go your way. The girls got their feet and egos massaged, Pretty Boy got the beating of his life while his love life crumbled into pieces.

After once again handing out tips that are undoubtedly still spoken of in Chiang Mai today, the girls out of pleasure and Chris too afraid not to, we headed off to a late dinner. We’d barely made it half a block before Noom disappeared and I shuddered at the thought of what my money was about to buy. Pretty Boy, in his despondency never noticed Noom’s vanishing act, but pulled himself out of his funk long enough to glance at what Noom was passing to him when he rejoined the group. He’d gone back and gotten Chris’ heart throb’s name and phone number.

The bitch of travelling with companions who share in both your most intimate enjoyments and failures is that sometimes, at least one of them makes the right call and massages your broken dreams back into life.

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