So looked down at his hard cock and laughed. That had been its normal state when he was in his teens. But then it had been raging hormones not the requirements of employment responsible for his stiffy. And back then he hadn’t needed a torn rubber acting as a cock ring to keep him erect either. With one more bar boy in front of him before he took the stage, he reached down and gave himself a good tug, Exposing himself on stage still embarrassed him some, but since it wasn’t his choice he’d make the best of it. Or at least make his cock look as large as possible.

Suddenly Wit – who was supposed to already be in front of the audience – came rushing over in a panic, pushing So back toward the dressing room. “It’s Lek!” he screamed. Which made no sense to So at all.

“What about Lek?”

“He’s here! He’s out there! In the audience!”

“Lek’s here? Now?”

“And looking beautiful too.”

So scowled at the thought of Wit being attracted to Lek. Wit returned his scowl; the only member of their household Wit had ever wanted was So. But the dumb bastard was too straight to notice. So peaked out over Wit’s naked shoulder, trying to spot Lek in the crowd. A familiar pair of eyes in an unfamiliar but beautifully made up face peaked back at him; So quickly turned away, moving into the shadows. “What in Buddha’s name is he doing here?” he asked Wit.

“She’s with Grandma Nong,” Wit told him. The ancient ladyboy under discussion passed by at the minute, trailing her hand along Wit’s naked ass as she headed for her turn on stage now that the candle act had gone up in flames. He flashed a smile at her. Wit appreciated being appreciated. Even during a crisis. “Now what are we going to do?” he asked So since he was always the one with the answers.

“You are going to leave that poor boy alone,” Nong threw into their conversation. “She’s working with me and we need to earn my living.” That seemed to settle the matter. For now. So wondered if he could stay hidden in the dressing room for the remainder of the night.

Not at all pleased with the disruption they’d cause on stage, the captain came charging in their direction, only to be pulled up short by a customer. He listened, attempted to translate the request, looked to the spot Wit had just disappeared from, and planted a large and completely insincere smile on his face. A minute later he made it into the dressing room and informed Wit he had a customer.

Wit’s panic reasserted itself. Not wanting to be the one to deal with Lek’s sudden appearance at the bar, he stole a quick look out to where the captain had indicated his customer waited, hoping his table was no where near where Lek sat. He was in luck. At least until he recognized the farang who’d requested Wit join him. Wit groaned. Out of the fire and into the microwave oven, he thought. Wit had never been unlucky enough to land this farang as a customer before, but by reputation he was well known to the boys in the bar. In fact, most of the boys working on the soi knew of him. He was easy to spot. He looked just like the Colonel from KFC. And those forced by circumstances to spend time with him all agreed doing so was as enjoyable as the result of eating a spoiled piece of chicken.

The farang didn’t drink alcohol; he sipped on a glass of club soda all night instead. Wit had noticed those farang who’d done battle with the bottle in the past and lost often chose club soda as their preferred drink. It must be some kind of farang penance, Wit assumed. And this one was slow to buy boys a drink too. And then demanded they not order beer or a mixed drink when he did. As though his system would be contaminated from having a glass of booze anywhere near it. The cheap bastard tipped like he was in Pattaya too.

None of which in itself would be enough to mark him as a dud, or even provide enough for the boys to gossip about. But there was something in his eyes, some little evil thing laying dormant within his soul, that betrayed the jovial expression he wore on his face like a mask, allowing a small glimpse of the meanness that ran through him like fat on marbled beef. And you couldn’t finish him off quickly with a masterful hand job either. ‘Cuz this one didn’t want sex. Or did, but was to dishonest with himself to admit it. Instead he played the role of an investigative reporter, a scribe, a Boswell to the bar boy’s Johnson. He wanted the boys he offed to tell him their life story. As if any of them would be willing to sell their lives as cheaply as they did their bodies.

Sometimes he brought along an elderly, gay Thai man as a companion, a translator to help him in his life’s work. That man repeated the lies the boys made up, looking guilty for doing so but not willing to side with the farang, probably out of his own sense of shame. The customer often took his victim to a farang-style restaurant, congratulating himself on being so generous when the fact was few boys enjoyed eating in those places. Not that sharing a meal with him anywhere would be enjoyable. He viewed himself as their savior for the night too, not realizing the unfortunate boy whose number had come up would much rather turn a quick trick, get paid, and get back to the bar instead of sitting across from the strange farang while he pontificated about the goodness in his heart. And then after grilling them for hours on how they lived, what they thought of their work, how they got started, and why they did it – the answers for which the boys competed with each other in making up the most outlandish stories – he’d pass them a paltry tip along with his business card, as though the boy was his client instead of the other way around. Wit had heard the only way to get a decent tip out of the man was by telling him you’d been raped. Or beaten. Or both. The man paid well for other’s misery. But then freaks always did.

The captain was no more pleased with Wit’s hesitation than he’d been with the disturbance on stage. And this time a tip was at stake. He pushed Wit forward, using his chin again to point to where Wit’s potential customer sat. It wasn’t Colonel Sanders and his death by kindness act. Beyond him, two tables away, his real customer waited: a balding, corpulent man with a series of flabby chins folding into a barrel chest. But a prize, all things considered. Wit said a quick thanks to the gods, and scuffled over to where his payday sat. The farang was enthralled with Wit’s beauty, in lust, and in love before Wit even told him his name. It only took Wit a minute to convince the man to take him dancing; what pleasures the farang had in mind didn’t matter; Wit needed a dance floor and a techno beat to wash away the reality of having Lek walk in on them at their bar. He helped the mamasan tally up the farang’s check bin, and then rushed him out the door leaving So to deal with Lek on his own.

It was still early when they walked into DJ Station, even though Wit had adjusted his pace to match the farang’s whose feet moved massively, as if seeking the best purchase, like columns, like pillars of stone, as the two plodded their way slowly through the congested streets of Patpong. By the time they arrived, you’d have thought he’d just competed in the Bangkok Marathon instead of having walked a few mere blocks. Inside, Wit edged them toward the dance floor, beginning to feel the music and giving the farang a chance to prove he’d be a fun companion for the evening. Fat chance of that, With thought with a laugh at his play on words. And he was right. The farang just stood there, blinking. Like he’d just landed on a foreign planet. Wit turned in their script for drinks instead and then lead the man up to the third floor where he parked him for the evening, leaving his glass next to the farang’s to signal the money boys he was taken and to suggest to the farang Wit would soon return. Like when the club closed. Because for now the disco beat was working its siren song on Wit’s soul, and all he wanted to do was boogie.

On the dance floor, his eyes slipped closed while he let his body move into a rhythm of its own; Wit was happy. He pulled off his shirt, tucked it into the loop of his belt, and let himself go, knowing appreciative eyes would be following his every move. Wit danced with himself, for himself, and for the validation his inner self needed, seldom changing direction, only altering his speed of movement to match the music’s tempo as it changed. He was lost inside of himself, a place in which Wit enjoyed being, his mind wandered to nowhere, the beat of the music providing a focus on nothing. Until he sensed a strong presence, someone staring at him, Even more than usual. The farang? No, Wit knew from experience that man would still be upstairs, sitting, waiting, patiently, with some angst. He let his eye lids slide open a fraction. In front of him a hot, Asian man joined him in his dance. A hunk. He was gorgeous. Not Chinese, possibly from Singapore, Wit thought. Older than Wit, and quite debonair, an act he had difficulty pulling off since he danced like a wooden puppet that had lost its strings. Seeing Wit’s eyes open, he smiled. Then moved in closer, their crotches almost touching as he whispered into Wit’s ear, “Sawatdee kap! My name is Paul.”

What Wit heard, was, “I love you.” And he replied in kind, hoping it came out as, “My name Wit,” instead.

The danced together, alone, occasionally finding themselves facing each other again, then trading smiles. Like old friends who’d just run across each other unexpectedly after years of being apart. Wit ran his hands up Paul’s chest, wishing he had his shirt off too, honing in on Paul’s nipples like a newborn kitten finding its mother’s teats nonetheless. Finally, when the tempo picked up again, exhausted, they moved off the dance floor together and then with a just a look of mutual agreement headed outside to catch some air.

“Where you from?” Wit asked, wincing slightly at how much that sounded like he was hitting on another farang customer.Paul didn’t seem to notice. In fact Paul didn’t seem to notice anything but Wit’s chest glistening in the lights of the alleyway. He managed to stutter out some semblance of an answer anyway.

“I live in Malacca. I’m here with my mom, visiting the relatives. She’s Thai.”

Wit bit his lip before he could ask, “Where you stay?” Although he desperately wanted to know. And even more desperately wanted to go there as quickly as possible. Paul took his silence for encouragement. Or just couldn’t work up the effort to keep himself from blabbering.

“We’re staying at the family house, but I booked a hotel room for the night . . .”

On their way to Paul’s hotel he filled the silence of the taxi cab with snippets of his life’s story. An ICU doctor in his early thirties who visited Bangkok every few months, usually spending his time in The City of Angels shopping. Wit heard ‘doctor’. And ‘shopping’. And with Paul’s confession that he flew in to Bangkok frequently, Wit heard ‘boyfriend’ too. And then heard what he didn’t want to hear.

“Sorry, but you’re not a money boy are you?”

Money was always on Wit’s mind. But that wasn’t the brain in control of things this night. He tried to look offended instead of panicked and stammered out, “No, I go university.”

With no further details offered, Paul let the issue slide. Wit smiled to himself, happy to be dealing with another Asian who understood things without being told. Farang always wanted explanations. They never seemed to know when to let matters drop. He moved across the seat closer to Paul, snuggling under his arm, sensing the man’s dominant personality, that he was one who would enjoy having a submissive, muscle-bound hunk eager to fulfil his every whim. Wit knew he would be good at taking care of this man. If only he was given the chance.

In the hotel room, at first Wit wasn’t sure what to do. He stopped himself from turning on the television; that buffer worked well with farang customers but wasn’t what he wanted out of this night. With first-timers and the shy or inexperienced, Wit usually took the lead. Otherwise he’d be there the entire night even on a short-time off. The more experienced, and those whose desires demanded immediate attention, provided direction whether it was something Wit wanted to do or not. Paul was somewhere in between. Confident. And at ease. Not in a rush but still anxious over what the night promised. As many times as Wit had found himself in an unfamiliar room with an unfamiliar man, he lacked experience when it came to someone who was not a paying customer. But he knew men. He knew what each different type liked. And hoping he’d got it right, he sank to his knees to help slip off Paul’s shoes and socks. The sigh he heard from above his head said he’d made the call right.

Tugging his shirt off Wit felt Paul’s fall next to him. He looked up and into Paul’s eyes, noting his small love handles – a sure sign of wealth in Wit’s estimation – as his gaze traveled upward. Remaining on his knees he flexed the muscles in his shoulders and arms, putting on a show. Then reached out and began unbuckling Paul’s belt, feeling his erect cock straining against the fabric of his jeans. Wit’s cock too was demanding release as the sight of Paul’s nakedness filled his vision. Not that he missed noting that both Paul’s pants and underwear bore designer labels. When Paul’s hard cock popped free from his underwear, those visions of Gucci and Armani dissipated, the fullness of his manhood straining forward through a perfectly manscaped thatch of hair was all Wit could see.

Two hours later, both exhausted again, Wit moved back up the bed to cuddle in Paul’s arms. As he began to drift into a light sleep his eyes flashed open, startled at the sudden memory of the forgotten farang he’d left waiting for him at DJ’s. He laughed to himself, thinking there was a good chance he could return tomorrow night to find the farang still waiting. And then felt a little bit guilty over missing out on his tip. Noi would scold him for returning home again without some cash, but then maybe the drama So and Lek brought home with them would occupy her mind instead. He hoped the farang wouldn’t come back to his bar and complain, decided if he did Wit would claim he’d gotten lost, had tried to find the man but couldn’t. But for now those concerns didn’t matter. For now the important thing was that Paul was returning in two weeks. For now the important thing was that Wit needed to learn how to say I love you in Malaysian before the two met up again.

Imagine that, Wit thought as his eyes closed again, a doctor in the family. And he snuggled in closer to Paul, his dreams filling out their future together.

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