Tears Of The Dragon
By Geoffrey Giuliano
I keep trying to fit the past into the present. Why, I am not sure. I remember the beatings my mother gave me with a wire coat hanger making me stand perfectly still in the corner of the kitchen for hours while she danced around naked biting her arm until it bled. I still do not know why. I remember my father's distant, almost fearful attitude towards me, calling me "Son" but with little behind it. I remember the burning need for intimacy that dangled itself in front of me and then was pulled away year after year like some kid’s toy strung on elastic thread. I remember being so far out there somewhere on LSD that comets knocked politely on my bedroom door, hovered for a moment, levitating until I could rush to the other side of the room, throw open the window and watching them wide eyed as they swooshed outside one by one, too many to count. I remember sitting in a dingy shooting gallery with all the bad kids from junior high sitting in lawn chairs while a thirty something New York junkie named Blue (who looked just like Carlos Santana) came around to each of us and for $10.00 sunk a common thin needle filled with herion into my fleshy 15 year old arm. The madness of my youth I see as a kind of compass for the years since and beyond. Now I at least try to be as nice a guy as I can. “To be good.” The simplest and highest spiritual instruction I ever received despite humbling and stumbling at the feet of various well heeled gurus in India for two decades, and the transmitter? My poor old crazy mom, Myrna Oneita Juliana.
In Asia love, money and sex are mixed together in a downward spiral much like fxxxing and murder are intertwined in the minds of serial killers. "No money no love." Ping, my young 24 year old Lao trainee hairdresser wife of six months said to me calmly in the cavernous barn like wooden room she shared in the Capitol city Vientiane with two anyomous, even younger room mates just six months after our auspicious wedding at the Thai Lao border in Nonkai. "But why did you marry me Ping?" I asked above the din of the evening monsoon rain drilling away at the rusted tin roof above us. "I don't know." She said without any trace of the emotion I was looking for. "I no love you now. That's all. Bye bye." "But I love you Ping, very much. How could you do this to me?" "My new boyfriend, Stefin is forty. From Scotland. He send me $300 every month. He help my kids, and my brother. Mommy says he good more than you. You only speak, you don't do."
She then spoke rapid fire Lao to the two girls gathered around her on her large flat mattress and they all laughed a mocking laugh. I walked silently to the bottom of the rickety stairs to the open doorway below and sat there putting on my muddy running shoes my wet socks over starring blankly into the pouring, almost horizontal rain. She stood in the door only half watching. "Goodbye Ping." I said dramatically. Knowing this was the last time I would ever speak a word to the woman I was once sure would fill out the rest of my days with love and laughter. She said nothing and turned back into her plank board room chatting quite normally to her two wide eyed trainee hustlers. I walked out in the rain. I was alone in Asia, constantly alone and confronted only with myself at fifty one, spending the hours thinking about my dwindling life and it hurt.
"Asia never repays a loan." Someone once told me." Whatever you give is gone." "Still," I thought to myself as I kicked my way through the muddy streets of Lao's capitol city, "it's a loss that doesn't really diminish you. Not like losing your job, or fxxxing up some business deal." It goes much deeper. Like the white heat of a blade cutting out a bullet on a battlefield. You’re none the less for the losing. Perhaps, in a way, you are more. More than your neighbors and friends back home who never ventured out of their tidy A Plan worlds to at least try for some adventure. More than you ever thought you'd be despite the intense pain Asia hands you with every forbidden secret pleasure she offers so readily. Maybe that's why I stay. The perpetual uncertainty of it all.
On the way home to my bunker style guesthouse that last kinetic night with Ping I saw a midget whore fxxxing a lanky young kid alongside the muddy curb under a streetlight. It was like two dogs in the street. I didn't look twice. "For this," I thought, was Asia." By the way, Ping sold me back her $2000 wedding ring for around $50.00. No one ever said she was smart, just very, very beautiful.
Asia is not about men. The men are angry, overbearing little brick shithouses with big egos and small cocks. They are basically women haters and thus abuse their ladies in every conceivable way. They grown up expecting everything handed to them by their women and the dumb inevitably ones do. Of course they run everything as well. With the lone exception of the current King of Thailand, whom I feel instinctively is a highly honorable man, and a few old Buddhist monks, just about every fxxxing Thai guy is a fully self interested, grossly materialistic dirt bag. Transparent as cellophane in their unchecked lust for whatever they can grab. This goes especially for ex-Thai prime minister Taksin Sinawa, what a divisive sonofabitch. I was so tired of seeing his billboard size photo smiling down from every soi in the country surrounded by adoring wide eyed children, or standing proudly behind the latest puppet candidate all dressed up like some bargain basement emperor, I could shoot up the street the way Elvis took aim at TV sets flashing images he didn’t quite care for back in the day. I was an unapologetic melting pot of eastcoast American liberal post hippie politics before I moved to Thailand six years ago…now I am both vaughly sexist and racist against Thai (and Thai Chinese) males.
Pampered by mom as kids Thai men, in particular, are raised to think they are way cool. They almost never are. Thai woman detest them. Vietnamese ladies endure theirs with a degree of resignation, and Lao ladies have just given up, Hence THEY ALL want to hook up with a Westerner. Here's why:
They are certain we are all millionaires.
We seldom beat them or take their money.
Asian guys are generally stumpy, inarticulate and uncool.
When we have kids with them we generally stick around, and if not we are usually decent enough to pay.
We treat them more or less as equals
Most of all we have very big dicks, don't fxxx around quite the way the Asian's guys do and enter into the relationships with fairly decent intentions.
Almost none of that happens with their own men.
The women however, are life affirming, almost perfect female packages of high powered sex, compassionate love and inspirationally independent. Made such by the ages of abuse by their self centered crazy men.
Note: The preceding was submitted purely to be eligible to attend the grand Stickfellow sideways garden party event upcoming.
I had a choice today....read the submissions and make comments or race out the door to meet friends. Meeting friends won so no comments today. I hope you understand.
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