Stickman Readers' Submissions May 13th, 2008

I Miss You Too Much Too

Here am I, nursing a bout of “Jasmine Fever©”. Hopefully it is not a desperate case. I believe it’s under control; I can even hide my state to my nearest and closest that does not deserve to suffer from the consequences of my Thai escapades.

It is just a question of waiting for the fever to wane by itself, like the rage of a tiger pacing round and round its cage wanes by tiredness and boredom.

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Actually, I don’t “start having wild delusions, imagining all kinds of things”. I haven’t lost “all sense of reason” and I didn’t “start acting irresponsibly and behaving strangely”.

It is just that I didn’t get my booster dose in time, you know this “how r u darling? I miss u” email or SMS that makes me jump for joy.

It is just that I’m badly missing my teerak from Patong.

Yes I know, she is just a professional entertainer, she is not for real, and I’m walking on a dangerous line, yada yada yada… But a long time ago, after much hesitation I chose this path and I’m enjoying life more now than before.

It is still cold and gloomy in my corner of Farangsetland as winter is playing overtime, and all my life revolves around my work and too many endless difficulties. Nothing special and we have all our own way to deal with life and to make it bearable.

Some drinks, smokes or takes drug; other has hobbies or watches TV…

For my part, I’m nursing my impressionistic souvenirs of T**, somehow recreating the sensations I have experienced, letting them haunt me and overwhelm me to take me far away from this world the time of a woolgather.

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In some fleeting moments her silky hair lightly touches my face, our first kiss –its freshness, wetness and sweetness- is again on my lips, her breasts are resting on my chest, her thin fingers are entangling mine.

Things she said to me are ringing inside my head in elusive echoes. The sounds of her irregular breathe, the particular one that precedes climax, is like a whisper than makes me flip over and over in search of its source.

I close my eyes and I can see her arched brown hands doing the finger nail dance in a hypnotic slow motion.

I feel her smile more than I see it – it is like a lukewarm numbness that reaches all my limbs – as all her body is beaming and not only her mouth and her eyes.

I have even ghost waft of her body odor after sex…

I miss to have the fun about silly things, to sleep until 3 o’clock in the afternoon, to play games late in the night or to jump in the swimming pool hotel at 3 a.m.

I miss thinking only about what I will drink or eat next.

I miss having the illusion of freedom, this solo holiday mindset where I believe I have a life of my own or that everything is still possible. I need a break.

T**, I miss you.


“I miss you”… How many times did we hear it from the lips of our teerak or read it on our mobile phone? I know this is part of their routine and that one may rightfully think that is not totally genuine.

I have to disagree with this generalization, and I strongly believe that in some cases it is not faked.

As if it is true that you can receive the semi-automatic “I will miss you” whispered upon departing, or the stagy one with the tears in the eyes and the sobs, you can get too the one that comes with a tentative to keep a good composure. But an unusual pallor in the face, a sagging of the shoulders, a dry mouth, and almost uncontrolled clenching of the hands may betray her true feelings.

I think the “I miss you” syndrome is not only a Thai bargirl-Farang relationship issue.

I would say it also affects people who stay less than two weeks together, as they depart best friends in the world. They are hungry for more; they still have an idealized opinion of the other.

After two weeks, you are not blind anymore and you start to see the bad sides of the other person and you need to compromise.

To illustrate this idea, I would like to relate a similar experience that happened in Turkey, in a different context which has although some similarities.

Such as Thailand, Turkey is a very touristic country with plenty of accommodation choices and you have the choice between hotels, camping sites and what they call “pensions”.

The pension is similar to a bed-and-breakfast or a guesthouse, but it is more than a simple place to sleep and have breakfast.

Some Turkish people owning a house often have extra rooms they rent to tourists. If you chose this option, you end up sharing meals with the family, drinking several times during the day their famous tea from Rize, and as a bonus you get to know the local customs and culture.

I remember well the owner of one of these “pension”, on the Egean seaside. This guy really liked receiving people in his house, speaking with them, providing information and entertaining them with stories or singing off the cuff popular Arabesk songs.

Before going to bed he would even massage our head to make sure we will have a restful sleep.

But on the last night, he seemed not in his usual cheerful mood. I asked him what was wrong and he told me that he knew he would miss us, the next day. He explained to us that after 4 to 5 days spent together with his guests he was always sad to see them leaving, feeling empty, disoriented. It wasn’t a question of money as we would very soon be replaced by other tourists.

But “don’t let this spoil our last evening together” he said and he took us to the home of a friend where we enjoyed a relaxed oriental night, listening to a saz performance while eating some lokums.

The next morning upon leaving, he had this look I believe to have since seen again on two similar occasions on my teerak face, the genuine “I will miss you” look that come together with butterflies in the stomach and a weight on the chest that prevents normal breathing.

So be attentive the next time you get the “I will miss you”, as it could be a genuine one from a person who enjoyed being with you whatever has been her initial purpose.

Jasmine Fever © Frank Visakay

Stickman's thoughts:

Jasmine fever has a rather nicer sound to it than the more commonly heard yellow fever.

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