Readers' Submissions

I Love Them to Death!




Oh God, do I! I kiss them, I squeeze them, I hug them, I run my long long tongue all over their fetching lovely legs and tight little pussies and around and around those nipples that beg for attention and never get enough. I do all of this in my dreams, and I do it when I am with them, and I do it long after they are no longer there.


My name is Johnny Ratchet, and I am 53, and I was born beside a barn full of pigs on Tripple Creek, Mississippi. I can tell you with complete honesty that my father, a father who made a living being a rake and an asswipe and a philanderer with a legend so large it made its way into the distant hollows of Tennessee and Kentucky, had not a thing on me. Not at all! Well, he did, sort of, because of age, until I got my feathers and discovered Ladies–Mississippi Ladies, Louisiana Ladies, and then, the incomparable Ladies of Thailand.


Okay, you’re wondering what I’m up to, why I’m writing this little run of words, getting all over you about what I love. Okay, I’ll tell you. I’ve been reading all these many pieces or whatever you want to call them on poor Brokenman, and I don’t mind saying I don’t think much of any of them, even the ones written by that impersonator who dares to take my name and calls himself Korski! Jesus, give me a break! Give me five breaks! Give poor Dana a break when he’s humping a tranny coming through the door and still finishing off the one leaving, and thinking most of all of what he’s going to nail before the night is out on Beach Road. I mean, HOW does he do it?


So, here’s what I got in mind by way of the smallest, tiniest words of wisdom.


You find a lovely—bargirl, good girl, a virgin good girl, a hi-so virgin good girl, who gives a rat’s ass—and you smile sweetly and tell her you love her right off and will forever love her and you squeeze her hand enough to make it blush and you juice her up with several tequilas and on the road to where you’re taking her you never forget to stop and buy her a big pink teddy bear. This is crucial, essential!


Now, here’s where I go the extra Mississippi mile, right there down alongside the levees and the dog shacks and the catfish smoking and getting black for a noon meal. I tell them I love them and I am committed to them and it is only a matter of time until we are properly hitched and man and wife and Forever. And we’re not talking much time at all before I’m then up country with mamma and papa and brothers and sisters and letting them all know that when it comes to paying them all they deserve for raising My Lady of Ladies they only need name the price. Yep, just name it. No negotiations, no quibbling, no second thoughts, no doubts—just NAME it, and before we have it signed and sealed before the monks and the village elders and the drunk husbands who claim they’re not husbands when the farang husbands are about, it will be in the bank.


So, before we get this far, and then for a while after, and I’m telling Noy and Nok and Meow and Poo and Pook and Poke how we’re FOREVER, it’s all cream pie, apple pie, Mississippi Mud Pie as my good mother used to call those blueberry treats she made for me just for looking at her the right way and giving her Son Love. Yeah, before we get this far, there are all the promises:, the new Cell I’m going to buy her, the Car she’s going to get once we get to our home of homes in Mississippi, the big Mansion amid the Spanish Moss along the creek she’s going to be able to run around in with my five hound dogs and four Siamese cats and three Corellas.


So, I’ve got all this loving going, and the promises all in place, and the Big Money to mama and papa on the table and all but notarized and banked, and I figure there’s gonna be another week or maybe two weeks and a couple of blouses and a new pair of shoes and some new promises about a real high-end Cell, and then, by God, then, it’s Time. She’s pulling too hard on my britches, and she’s talking too much about shopping and more shopping, and she’s saying, begging, demanding: Put it in the Bank!


It’s Time.


Time to go, flee, shed and forever forget the name I gave her, and, while she’s out getting her 40 baht meal to bring back to prove beyond a doubt she’s the Isarn girl she will forever be, I get up and leave, but never ever without leaving right there on the bed, right there in the middle of the bed so she can’t miss them, two crisp 100 baht notes.


That’s it. No more. No interminable courtships and more promises. Never again with this Noy or this Nit and this little and sweet and charming Isarn Lady that I did, I honestly did, love to death!


You got it figured. Now it’s on to the next one, and the same routine, and the same dreams, and the same promises, and all that’s going to be different is that the next Thai Lady of My Dreams is going to be a tad more difficult, or a tad easier, and require me to move a little more quickly, or not so quickly, in getting around to carefully placing those two crisp 100 baht notes in the middle of the bed. An honest tip, more than she might leave an honest Brokenman, I fear to say, Almighty God My Savior forgive me for doing so.


Now I know what some of you are thinking. I’m a shit, a bastard, an exploiter, a pig, a worm, worse. Well, who knows? All this could be true—these character assessments, but if l can end this little piece before boring you to death, dedicated to my hero, Dana the Man, it just does not matter. It does not matter today, it did not matter yesterday, it will not matter tomorrow; and I am in good company with my wily ways, I sure am. And I will bet my last pair of Mississippi bird dogs that I don’t have to spell out what I just said.


One little confessional note: While my good friend Korski was indisposed or doing whatever he thought he was doing with Nit or Nok or Poo or Meow, I borrowed his key and made my way back to his room and wrote this up on his Apple and went right to his Wi-Fi connection here in the Nana—and zippo, shot this note to Stick.


Does Stick care that I’m not the real Korski, or another Korski, or the same Korski, and I’m just mucking about– again? Naw, why should it matter? After all, games are games.

Stickman's thoughts:

I think I prefer the real Korski.