As dawn broke and black became past in Ao Nang, the air cool and fresh, night to morning, dream to awakening, I walked along the road with ocean view to my left, and I heard a motorcycle and looked up and saw her riding it, and I flashed on the memory
of her at the pool the day before: the visual imprint of her red tufts sprinkled softly escaped from the sides of her bikini bottom, exposed as she sat on the steps with the spread of her white colored legs.
"Hi," she said in a voice born in Aberdeen.
"Hey. I'm just taking my morning walk. . . . I guess you like this time of morning too."
There was a pause between us. I heard in the background the sound slight of breaking waves.
"Would you like a ride? I know this really wonderful place on the beach outside of town with a fantastic view."
"Yes. That would be nice."
I got on the back. I put my hands along its sides for support. She reached and rearranged them around her front. Around her middle. We started up. I felt the vibrations of the motor. I slid a little forwards and felt the touch of her lower back. There was bare skin where her pink tank top lifted up and I noticed some red down fur. There was a perfume odor of jasmine that came from her. Desire became my planet home.
We passed the inlet entrance where the longboats would wait for the tourists to fill to go to the nearby islands.
We passed the restaurant overlooking the ocean where one could feast on the crabs they kept in the pens.
The day now completely lit as we traveled with promise and possibility.
What am I, completely nuts. My Filipina wife was in the hotel room and I was upon motor and Scotch intoxication. (At the pool my wife had lain for a time upon some resting furniture and I remembered now not introducing them. Perhaps she thought my wife was only girlfriend experience).
What was the matter with me? I loved my wife.
Innocent, though, I was not. Constant self-placement to temptation was a frequent path of my creation. A flirt of self-destruction.
Indeed, faithfulness seems a theme of habit.
In another submission I had spoken of a broken marriage. Poor sod, me. But the unmentioned truth involved a trust broken largely by, me: Of a time on a Mexican beach south of Tijuana where my then 1st wife had noticed scratches on my back, not made by her.
Am I my father's son. The sirens of his adulteries.
Of course being faithful can extend to many things: Being faithful to your values; to your visions of yourself; your future. Should, for example, one be faithful to the homeland, or perhaps in its stead walk the streets where one is always an outsider.
Where is one truer to self? Some, perhaps, spend time in two worlds.
Dana, in my opinion, is the soul of this site. In my mind, he is being true to a quest. And in his honesty, and sometimes in his self-promotion, his insecurities lead to the letting of truth.
His sharing with us speaks to his generosity. He dares to exploit his sometimes foolishness to draw as simply human and humane. For me, he paints in shades, and it is sometimes fascinating, and sometimes not, but even in his flights from solid earth, there is movement, and deserves our respect for always attempts at his truth.
My least favorite submissions are the purely narcistic ones that revolve around the same repetitions: "she done me wrong" though I do often find them interesting.
Brokenman also, for me, is a writer of great merit, for he seems to realize that satisfaction that lasts longer than a sperm stream springs from helping others. His misfortune reflects the unfairness that the best of intentions do not always result in happy endings. His sharing of his tales presents greater truth about the world than any self-enraptured
ones. One roots for him because of his goodness, and that brings from us a better feeling than an entitlement fable based around barstools and beer and the expectation that any femme should find solace and attraction from the bluster. It's the old truth, eh—"money can't buy you love." It can buy you the fuck but not the glow of her when you are the one in her prayers.
Being faithful. My questions of self.
I do realize partly why I desire other women. It affirms my self. In the short run. When a woman responds to me I feel high esteem. "I am good enough to get her."
But it does not last to the longer holding. "Hey pig, piggy pig pig." How many submissions have there been of blokes saying they tire of the bar scene and seek something deeper? This is stating the obvious of the condition known as the human one.
We get to a spot where it seems a painting: just a few yards from the water's edge. We get off the motorcycle and walk to it.
"You know," she says, "My father has a nickname for you." "Your father talks about me?"
"Well, other than meeting you yesterday, we've seen you around…and he fancies that… I fancy you. He likes to tease me. He calls you Lawrence."
"Yes,…well I have been called that before."
"You know why don't you?"
"Yes…of course…that old movie."
"I know you said you're from the States. But I seem to hear something else."
"I'm a naturalised American."
"I thought I heard a little something different."
"Probably a little Sussex. I was born in Hove, which is right next to Brighton."
We came to where the water was beginning, and ending.
"Let's sit," she suggested.
But we had nothing to sit on.
I took off my shirt and lay it upon the sand. I felt the air touch my chest in gentle swirls and when she took my hand in hers I felt myself becoming lost and wondered if I could last against the tug of desire that could only doom the longer sweet savings of my married love.
The power of the femme farang!