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The Ugly American

  • Written by Anonymous
  • March 5th, 2014
  • 4 min read


Black Pagoda Patpong Bangkok


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We swagger casually into the snake pit, bravado bolstered against slender waifs. We are the ugly.

Class and sophistication sorely lost in a world that we slide in to. Like gliding down a lubricated razor blade. All things disappear at the moment she catches your eye. Your heart pounds with the knowing that she has you in her gaze. She has recognized you from something deep inside of her that sounds from a hundred years gone by.

Some things never change. A look between a man and a woman. You can not escape her. You pause in that moment and feel everything stop.

You think for a moment if it was you she had seen. You feel blank and not of this world. Uncertain and wondering. Waiting for her to look at you again. Hoping in some quiet desperation for her to grace you just one more time with a glance. All of life could stop in that moment. Everything that you have ever felt or thought vanishes as she looks your way.

Your heart pounds and you are filled with a swirling confusion as you struggle to ask if it was you she had given herself to. That magic moment that is more than life, more than magic, as two people find each other in the world.

Your eyes meet in a flashing brief moment that you feel leaves you at once and stays with you a lifetime. You see her features and you see the beauty in her imperfections, her perfect flawlessness, and you feel a lifetime swell inside of your chest. You see her for what she is and everything that she could be and in a fleeting moment you see yourself, with her.

Across a million miles away, to this place. What was it all for? This moment in time. How long does it last? Just that one solitary look. Those eyes with that hint of fine dark line that turns up at the corner, her skin so soft and fine that you can hardly breathe when you are next to her. Her fragrance is kind and welcoming, her embrace is enough to break every bone in your body with it's gentleness. In the darkness of the night you hear every sound. The city moves outside and everything seems louder. You want to sleep and you feel your breath pounding in your chest. You see her eyes and you know that you will never be the same again. You want to see her just one more time, but you know.

She has seen you countless times before. Across generations. She has steeled herself in preparation for you. Your weight, your smell. Your insecurities. Your brutalization as you see her vagina as a punching bag as you grind her down with everything you got because you think that it is what will do the trick.

Outside the sounds of the night take her attention and her thoughts far away from this place. From this room that you so gratuitously believe that she is enthralled by. You think that this room she is lucky to stay in for a few hours, or for the night. You think she is feeling lucky, feeling fortunate, to spend a moment with you.

Outside are manipulations and inside are manipulations and everyone wants something.

Her body is her curse. Her looks are her curse. Her mothers never ending and unfulfilled desires are her curse and the sun is hot again and the sounds outside are unrelenting, again, today. She hopes that it will rain, just today, maybe at least for a few moments and maybe it will be quiet just long enough for her eyes to rest. Just a few moments.

She thinks about the man from last night. The smell of his breath, the nervousness and tension of his body. She thinks to herself why do they feel so tense. Is it her? Why is it always this way?

She remembers when it was not like this. She remembers being in school and a time when life seemed to hold so much hope. A time when there was so much promise. Maybe life would be okay. She could see her mother in dignity and respect.
All of those stories about girls like herself ending up in the city, she never thought it would be her.

She knew of other girls that had gone into that life, but it was not her. No way. She would not be that girl. That same old story that no one would believe no matter how many girls screamed it out loud. Who would believe my mother is old? Why would anyone believe she is sick when I am so young, so beautiful. Who would believe me? Why?

I am not a whore. I did not come here to make you happy. I am here because I feel I must. This is no reward for me. And, when I look at you, feel you heaving on top of me and under me, my fascination with you is as empty as the sound of your lust.



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