When the Condom Breaks, the Truth Leaks Out Part 1
In early October last year, I was strolling leisurely but purposely along soi 23 from Sukhumvit Road. I passed the back entrance to Soi Cowboy with barely a glance. Regrettably, gogos are now obscenely beyond my meager budget for carnal delight. Nowadays I mostly content myself by bottom feeding for female flesh at the Nana Hotel parking lot.
However, I had lately been easily led astray by the fetching freelancers on Sukhumvit, whom I encountered during my restless prowls along the treacherous stretch between Nana and Asok. Having exceeded my twice-weekly quota for short-time trysts, I needed to tighten my budgetary belt.
My destination that early evening was the cluster of massage parlors further up soi 23. It was time to show some restraint and self-discipline. I would settle for the cheaper bodily experience of a massage without a “happy ending.”
I had previously spotted the massage parlors about a week earlier, after finishing an interview for an ESL job at a nearby demonstration school.
I did not get the job, which I reluctantly suppose was a blessing in disguise, considering my lack of teaching experience. Still, the school’s perfect location in the heart of Asok, along with a 45,000 baht monthly salary, made it seem like a dream ESL job.
But the hiring director later informed me that they were looking for a teacher who had experience dealing with spoiled “naughty boys.” The new teacher was also expected to placate their demanding Thai parents, who expected results for the big money they were paying. The director freely admitted to me that trying to teach English to their untamed Thai ruffians was “like pulling teeth.”
I also suspected that my age (61), was a big strike against me. Sadly, I am yet another aging expat (Asian-American from Hawaii) who foolishly failed to plan wisely for his twilight years.
If I do not eventually find some kind of employment in this blessed Kingdom, I can only afford to retire here by living like a celibate monk. If so, then I might as well return to Hawaii, and join the illegal homeless campers on a remote Oahu beach.
I had suffered relentlessly and intensely in Hawaii for six barren months last year, due to severe withdrawal symptoms after an extended stay in Pattaya. I finally decided to cast my fate to the wind — and returned to Bangkok in June 2014 in quiet desperation.
My priorities now are brutally clear and simple: to just survive in the Big Mango; to pay for sex as cheaply as possible until no longer possible; and to never return to Hawaii.
The reason why I intend never to go back to my homeland (except perhaps in an urn) is because I would have to play the role of kindly and celibate grandpa. In the Land of the Young, (also known as America), the concept of being sexual at an advanced age is unthinkable and offensive to others. I would be forbidden to express any lust whatsoever.
To even gaze appreciatively at a sexy female for a few seconds, especially anyone under 40, would instantly get me slapped with the label of “dirty old man” –however accurate that label may be. Aloha means goodbye, Hawaii.
I crossed soi 23 as I neared the massage parlors, and began walking the gauntlet of ladies sitting in front of the parlors. They were all calling out to me and thrusting their signs out with massage prices.
The familiar pleas erupted: “Massage sir? You want massage?” After sheepishly smiling and walking past several dozen ladies outside their parlors, I stopped at the last one and gazed at the lineup.
A young pretty masseuse thrust her sign at me. “Massage?” she eagerly asked. She had very pale creamy white skin, and long slim arms and legs. She was wearing a short black miniskirt and clinging pink knit top.
She appeared slightly taller than me, perhaps 5 feet 7 inches or so. She wasn’t especially cute, but had an agreeable, friendly face. She had a big smile that flashed her braces.
As soon as I saw her, I knew this was the one. Yes, I would enjoy letting this pretty young thing rub and stroke my grossly aging body with her smooth unwrinkled hands. But I played it cool. I pretended to study the sign she was holding, and asking about the services.
I’ve found out the hard way that it’s not a good idea to appear overeager or too presumptuous when talking to masseuses, bargirls or freelancers. Even street hookers will reject you, if you act too crude, crass or creepy. Better to conceal your perverted lust, until you’re both naked and started fornicating on the hotel bed. Then it’s too late for her to escape quickly.
“You pick lady — any one,” the massage ladies said.
I then pointed to her. “How about this lady?”
The young masseuse seemed to hesitate uncertainly. I wasn’t sure if it was reluctance, or just her momentary surprise at being picked. I have a typically small and slim Asian build — I wasn’t huge or grossly obese, like so many fellow beer-swilling sexpats. Her initial reaction was probably because of my age, I guessed. But where else can a decrepit old man have a young female stroking his decaying body? Welcome to Thailand, grandpa!
The massage girl said it was 400 baht for an oil massage, which I readily agreed to. We went inside the massage parlor and upstairs to the massage rooms. As I followed her up the stairs, I drank in the view of her slim sexy legs and body.
I admit some part of me enjoys the notion of a sexy young masseuse or bargirl reluctantly agreeing to service me — either because she needs the money badly, or was pressured by her employer. Whatever the reason, I will not be denied. I will have my way! Such an intoxicating feeling of delusional power. A glimpse of what a rock star or famous athlete must experience regularly.
I attribute my callous attitude to years of being frustrated and thwarted by female rejection back in Hawaii. Still, I concede that savvy females had good reason to steer clear of me, due to my crippling fear of intimacy and anti-social tendencies.
But having now embraced my true nature as a pathological loner, I am fully aware that the only meaningful thing I can offer any Thai female is the contents of my wallet.
The masseuse led me to a clean and spacious room with a thin mattress on the floor. The dim lights and tranquil background music provided a pleasant atmosphere. She requested that I take a shower first, and I complied, making sure to bring my shorts containing my wallet into the bathroom. I then returned to the empty room, and lay naked on the mat, covering my midsection with a towel.
She entered and smiled, put some lotion her hands and started massaging, as I lay on my stomach. We engaged in light conversation and cheerful banter. My masseuse, whom I shall call “Bot,” was 18, and is an only child. Bot regularly sent money to her single mom who lives in a Chiang Mai. Her situation was typical of nearly every Thai female I have encountered who services tourists.
My naïve masseuse “Bot” puts her best foot forward, prior to our questionable encounter.
A rare thing that made Bot different from the other Thai women I have met is that she does not have kids from a low-life Thai man who deserted her.
Bot asked me to turn over, and began massaging the front of my body, removing the towel in the process. Gradually she worked her way to my groin area. I naturally started to stiffen, and had a sense of what was coming. But I manfully remembered my resolve to save money, and to firmly decline any happy ending enticement.
Still . . . I started idly thinking — perhaps a handjob from this fresh young maiden wouldn’t bust my budget. Maybe 500 baht or so extra.
Bot gazed down at the unavoidable sight of my exposed enlarged member, and asked, “You want extra service?”
“What kind of service?” I asked.
“Boom boom,” she replied.
“Oh yeah? How much?”
“Two thousand baht,” she said.
What? 2,000 baht? No way! I was used to paying only 1,500 baht total for boom-booms with the Nana freelancers. (My bargain basement price usually included a 300-baht discount negotiated beforehand with the freelancers, to cover the cost of the nearby short-time hotel room on soi 4.)
“What about handjob?” I asked Bot.
“No. Boom boom. Two thousand baht.”
Bot then lay on top of my body, her face close to mine, whispering softly in my ear. She began grabbing and lightly fondling me.
“How about one-thousand baht for boom-boom?” I asked hopefully.
“No,” she said. “Boom boom. Two thousand baht.”
“I need to save money,” I protested weakly.
“I take good care you,” she said, hovering over me, rubbing against me, cajoling, fondling, insisting.
I surrendered to the weakness of my aging flesh.
“OK,” I said.
Her face brightened with a big smile of delight. She then got up and said, “OK, I go take shower first.’
I waited in anticipation, despite my misgivings at blowing my budget again. A short while Bot returned, her torso clad in a towel, carrying her folded clothes.
She knelt down next to me. I then said to her, “Now I massage you.”
Somewhat surprised, she nonetheless complied and lay on the mattress on her stomach. Her torso was still wrapped in the towel. Kneeling down, I straddled her and began massaging her legs, thoroughly enjoying the sensation of my wrinkly old hands running up and down her long pale limbs.
I shifted further up and straddled her thighs. I lifted the towel up, exposing her bare buttocks. Grabbing two ample handfuls of soft pillowy flesh, I jiggled them lightly in playful delight, making them quiver like jello. Bot was actually a full-bodied young woman in the full bloom of her young womanhood.
I grabbed and rubbed and kneaded Mot’s ripe body to my heart’s content, mimicking fondly-remembered strokes of Pattaya masseuses past. I then turned Mot over. I grabbed her ankles and spread eagled her legs over my outstretched thighs, exposing her intimately to me. I teasingly ran my hands up her legs toward her apex of ecstasy. I marveled my immoral liberty to romp so freely in a heavenly garden of forbidden delight.
I then moved up on my knees closer to her face, and asked if she did oral sex too. She nodded her head, but said, “Put condom first.” Bot’s oral technique was capable enough, and after a few minutes, I was sufficiently ready to commence with the dirty deed.
I entered Bot slowly, savoring the most exquisite sensation of life as I know it. I was soon thrusting vigorously, revitalized by my sweet Asian fountain of youth, who so readily offered her fresh body to feed my stubborn delusion of being forever young.
In the midst of my huffing and puffing and pumping and humping, Bot shifted under me and seemed to want to push me off. But I kept plunging like a relentless and merciless porn stud. If only the sanctimonious folk back in Hawaii could see me now! This creaky old grandpa still had enough libido left to do some damage! In my mind I gleefully gave them all the one-finger salute.
A few minutes later, however, Bot pushed forcefully at my groin to force me out of her. Curious, I glanced down at our genitals, expecting to see my proud rod encased in its rubber sheath. Instead, I recoiled in horrified shock, at the ghastly sight of my swollen dark purple member, now coated with a foul-looking slime of vaginal juices and sperm, sprinkled with remnants of tattered latex. To my bafflement, the condom had evaporated. My grotesque looking manhood now resembled a putrid sea cucumber that had washed ashore and was starting to rot on the blazing sand.
The condom had broken! I kept staring at my genitals in amazed disbelief, as Bot leaped to her feet. She stared at me in dismayed shock.
“The condom broke! How come it broke?” I stammered out stupidly.
Bot just kept staring at me in hostile accusation. Her ashen, angry face was as pale as a ghost, the pupils of her eyes solid black. Her face had frozen in a robotic, inhuman mask. I even felt a momentary tinge of agitated fear. It was like seeing a scary apparition in a Thai horror movie. Had I encountered Bot in an empty dark alley staring at me like that, I would have been spooked.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have disease,” I said helplessly. “I always use condom. No disease.”
In response Bot silently put her hand lightly on her stomach — an obvious sign of her real concern — getting impregnated with my leaked sperm.
I could only numbly and stupidly repeat, “How come condom broke?”
I then asked, “Where you get condom from?”
“Japanese condom,” she said.
Damn. It must have been one of the ultra-thin ones. Bot then rushed off to the shower. She was gone a long while, presumably trying to flush my life-giving seminal fluid out of her, which I knew was useless if miraculous conception had occurred. I slowly dressed in numb shock and a sense of dread.
Wow. Who could have predicted this? When Bot returned, I got out my wallet. “Here, I give your extra. Three thousand baht for boom-boom, and four hundred for massage. Sorry, sorry,” I said, shakily handing over the money.
Bot took the money without saying a word, still staring at me unhappily. We left the room and went downstairs. A co-worker smiled and asked if everything was OK. In the tense unhappy silence, I quickly exited out the door. Once outside, I turned back to say a final “sorry” to the grim, unsmiling Bot, as I fled down the street.
In dazed shellshock, I wandered into soi Cowboy. I stopped at an outdoor table in front of a go-go, and sat down to order a beer. I needed to calm down.
Idle Soi Cowboy bargirls play the shallow flesh-peddling game.
I gazed in dull despair at the usual circus of bargirls, vendors, go-go dancers, ladyboys and sexpats. I had previously amused myself by taking candid photos of random bargirls and coyotes outside the go-gos. Now it all seemed so trivial and meaningless. This whole sordid scene was just greedy hustling bargirls and farang playing their selfish ego games.
This was reality. The stakes had risen with Bot after our disastrous encounter. I kept brooding as I sipped my beer – about Bot’s jolting fear that surfaced after the condom broke. She had been so happy and light and carefree, talking easily and laughing at my lame jokes, before the dam broke. What had I done to her?
Was this crisis a possible fork in Bot’s life journey — leading to an alternate destiny of her being a mother at age 18? Wow. One small thing — an incredibly small thing really– a thin sheaf, a micro layer of latex — tears — and a kingdom is lost.
Something in me wanted to flee and run from her. With my dwindling savings account and no realistic job prospects, it would be naively suicidal for me to help Bot, even if turns out she is bearing my child. How can I give her money I cannot afford to give? What is the cost of an abortion? The easiest option would be to never return. It really wasn’t my fault anyway. She was the one who supplied the flimsy Japanese condom.
But the selfish ego part of me wanted go back for more. Damn! She was one of the tightest-feeling boom-boom maidens yet. But if I cut my losses and run, I would then transform Bot in my mind in to an eternal source of regret and guilt, instead of a fond memory. The worst feeling in life, I have found, is to create haunting regret that you take to your grave.
Am I just another cowardly asshole, like some deadbeat Thai jerk, and should I just take the easy road and abandon Bot? I knew I would end up torturing myself over the haunting uncertainty – repeatedly imagining that I had left Bot to bear by herself the stigma and sacrifice of supporting my bastard half-breed kid.
I laughed sadly at the irony. So much for my noble idea of saving money with a “cheap” massage. I had just handed over 3,400 baht to Bot — more than double what I would have paid for a trouble-free boom-boom, from my harem of faithless Nana freelancers.
And yet, what if I did return to Bot’s massage parlor? Probably I would encounter a hostile reaction from Bot and her co-workers. “Hey look, it’s the weasel farang, whose condom broke doing long boom-boom mak-mak with Bot! What you want now, farang prick?”
After finishing my beer, I went into the Terminal 21 shopping complex and lifelessly ate a bowl of noodles in the 5th floor food court. The center was teeming with couples, families, tourists and shoppers. I suddenly felt an empty loneliness.
My mind then started going off in a habitual and obsessive thought train of rehashing regrets over my wasted life. If only . . . if only . . . if only . . . .
What am I really doing here in Bangkok? Who am I anyway? Lookit me. Lookit me. Just another disgusting old pervert sexpat opportunist, seeking final solace in Thailand before I expire, returning here to exploit and plunder desperate Isaan females, trapped in the lowest rung of social hierarchy in this racist land of deceptive smiles.
How long more can I go on like this anyway? Living hermit-like in my 6,000-baht Phra Khanong studio, my sole remaining pleasure in life narrowed to twice-weekly samplings of the current crop of fresh young Nana flesh. If I drop dead right now, no one would rightfully give a shit.
Lookit me. Scraping by in Bangkok on a financial precipice, on a cliff’s edge of random chance. All it would take is an accident or disastrous setback, like getting hit by a car or motorbike, or perhaps a serious illness or disease — and everything abruptly ends, with my remaining savings wiped out.
Again, going back to Hawaii is not an option. Returning to one of the most expensive states in the U.S. — and ending up like a beggar living on government welfare (and worst of all, no sex) — is not how I may, or may not, decide to cling to feeble old age in my last useless years on this planet. But it’s too early yet to consider membership in the Pattaya Flyers Club.
I spent a restless and unhappy night of fitful sleep. Should I go back to see Bot, or not?
(Author’s note: Sorry, this sordid story is taking longer to tell than I thought. Part 2 will be coming soon, hopefully.)
Great start…really looking forward to part 2!