"So, what do you write about here?"

A short(ish) story from my first week in Bangkok, after I decided to leave Canada for a while and live abroad.

She came in from LA for the first time in five years to attend her sister’s wedding. Thirty-two years old but her face, although mature, still radiated with that youthful vibrancy, her teeth were white as pearls, and she sported a well-maintained figure wrapped in skin so soft I’d imagine it would’ve been a full-time job just to upkeep it all. Her eyes were large and outgoing. She was confident and sly. Her hair was dark brown and the occasional lighter streaks would reveal themselves when the sunlight would shine onto her head just right.

I’m at Ratchathewi Station munching down on a lonely dinner that consists of some pieces of fried pork that I threw over a pile of rice shaped like a teddy bear, a large Chang, and a cigarette every now and then. The rice�"that’s how they always get you in the fancier places. The meals might seem cheap, but that’s because the rice or noodles, which can sometimes come close to the price of the actual dish itself, are never included as a part of the package. You’d think that in Asia, out of all places, that rice would be cheap and abundant; maybe I just don’t understand economics. I’m sitting in a plaza that’s composed of four different restaurants that remain divided by a pedestrian intersection, encapsulated by a massive 500-foot wide roof that resembles a rippled tin can. At the center of this intersection is where the staff from all four places seems to congregate most often. Every venue comes fully equipped with a very stylish young man in an equally stylish vest playing the host, accompanied by two girls dressed up in their restaurants’ theme tube dresses. They all stand around on their own corner�"patiently waiting to lure any incoming customers into their spot. They’re quite gentle in their competition though, it’s more of a fight of who can out-nice the hungry customer into sitting down at their tables. These Thai, they’re so goddamn nice all the time, always smiling and apologizing no matter what�"they’re even worse than the Canadians in that sense. But that look of “f**k you” is transparent in any language. Every now and again I catch the girls looking back at me and I can’t help but to wonder if these are the “bar girls” people have told me about, or if they’re just really friendly. I’m not even sure if I’m in the right neighborhood for that sort of company as I’ve been in Bangkok for a total of eight days and I’m as lost as a hipster without his iPhone when it comes to almost anything having to do with the culture or the geography. All that I’ve learned so far is that ice in your drinks is safe after all, the lady boys aren’t as plentiful as one would think, and that the locals might lash out at you if the bottoms of your feet are showing.

My expectations are quite low in terms of finding anything resembling a meaningful, emotionally fulfilling relationship when I go by the panty-wetting username of “ScullFucker6000” on my OkCupid dating profile. I was a bit disappointed when Anita first messaged me and mentioned nothing of the username or its intricate backstory. No, she started with a simple “hi”, and when an online correspondence starts off so unimaginatively, I either ignore it or turn into a sarcastic a*****e and see how far it can go. I was drunk, so I indulged. I can imagine a lot of what I said must’ve gotten misinterpreted in the worst way imaginable because after ten minutes of this online conversation she invited me to be her date at her sister’s wedding. This dull, lifeless discourse got me drinking to the point where I agreed to do it after realizing that I’ve never been to a wedding before, and perhaps a wedding hosting 500 people and running rampant with politicians and celebrities of whom I’ve never heard of would be a good first. I was reluctant to meet her before the wedding because I imagined it would’ve been a lot more fun that way, for me at least, but right now I can’t think of anything I can do in this city I know nothing about so I agree to meet with her at a bar called ‘The Saxophone’ when she interrupts my dinner with a text message asking about my whereabouts.

You don’t take an extra step during Bangkok summers if you don’t have to, the only thing you have to look forward to when strolling about is when a short, euphoric burst of the AC blows past as you pass the open doors of nearby shops on the streets. But, I can never slow down to make the wonderful feeling last without disrupting the flow of pedestrian traffic and not silently judge myself the way I judge all the other oblivious morons who do, so I just keep on walking and looking forward to the next cool breeze. The two-something kilometer stroll to Victory Monument is all busy, noisy, pedestrian-hating road with an ever-decreasing number refreshing bursts of AC; increasing the chances of my first impression of being a wet, sticky, and foul-smelling tourist. I decide, after a couple hundred feet of swimming in my own sweat, to find my way back to the station and try to figure out this train business. It’s simpler than I thought, although, I can’t understand why the hell it is that the ticket counter people only give you change for your cash to buy tickets at the machine, instead of actually selling you tickets, especially when the line-ups get so obnoxiously long. Or, why there aren’t any change machines at any of the stations to streamline the process. I don’t understand why the escalators only go down on this station, but the stairs only go up. S**t like this may be why I don’t see many fat people in this country.

After what seemed like at least half an hour of walking circles around Victory Monument, checking every corner of every intersection, and traversing this damn overpass more times than I want to count, it took a Russian with a gold chain and his bald, tattooed buddy as his other obnoxious accessory, to tell me where the hell this bar was.

“You Russian?” He then asks me.

“Nah I’m Canadian mate,” I could never do accents, and I sure as hell don’t know what a Canadian accent really sounds like except when saying “about”�"so I just did Australian, close enough, I’m sure he didn’t notice. I often try to avoid making friends, or even conversation, with other groups of Eastern-Europeans since they so often end up being elitist dickheads who think that a mutual language, or this unwarranted sense of national pride, is the basis for a good companionship or interesting conversation. Whatever it is that Motherland may have given me doesn’t change the fact that the place is still a complete shithole, and no amount of war is going to make me feel guilty about thinking that way. I can feel the origin of this bitterness start to come back to me now when I recall a group of Serbian skinheads from my high school that would often proclaim, loud and proud “SRBIJA!” everywhere they went. Most of these morons have never even seen the land they call home themselves, but were told, on what I imagine to have been a daily basis since childbirth, one-sided stories by their parents who had a thing or two to be angry about at the time. I remember the indifference I felt when I heard that one of these idiots was stabbed with a broken end of a bottle one night when he decided to call an Albanian he saw at a bar a “pigeon.” I don’t remember his real name, but many called him “Thug”�"I guess he had a name to live up to. He survived the ordeal, but I don’t imagine he’d learned his lesson when he got back in with his herd shortly afterward. I also remember talking to another Serbian after the event who had the opportunity in life to make up his own mind about the overwhelming national pride thing�"he may have disliked these skinheads even more than I, and was almost relieved to hear about the stabbing�"he thought it would maybe change things and relieve him of this shame for his people one day. “Mike… thanks,” I felt the need to introduce myself with a fake name to prove I wasn’t Russian. I give them the limpest handshake my pride would allow and take off.

It’s gotten to the point where cigarettes are what I use to check how time flies by. I use it to remind myself when to eat�"about every six or seven cigarettes; otherwise I might forget if I’m too busy with work. “I’ll be done in about a cigarette,” is what I’d tell somebody who’s waiting on me. I know that a drive across town is two cigarettes long; so is my breakfast, my lunch, and my dinner�"one before and one when I’m all finished. A film that’s over two hours long is three. I smoke as If I’m that awkward guy who avoids talking to people at parties by going out for some “fresh air” all the time�"except mine is a party that never ends and I’m as awkward as a high-five with an amputee. Every drink is a cigarette; every large beer is two�"maybe three, depending on the size of the glass they give me for it. Sometimes I’ll forget if I had a cigarette or not�"so I’ll smoke one just in case. How much I like a certain venue is largely determined by how easy they make it for you to have a cigarette without having to get out of your seat. The sandpaper-like texture on my teeth is telling me that I need to slow down on the smoking and drinking. Sometimes I take a nap when I work just to get a break from all of it, “one hour without smoking makes it all OK,” I’d tell myself. My tongue is sore from compulsively feeling up the texture of my teeth and I’m sensing that this guy in military uniform, who’s been standing uncomfortably close to me outside the bar the entire time, is just waiting for me to slip in one way or another so that he can find a reason to Muay Thai me in the head. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing here, but I’m being very careful about where I toss my cigarette butts�"walking these ten feet to the ashtray and back might save my life.

I don’t know how demanding the Thai people are about tardiness, but it takes Anita about four cigarettes to finally show up.

“You look way too good for me,” I say as she approaches me. She laughs and shies away. I wasn’t kidding�"I’m wearing a pair of beer, whisky, and cigarette ash stained jean shorts that I bought at the market for about 100 Baht, they fit the waist just fine, but the a*s sags so much it’s as if they’re made specifically so that one could fit diapers underneath and not feel chafing�"they almost remind me of those stupid pants Justin Bieber wears. And I hate myself for knowing what sort of pants Justin Bieber wears. My white mesh socks are covered in dirt from the urban hike earlier and my old Nike runners are bubblegum pink and blue�"at least that’s the color underneath the tears and dirt that won’t come off. No, I wasn’t expecting to meet her tonight when I wore the same loose, blue and white checkered shirt I’ve been wearing for the past month�"the one I haven’t washed since I bought it because it’s my “writing shirt,” and it’s drenched in fresh sweat from walking around the city for the last five hours, the little white squares have acquired a yellow tint a long time. My hair is oily, sticky, and too far-gone to try and go for a convincing “cool messy” look. To top it all off�"my face is covered in patches of some facial hair equivalent of a thirteen-year olds pubes and I’m wearing a bracelet that reads “I F**K LADY BOY” in bright neon green letters over a black band. I give her a warm hug and stealthily check to make sure that I haven’t yellowed up her tight white dress with my sweaty armpits and stomach.

“You wait long?” I’m going to have to learn to find that accent to be attractive if I plan on staying in this country for a while.

“Long enough for you to take a few years off of my life,” I tell her with a straight face.

“Ha-ha you a funny man. Let’s go inside.”

I still don’t know how these people operate�"but I’ll willing to give it a chance. I’ll try to adapt. I’m doing my best to find a balance between being the American tourist who comes to a third-world country and complains about the lack of HBO in his $20/night hotel room, and somebody who just accepts that being randomly punched in the back of the head on the daily is “just how life goes, man”. This is something I really need to narrow down.

We couldn’t have picked a worse spot to sit down and have some nice conversation when we park our butts right in front of the stage. The rest of the seats are full and the one only time when we get a chance to squeeze a few words in is just at the start of every guitar solo, right before it picks up. Even then, I can hardly make out what she’s saying her due to the thick accent and odd grammar. I can tell she still thinks her sentences in her native tongue. We’re sitting right in front of the banging drums; she’s sipping on a Corona and watching from her peripherals as I plow through some glasses of Johnny Walker. Every now and then she gets my attention and tries to say something, but after a few “Whaaaaat?”s I just give up, smile, nod, and take my chances by replying with either a “yeah!”, “I know!”, or a “really?” She does the same and then the both of us just spin our heads back around toward the band. An older white man with a young Thai girl around his arm sings along to the old rock covers, the ones he recognizes�"which appears to all of them. Every now and again he gets way too excited from singing his heart out, runs out of breath, clinks his glass with mine, and tells me something I just can’t hear nor want to pay attention to.

None of this s**t is making me feel sexy except for the occasional sax solo. Thirty minutes in and this just isn’t going anywhere, the glances back and forth are getting awkward, and even some knee-to-knee friction would be inappropriate and forced at this point. A wild idea starts to brew inside my head when I turn toward her and catch her singing along to one of the songs she thinks she knows the words to.

“Karaoke?!!” I gently shout into her ear.

“I love Karaoke!” Bingo.

We’re walking circles around Victory Monument in hopes of spotting one of these karaoke bars that Google had suggested for us. Finally, we get a chance to talk. Cooking is her passion, and at first, I found it weird that someone who’s a lawyer in her thirties wants to open a restaurant one day. Then I think about all the weird work I did, and all the weird, peculiar things that will come, on my path to trying to be the writer I so dream about. I tell her about the novel that finally has “the end” stamped on the last page, and how I took off to the other side of the world so that I could have some alone time to work on it, to get all the details right. I don’t tell her how the novel was finished almost a year ago but I was never able to work on it on a consistent basis because I had to wait for “the zone” to hit me. I kept telling myself that just like Christmas, Birthdays, or crippling seasonal depression, that this “zone”, this sudden burst of inspiration, would only come to me once a year, specifically in the mid-December to end of January region. And I would embrace the hell out of that. I would really get into my groove. I would start chain-smoking even worse than before. I would drink enough so that my blood wouldn’t think of me as a traitor to the Motherland. I don’t know where the sleeping or the eating would come in, but it would be something I would have to almost be forced into doing. I would masturbate on a very specific schedule: sometime after the “I just blew my literary load” moment and right before I needed to take that long walk to clear my head out. Perhaps I should’ve read ‘The Alchemist’ on a more consistent basis to remind myself just how full of s**t I was about this whole thing. But then again it never really had a massive effect on me after the first read-through.

“So, what do you write about here?” She pulls the notebook out from the front pocket of my shirt and starts waving it around in front of my face.

“This. Tonight. Yesterday. Pretty much everything that happens.”

“Are you gonna write about me?”

“Perhaps.”

“This much?” Her face fights a smile as she flips through the fifty-something pages of scribbles.

“That depends.”

“So, I need to give you something to write about then, huh?” And there’s that smile. I can see the gates of every store that carries stationary being flooded with a swarm of sex-deprived lunatics with hungry eyes who think that carrying a notebook around will finally get them laid. You’re welcome, Staples.

The address for the karaoke bar we’re trying to get to leads us to a neighborhood where the numbers of bars has gone down to approximately zero; but the dark alleyways where groups of men sit around and watch us suspiciously is on an incline. We continue walking, asking random strangers for directions to make sure that we are in fact walking to where we’re supposed to be. The address we were given eventually leads us to a hospital, I can’t imagine a hospital having a karaoke bar, but hey it’s Thailand, so we walk the perimeter of it to check it out. No luck. Then, a man driving a motorcycle with a cart of dry fish attached at the side pulls up when we flag him down and tells us of a place we can go to where we would find some decent karaoke. We take his advice, catch a cab, and after a fifteen-minute ride we arrive at a neighborhood full of even more dimly lit street corners and kidnappy eyes. There is one bar, no singing to be heard from it, but on the patio we see a group of bald men with sinister-looking eyebrows and way too many tattoos. We decide skip that one and keep going until the streetlights start becoming scarcer, the roads more unfrequented, and the discomfort growing more prevalent. She asks the cabbie to take us back to ‘The Saxophone’. Although that ride went nowhere�"I’m glad that we did it since we got a good half an hour to talk and actually get to know each other.

We find our original spot by the stage to be occupied by a group of French people, and every seat, downstairs or upstairs, seems to be taken�"except for one private little booth in a dark corner in the back of the bar. She’s more comfortable around me now�"her knees not-so-accidentally brush up against mine while the new band plays covers of last year’s top 40’s and other classics. We’re ordering Coronas with shots of vodka in between every new bottle. She’s singing along to songs which she clearly doesn’t know the lyrics too, I join in and quickly remind her that I wasn’t kidding about being tone-deaf; and absolutely serious about knowing the lyrics to the greatest hits of Taylor Swift and Bruno Mars. I’m praying that she doesn’t realize that I don’t actually know half the lyrics to that John Legend song when I lock eyes with her and try to go all-out on the song. She smiles and throws her legs over mine and joins in on the song�"goddamn it, this girl can actually sing. I begin to massage her lower back while she squeezes my arm. My hand runs up her thigh and I move my face closer to hers. Her eyes hesitate. I stop myself and tell her that I’m going to kiss her tonight.

“No you’re not,” doing her best forced “oh please” face.

“Bullshit,” I pull my face away and wedge my hand tightly between her legs, slowly moving them further up�"but then the lyrics finally come back to me. I forget about everything else and give it my all: “how many times do I have to tell you, even when you’re crying you’re beautiful too. The world is beeeeeaaattiiinngg you dowwwwnn…” What a great song.

I get the brilliant idea to take off about thirty seconds into ‘Fergalicious’ when I suddenly realize that I know the lyrics to that song as well. She cannot know this. And if the song is playing�"I will sing it.

“So delicious… ayyy-ayyy-ay-ay…” loops through my head until the point when we arrive at a bar where the prices of drinks are more than those in Vancouver and the suits all these guys are wearing seem like they are worth more than a few of the cars I’ve owned. Anita introduces me to a small group of her old friends whom she hadn’t seen in over half a decade. I try my best to show off my cool new bracelet to everyone before somebody sees it and decides not to say anything about it�"better just get it over with now. These guys, although wealthy, well dressed, and looking so fancy with those napkins wrapped around the glasses of their drinks, give me a very warm, genuine welcome�"something I didn’t at all expect after seeing how they carried themselves, or from their resting facial expressions. But I also haven’t gotten stabbed or robbed while in Bangkok so I’m still learning to make my own mind up about this place.

We stay for a few more drinks before the five of us cram into a cab and take off for the next venue. No one is really giving me any straight answers as to where we’re going or what I’ve been drinking, but I also haven’t paid for anything since I met these people so I’m not about to start complaining. I decide to just roll with it and see where this night takes me.

Perhaps the most charming man I’ve ever met�"the Italian Rafael: mid thirties, with his five o-clock just perfect and his hair glued to one side just low enough to make it seem effortless, begins to tell me stories of when he spent a few years living in Kiev back in the early 2000’s. Specifically, stories of the sorts of girls he met at the one club that he used to attend for three to four nights almost every week. There was Natasha, whose mother was convinced that he was a Muslim, and her mind wasn’t changing. Valeria was the redhead who would ask him for pregnancy test money every time they had sex. Not the first time I’ve heard that story about the Motherland. And finally�"the girl he gave his heart to�"Katya, he loved that her hair was braided, that she never asked for anything, and that no cavity in her body was off-limits to him when things got intimate.

The cab pulls up in front of a hotel that has too many shiny bits all over the place and way too many purposeless pillars that bother me more than they rightfully should. It’s barely past midnight and I’m drunker than I want to be this early on in the evening. I still have no clue as to who these people are or what’s happening right now. Why the hell am I in front of this flamboyant-looking hotel? Is there going to be some sort of high-class orgy? I don’t like this ratio of people for such a thing. Who the hell is Anita? At this point I’m just waiting for this group of people to pull out a bunch of white masks and take me to some ‘Eyes Wide Shut’-like scenario where I’ll have to get naked in front of a circle of judgmental old people in black cloaks, light a candle or two, and make a sacrifice to a large black phallic statue somewhere.

Rafael hands the hotel desk manager some cash and we get led downstairs into the underground lobby where a big black man stops me in my tracks, yanks on my shorts, and shakes his head side to side. The first black man I’ve seen in Thailand so far�"I didn’t know such a thing even existed. I don’t know what these guys said or paid to get me in, but after ten minutes of aimlessly walking circles around in the lobby while they talked, a bellboy runs down with a pair of black dress pants, puts them into my hands, and politely instructs me to go change behind a corner. Finally some pants�"anything to get me out of these stupid shorts. I get myself dressed, and in my bubblegum Nikes, my dress pants a size too big, and the $12 sweat-stained H&M shirt I’m led into a club where the entry requirement seems to be “Russian model” or “buy a drink every ten minutes or we kick you out”.

I don’t know what the hell kind of this music this is but, “Ibiza”, although having never visited it, is the only word that comes to mind while it takes a series of percussive techno-s***s into my ears. The color-changing lasers and random projections of raindrops and ‘Planet Earth’ blind me in whichever direction I face. Anita holds on to my hand, walks me through the crowd of men avoiding the dance floor, and sits us down at the bar where we take some shots the bartender just hands us without saying a word. I’ve just stopped asking questions at this point. The dozens upon dozens of models sit quietly in groups at the tables in the VIP section, every now and then making their way down to the bar for a quick “Can I buy you a drink?” before retreating back. A small handful of the girls are doing the same re-run of the gentle sway of the hip and back-and-forth of their arms, dancing in their circle, and occasionally glancing back at the guys sitting at the tables who, I assume, are sharing reasons with each other as to why they won’t be approaching them.

I guess some things stay the same no matter where you go to on this planet.

Maybe they had to tear a wall down or something, but I can’t help but to wonder about how the hell they got this 60” TV into this club when Anita pushes her butt up against me and right into its massive screen. I make myself comfortable up against the toothpaste commercial while she grinds against me to this abomination they call music. I take a moment to quietly admire the leopard-print panties when her dress rides up too high before helping her pull the skirt down so that she may continue. With her back towards me, Anita doesn’t notice it when Rafael, who has had a few too many by now, walks up to me, lights up a cigarette for the both of us, and starts blabbering on about Katya.

“You know… her eyes my friend. So naaaiiiceeee…“ he puts his arm around me. I’m curious to see where this will go, “ahh, you know what it’s like. This Kiev my friend�"you so lucky to have live there. I would live there, but these winter�"so cold man�"I cannot do it. How you do it?”

“Layers?”

“Oh I know. I know the layers. But they not help me my friend. But I see these girls in skirts in Kiev winter, I don’t know how they do it, but I want to make them all warm. With my�"ahhhhhh�"you know what I mean!” Patting me on the back, “oh Katya�"she was true angel. This girl could sing. I don’t know what she sing about�"but so beautiiiiiiful. These girls my friend. The guys, not so much�"they all stay home and get drunk. But not you my friend! You good guy! You go out with such a beautiful girl and show her good time. You the gentleman! I loved Katya�"you know.”

“…Yes.” Anita still has no clue about the heart-to-heart happening behind her back. And I’m not so much interested in what Rafael has to say as I am about seeing how long we could keep this going on for before she begins to notice.

“Ahh yes buddy, you from Kiev�"you know. You’re good man buddy! You listen. You know some people�"they never listen. I know you know how I feel buddy! Love! It’s crazy! You the handsome man! You’re so handsome�"you know that?!” He rubs his scruff against the side of my face, plants a wet kiss on my cheek, and runs off.

I’m left with the cigarette in my hand and Anita is pushing me harder into the screen when one of the bouncers approaches and politely asks us to move somewhere else. She turns around, grabs me by the belt, and drags me to the center of the nearly empty dance floor where she faces me and resumes the mating ritual. She’s telling me about how much she hates it when men smoke as I puff a gentle cloud into her face and pull her in closer. She comes in, our eyes lock. Her upper lip gently grazes my lower before pulling away. She moves in again, kissing my chin, rubbing her nose up my neck and toward the ear, and taking in the scent of my day’s work while she plays with my hair. I grab the back of her neck and press my forehead against hers, our lips pivot towards each others’ by the tips of our noses, our lips lock and I pull her in tighter, her knee gently pushes up into my crotch. We continue making out with the occasional dance number in between before going to the bar to grab some more liquor�"where I run into Rafael again, standing with a fresh drink and a lit cigarette in hand all ready for me.

“Ukrainians buddy�"you good man. I never talk to anyone about these things. You know you get old, you move around. Not many close friends to talk to my friend.” Everybody breaks�"it’s a good reminder to stay grounded.

“Friend.” The idea that the pain might eventually go away may be one of the most difficult things for anyone to accept, making it so frustrating for the listener who obviously has the answer to solve everyone’s problems but their own. It’s been scientifically proven that “having loved and lost” is not the better way to go about these things after all. It’s also been scientifically proven that smoking can prevent Alzheimer’s. How easy life is these days when you can just pick the studies to cater to your specific lifestyle. Checking sources is for pessimistic a******s. I take the drink and cigarette. “…How well did you know Katya?” I start to recall the impression I got from the girls at those sorts of clubs from the last time I visited the Motherland.

“She was beautiful, man.”

“I got that. But what do you know about her?”

“Hah, buddddyyy,” giving me the “come on” hands.

“Listen. I’m sure that at least some of these girls aren’t just beautiful. Go and find out who the hell they really are.” It’s funny how you determine that the best time to give solid, heartfelt advice is when you want the other person to just simply shut the f**k up. He leaves another wet mess on my cheek and takes off somewhere with that massive grin on his face.

Anita and I share the drink and decide to take off to keep this momentum going. Up in the lobby she watches me change out of those dress pants and back into my grimy shorts, biting her lip, and giving me that look that’s a telltale sign of good things to come later in the night. We jump into a cab where I try convincing her that it’s best that we go to my hotel room tonight. She tells me that she can’t because there’s a golf game in the morning waiting for her and she needs to be up early. “I don’t have any condoms on me,” I interrupt our make-out session in the backseat.

“We don’t have to have sex tonight,” she starts undoing my belt, “we can just cuddle.” I love to cuddle, but I’m also getting the feeling that she might be translating things in her head all wrong.

This tension reaches an all-time high when the dog catches us sneaking through her parents’ house on our way up to Anita’s room, the little s**t starts yapping and barking and running circles around me until I just grab the son of a b***h into my hands and take him with us. By the time I close the door to her room and turn around, Anita’s dress is already laying on the floor beside the bed. She’s sprawled out across the sheets in her pink, flower-print bra and leopard print panties, giving me that look that she’s been giving me since we left the club. I let the dog down on the ground, he yaps some more while I slowly climb up on top of her. Continuing where we left off from the cab ride, I pull down on her bra, exposing the dark n*****s on the breasts that are just big enough so that my obnoxiously giant hands can’t completely wrap around them. My other hand moves down from her neck and through the center of her chest and stomach where it starts playing with the outside of her panties until it gets to that point where it’s time for them to come off. I lick the sweat off of her collarbone, then her throat, ending on the chin, pausing for a few moments to reciprocate that look before I drive my tongue deep into her mouth and slip my finger inside. Her hands move to where I want them to, I bask in it for a bit while I kiss her before shifting myself south where my mouth relieves the fingers of their duty. She flips me over, sits on top of me, and begins to grind her hips back and forth. I start to damn all that liquor as I begin to soften up before I even get a chance to be inside. Her mouth and tongue feel fantastic�"but they aren’t helping. I shamelessly admit defeat and start passing out; she tells me she’s tired as well and gives me that gentle, reassuring palm of the hand across my cheek as she falls asleep…

Being the early riser that I am, especially after a night of heavy drinking�"I wake up at around seven in the morning to find her face and mouth glued to my forearm. The alcohol is gurgling in my belly, my head is pulsating, and my hard-on is stabbing her in the spine. I gradually come to and realize that my other hand had strategically fallen asleep while hanging over on her breast. I give it no second thought and start to play around with it while listening closely for signs of her waking up. Being a man who rarely lets his morning glory go to waste when with the company of a woman�"I try to wake her up by gently stretching out the arm that her face is stuck to, exaggerating the volume of my yawning, and wrapping one of my legs around her waist to get a better angle.

With her eyes still shut she reaches a hand out towards me and starts scratching on my inner thigh with her nails, her back gyrates to mimic the motions of my hips, our bodies begin to move in sync.

With her eyes still shut her body flips around and her face moves in closer until our noses touch. I grab her hand and move it to where it’s needed most- she doesn’t hesitate to start stroking and so I return the favor. She matches her breathing to mine as our bodies steadily shift closer together.

With her eyes still shut she rolls me over on my back and climbs on top, tenderly digging her nails into my stomach, slowly fitting me in while the fluids spread to all the right places. The ups and downs are inconstant and sensual, my hands are spread wide open and wrapped around her butt cheeks; hers are pushing down and grabbing at the sides of my stomach. It’s getting to that point where I have to figure out where the hell I’m going to come when Anita’s mother walks in to wake her up for the golf game…

The maid is trying her best to make it look as if she isn’t watching when Anita and I have a long goodbye make-out session up against the Mercedes in her parents’ driveway. I leave through the gate only to find myself in the middle of nowhere with a dead phone and only three cigarettes remaining in the pack I thought I just bought last night. I don’t know if it’s because of how I’m dressed or simply because I’m white, but I’m getting strange, judgmental looks from the neighbors of this community as they leave their houses to go to work. I’m struggling to figure out where the hell I am�"there are no mountains, no tall buildings, no reference points of any sort to help me out, and this goddamn neighborhood of fancy houses seems to be shut-out from the rest of the world by a twelve-foot high concrete wall around its perimeter. I spend two cigarettes just walking through this labyrinth until I see a car leave one of the driveways and so I finally decide to lightly, and as best as I can�"inconspicuously, jog after it until I find myself at a gate where an armed guard operates the massive metal arm for entry. For the first time on this trip I start to feel like a complete outsider as I make my way through the last hundred feet towards the exit where the guard stares me down mercilessly with every step I take. He makes sure that I can see the look on his face while I stand in front of the arm in wait for him to open it. I acknowledge it and he lets me proceed.

I find myself in what appears to be a village, or at least the outskirts of the city, where the buildings don’t seem to go any higher that one floor, whatever food carts are in sight seem to be deserted, and the only crowd of people I spot for hundreds of feet up ahead are gathered around the 7-Eleven. I stand around on the side of the road for a few minutes in hopes of spotting a taxi and pray that he doesn’t try to rip me off since I don’t know where I am. I do know one thing though: where I’m going, and once they hear the words “Khao San”�"they’re always going to try to rip you off. With no luck of spotting a taxi I head to the 7-Eleven and buy a bottle of water along with a fresh pack of cigarettes. On this new pack I got the picture of the dead mans feet in the morgue on one side, and that oozing black lung on the other. These graphic images take up about 90% of the entire surface of the package- they get so gruesome sometimes that I almost wanted to consider maybe trying to quit smoking on my first day in Bangkok. I consider that a big leap forward. Maybe if I were to get the one with the “limp” cigarette I would’ve given this morning another chance at quitting. This heat’s not doing my head any favors and this thick shirt is getting heavier with every step I take. While walking further down what seems to be the main street in this region and soon enough I spot a group of motorcycle taxis hanging around. The drivers tell me that they can get me to the closest train station for sixty Baht. I have no idea how far that is, but naturally, because I’m a tourist�"I assume that they are trying to rip me off, so I bring it down to fifty. The driver chuckles when I ask if he’s got an extra helmet for me, I remind myself that I’m still learning and just hop right on.

There’s something oddly refreshing, and perhaps it’s the hangover that’s got me in such a self-destructive sort of mood, about the hot morning air, blended with the exhaust from the two-strokers and diesels, flying at my face as it fills up my lungs while this motorcycle taxi shoots past and in-between all the other cars on the road. I’m absolutely loving the feeling of this dusty air as it seeps through the cracks in the oily mess on the top of my head; every piece of dirt that flies into my face and mouth makes me grin like an idiot child who thinks he just got away with eating a handful of sand. I let go of the back rail so that I can spread my arms out just far enough to let my fingertips gently graze the edges of the mirrors of every car we pass. I want to feel as if I’m about to die when the scooter takes to the opposing lane to get past the cars- right into the other motorists, but the driver’s body language, who seems as cool as a cucumber, along with the complete lack of honking from the oncoming traffic, breaks the illusion and assures me that everything’s going to be alright. I get reminded of what an absolute tourist I am when I see another local on the back of a moped on her way to work, not minding the roads or the crazy driving habits of her driver, just casually sitting sideways on the seat and reading something off of her phone. Suddenly, I don’t feel nearly as cool for not hanging on.

The ride felt like it was at least fifteen minutes long so I don’t feel like I got ripped off when I hand the driver the fifty Baht before making my way up to the station. Hugh Jackman, with the all-new 2016 Toyota Camry in the background, watches me from the 15” TV screen in the train car, not saying a single word. I don’t know how many takes they did on that last shot- but I don’t think they got it right. He looks as uncomfortable and out of place as I do right now. I imagine that my facial expression starts to mimic his even closer when I raise my arm up to grab the rail above my head and finally get a good whiff of that accumulated sweat from my shirt, and I’m sure that the disgruntled look on my face due to the blue balls from this morning complements it nicely. This lovely combination is for the best, I tell myself, since I don’t see anyone on the train car in close enough proximity to able to snatch the wallet from my back pocket. Something I’m still watching out for because I’ve heard a few stories from a people who’ve heard a few stories about Thailand from their friends.

I finally arrive at Siam, which, at this point, I’m still assuming is the city center because of this mall, which is the 47th largest in the world�"a fact that the mall just loves to boast about on every pillar and in every bathroom. A very helpful Tourist Police officer catches me aimlessly wandering around while I try to figure out where the hell this bus station is. Luckily, he speaks English well enough to get the point across clearly when he starts telling me about how I’m not allowed to be smoking on the streets here, and that it’s a 2000 Baht fine if you get caught, how that’s one of the big things guys like him look out for from these tourists. I look around the area for a safe and legal place where I can dispose of the thing but he stops me and tells me that I can keep smoking. Insists on it even. I don’t know what to do at this point so I just decide to let the cigarette burn out in my hand.

“Don’t throw on street!” Wagging his finger at me.

He congratulates me with a gentle pat on my back when I tell him that I’ll throw the butt into my water bottle when I’m done but then instantly switches attitudes and starts interrogating me about my business in Thailand, how long I’m going to stay here, and what I do for work. He asks to see my Passport and gets suspicious when I say that I don’t have it on me. Asks me where I’m staying. “Khao San,” I answer.

“Ah my friend, Khao San!” With that unnerving forced smile on the front part of his head he starts giving me very clear directions as to how to get there�"really making sure that I understand. “Yes. Go! Go!” He nudges me on as I’m walking away. With that artificial grin on his face I can’t tell if he genuinely wants to help me or if he just wants me gone from the area where the pretty people like to walk around. After all, it is the 47th largest mall in the world and I hardly look like I could even afford a coffee from Macdonald’s at this point. I’d love to see how this man treats the smelly hippies.

The #15 bus�"the only one I know and trust. So far my exploration around Bangkok has been almost completely limited to where this bus can go and how far I want to take its route. The only problem is that nobody seems to know when, or how often it comes. After what had felt like an eternity the bus finally arrives, emptying its packed load of businessmen, old people who definitely have no business here, and overzealous early-rising tourists out onto the busy street. The way these bus doors swing open a hundred feet before it comes to a stop excites in so many ways because I start to imagine the same thing happening back in Vancouver and the frightfulness it would instill in all the passengers. If maybe just a little bit of this Bangkok madness could be implemented into Vancouver life every once in a while then I wouldn’t find it to be so stale. But then I would have to watch as groups of self-important, gluten-free, vegetarians try to take it all away by starting campaigns, Facebook pages, or gather up in front of the art gallery to try and protest all this madness back out of existence. Once that group mentality kicks in there would be no stopping these people�"it would snowball to the point where they’d try and rescue every stray animal, ensure that all the food carts are up to health code and have their licenses, make documentaries about homeless people (just the ones that look dramatic enough on camera) and create Kickstarter campaigns for them. Equality for all�"because it’s unfair to start getting your own s**t together in life until every less-privileged man, dog, and tree gets a crack at it first. They would probably even stir s**t up about how unsafe it is to have such large open windows like the one by which I’m sitting at right now, where I can just let my arm hang off the side and rest my up face against the warm, stained, bare aluminum interior. Please don’t take this s****y bus away from me you a******s�"it’s the first time in my life I’m actually enjoying a bus ride.

It’s a going to be a forty-minute commute in this morning traffic so I prepare my nostrils for the inevitable mix of rush hour fumes and let my body slide back in this seat to get myself as comfortable as I can possibly be. The sharp feeling of these aluminum rivets digging into the side of my head feels refreshing as it helps to keep my mind off of the ringing in my ears and the heavy pulsing pushing onto the back of my eyeballs.

I watch for forty minutes as this city of millions, with whom I have no intentions of relating to, go about starting their days. This beautiful chaos of the thousands of farting mopeds as they fly through spaces tight enough where I’d be careful simply just walking through them. All these beat-up cars driving at whatever speeds the traffic permits them to, their bumpers close together enough to have the white folks lashing out about invasion of their personal place back home. These hundreds and hundreds of nameless shops and garages, all these little places which cater to a single specific need, packed so tightly next to one another�"I can’t comprehend how the hell it is that they manage to stay in business as they’re almost always empty. To me it’s all just a blur of washed out colors and peculiar shapes. These food carts that manage to fit themselves into the tightest of spaces, whether in alleyways, or on the sidewalk, or even right on road, how they cross eight lane intersections without so much as an ounce of worry in their eyes. How they’re able to sit out in the sun for sixteen hours a day, shoulder-to-shoulder with their competition and have no conflicts between them whatsoever. I hear nothing. No arguing or yelling. No honking coming from any direction. No engines revving to their redlines because no one is driving aggressively here. I’m beginning to think that “chaos” might be the wrong term to describe this place.

I don’t think it’s shock, and I sure as hell don’t know enough about this place yet to start feeling any sort of genuine sympathy for these people and their troubles as I’m still trying to figure out of what to make of it all. I’m still trying to figure out how I feel about an interesting sight from a few days ago, when I watched as an older man crawled out of a cab carrying a young, legless boy, over his shoulder. The boy’s body was as limp as a noodle; his leathery skin was nearly black from all the countless hours a day out in the sun. His puffy, burnt lips hung loose, looking almost detached from his mouth, and the look in his eyes was something far beyond the so-called “thousand-yard stare”. The man set this boy down in the center of the sidewalk on Khao San Road, right where all the tourists would give their best puppy eyes as they walked past, and perhaps toss a coin or two in the tin pan the man set up in front of the boy before he finally took off in another cab just a minute later. Now that there’s a solid f*****g business plan they don’t teach you in schools.

One gruesome, possibly even heart-breaking, example is not nearly enough to start drawing any sort of conclusions about this country�"but this is the sort of trip where people expect you to come back and give them a bunch of bullet points about the all “crazy s**t” you’ve seen. This also is the sort of trip that’s supposed to open your eyes, make you a more conscious of the world around you, to help you try and see things from another perspective. I’m trying to keep my mind open, but I have no plans of coming home as the guy that’s going to say: “you don’t know how horrible they have it in some other places of world,” when someone complains about their meal. I’m not here to spread awareness or to save the children. I’m not here to be morally right in anyone’s eyes, I’m not here to apologize for being a hypocrite, and I’m sure as hell not here to be politically correct.

Now that I’m here I’m finally beginning to understand why it is that so many writers, or privileged white kids who want to follow in their favorite authors’ footsteps, would want to go abroad to get their juiciest writing done: you can feel completely misunderstood here and that makes life oddly interesting if you can learn to embrace it. You can live in your own private little bubble, completely unaffected by whatever pain or misery may surround you, and simply allow the madness of this foreign environment to become a romantic backdrop to help you get into that inspired mindset which so many seek. I am here to be an objective-as-I-can be observer. I am here to just soak it all in, and I pray, for my own sanity, that too much dirt doesn’t get left behind in my head when it all gets wrung out back onto this page. I am not here to clean up or filter the mess, but simply to displace it. I am here for the quick in-and-out. I am here to go with the flow. I am just here to be The Sponge.

Author's Note

Gimme your worst pretty please. I need to start getting this shit in order so I can compile and publish these (I have plenty). Need an opinion from somebody who doesn't know me personally.