Walking down Bangla Rd. There is a monsoon in Phuket, and still there are more prostitutes than rain drops.
Walking down Bangla Rd. There is a monsoon in Phuket, and still there are more prostitutes than rain drops. I feel an overwhelming sense of happiness beaming from within. Not because of my environment but because of meditation and perception. By calmness and contentment. It is like being depressed but the opposite.
It is the first time I have worn shoes in six weeks. Maybe a record unless I did that as a baby. But I would have wore socks as a baby, so yes, it’s a new record. Six weeks without wearing shoes at thirty years old. That is going on my resume.
The first bar that energy pushes me into is an Aussie bar, which is strange… All our sports on every tv. I felt like getting spastic.
It was already 8:30. I had a day on a ferry and a bus and then a van driven by a 136-year-old Thai man. He sat one cm away from the steering wheel and didn’t go over 45km the whole way. At one point he stopped in the middle of the road to answer his phone. He would look at me, who was sitting in the front seat and he would laugh. I would laugh too, no idea what we were laughing at but that doesn’t matter. Laughing is the best.
I finish the first Leo like it was a Gatorade after I had just made a hundred. Then a few more.
The waitress asked through her braces and fat face, “Can you buy me a drink?”
“No” I reply.
She does that stupid fake sad thing with her lips.
“We have to buy our own drinks here,” she pushed.
Leo’s were 90B, so I said, “Okay.”
She waddled back with a Leo for me and a shot for herself. The shot cost 170B. I had been stooged. She drank the shot and pretended it was alcoholic. She had lost my trust. I paid the bill and left. If she would have just done her job, I would have tipped her, there was no need to bring trickery into the room.
I walked down the street. It is what the Christians think hell would be. Not a bad hell. I wanted another drink so I walked into an Irish bar. There they played live music and I was asked to request a song.
“Somebody like you, by Adelle,” I said, and they sang it, it felt good.
I drank pints and the ladies were very lovely. Two girls sat in the corner looking like they needed attention. But I didn’t give it to them, I knew I could, I knew I could probably have a threesome, but I didn’t feel like it.
I know why fat old bald men come here; it is full of them. My uncles. All of our destinies really. But the ladies, the people, they hold no judgement. The old Thai ladies are hilarious. They make funny faces and touch you on the arm. They don’t make you feel bad just for being alive. They enjoy it. You could find a way to demonize it. That they just want your money, they just want something from you. But it doesn’t feel like that, maybe they just want a smile and a laugh back, maybe they just want to have a good time, maybe they never thought about being miserable and judgmental because no one ever suggested it. There was no tomfoolery with these waitresses, so I tipped and I left, walked back down the inside of a perverts mind.
A girl on the side of the road had the best ass I have ever seen. Her sweatpants were painted on. I saw her face and it was almost scary. Fillers. Fake lips. But her body was tight, her surgeon was talented. Her adjusted breasts sat somewhat naturally beneath her tight white top. She saw me looking at her.
“You want fuck, suck, fuck my ass and fuck my pussy?”
There, in her real eyes I ventured into my mind, where time does not exist. I watched the scenario before I made a decision, and it went like this;
“How much?”
“2000b for everything, fuck, suck, fuck my ass big boy.”
“How much just for a massage?” I would ask.
“1000B.”
“Okay” I would say, out of intrigue.
From there I would walk with her, into a hotel designed just for this.
“You got to pay for room” she would crow.
“How much?”
“100B.” ?
And I would pay it.
We would walk into the room and she would take off her top. They sit well, but I can see the scars now. The illusion is gone. She takes off my shorts. My penis is soft. Too curious to be horny. I grab her ass and it feels good. I lay down for my massage, my wallet beside me, she doesn’t know how to give a fucking massage.
“You kiss me?” she says.
So I kiss her, I feel her fake lips, full of peas or whatever they put in there. Then I start to think to myself, ‘Is this a boy?’
So, I ask, “Are you a boy or a girl?”
“I girl.”
“Were you born a girl?”
“Yeeeea.”
Well, you have to have trust in this day and age, if a hooker hasn’t got her word then what does she have?
She rolls me over, penis still soft, he does not want any part in this. She is naked.
Out of curiosity I feel for a penis. She has a hole. Its wet and feels normal enough. From there things would happen.
She rides me and says, “Oh you fucking Kim Kardashian.”
I think its weird, don’t say anything, then again, she says, “How does it feel to fuck Kim Kardashian?”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I ask.
In the doggy style position, to my right in the corner of the room, adjacent to the rattling bed head, stood Satan. To my left, a warm but dim glow shows me the presence of god. Satan doesn’t make me feel any guilt, he makes me feel okay. God, he tries to look away, without too much judgement but is not pleased. I did not know where to look. How to feel. There was only one option. There would be only one option. I turn the girl over and I strangle her. As I hold her neck I would cum. My testosterone would fall into the condom that’s inside a dying hookers hole. Sobering with shame I can see the scar above her hole. I can feel her Adams apple in my grasp. As she struggles to breathe I look at god, but he is gone.
Satan rubs my back and says, “Its okay.”
Kim Kardashian is dead. I get dressed and walk back into the street. I want to go home but that is where they would find me. I want to go to the airport, but the same problem. So I get every bit of money out of my account, speak to a cab driver and ask him to take me a place I cant be found.
He says, “Kill a hooker?”
“No,” I lie.
After forty-five minutes of driving in the rain, blue and red fill the droplets on the window. They have found me. I don’t want to go easy. When they open the door I grab the officers gun. Shoot him in the guts. I get a few rounds off but get shot in the head.
Well, that didn’t go to well.
I say to the lovely prostitute, “No thanks.”
I go home, try and read a book. The first line puts me to sleep.
