Date: Wed, 22 Jul 2015 11:35:05 +0800
From: Anon
Subject: Ice Cream from Thailand (gay interracial)

ICE CREAM FROM THAILAND

WHERE YOU GO?
  This was my second time at a resort town in Thailand. The first time, I
had found a seventeen-year old boy in a gay go-go bar, and we fell
passionately in love. I was an innocent when it came to boys, and he was
new to the business, fresh and unjaded. We made love, but with the
innocence and uncertainty of schoolboys playing at love, and spent in fact
most of our time snuggling in bed, he covering me with love bites. Since
then, I had remained celibate as before, concealed deeply in the closet,
not even considering the odd clandestine assignation.
  Now, more than ten years later, I returned, hoping to find another boy,
yet knowing that the experience I had had was unique. I entertained no
hopes of finding my beloved, for he must've moved on or died of the dread
disease that had since made its début. Even were I to find him, what could
possibly remain of our bliss, flush with youth and innocence, subsequently
spoiled by hopelessness and years of grief?
  The charming bar I had known before had vanished, to be replaced by a
series of ponced up `boy bars' replete with chrome poles and strobe lights.
The standard formula was boys in their late teens and early twenties
dancing in a line on a stage, in skimpy white briefs, with loud music, and
the punters in flowery bamboo sofas facing the stage, drinking overpriced
drinks. This slave-market effect was heightened by the number that each boy
now had affixed to his briefs ― at the hip, so the bulge was still on
display. In this way, the punter could more easily make his choice known to
the staff: `A rum and coke, please, and boy No. 11.' (Although Thailand has
a reputation for sex tourism with underage boys and girls, I never saw or
heard of a boy `for rent' who was under-age, not even under seventeen years
of age. They very often looked much younger, but that is racial and solely
in the eye of the Western beholder. Their ID card and naked body said
otherwise.)
  So I sat watching the boys before me, as they in their amateur way danced
their `pole-dance' in their briefs and the Thai smile ― so ubiquitous it is
in Thailand, it means nothing. They'd just as readily smile at the sight of
a cute boy hanged, drawn, and quartered, as smile at a cute boy eating a
large ice-cream. What then had attracted me to my first love? Boyishness,
playfulness, and the smile in the eyes. Natural muscles are attractive, but
body-builder muscles and the much-lauded six-pack, I always loathed, as I
do hairiness. The Oriental's glabrousness is most attractive. And even
though some effeminate boys can be quite lovely, I have never fancied an
effeminate boy, for he is devoid of charm, being overly self-conscious ― of
his effeminacy.
  Watching the boys, I noticed one who was playing around and laughing. He
was slight of build, with delicate feet and hands, a delicate face with
pronounced Oriental slit eyes (which I adore), and his glossy black hair in
a pageboy cut ― very popular among Thai boys, the saucier ones having one
side cover one eye, seductively. Soon I gave his number to a waiter, who
spoke to the boy, who glanced over at me, and then disappeared from the
stage, to re-appear in a flowing turquoise silk shirt and his white briefs.
He stood at my table, hands behind his back, smiling like a shy child, as
if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth ― or anywhere else for that matter.
And I bade him sit beside me. He ordered a beer, and in standard go-go boy
manner sat on the edge of the sofa, with his hand on my upper thigh. (It's
supposed to make the punter think the boy desires him.) He spoke a modicum
of broken English, in a boyish voice, and was gorgeous, oh, so gorgeous. I
stopped looking at the boys on the stage and gloated. His eyes turned to
mine, and demurely he allowed me to gaze worshippingly at his fine
features. Then he smiled and pretended to shield himself from my eyes with
his hand, eventually to brush back his lock of hair and look away, rubbing
my thigh. His name was Ai, he said, as in `Ai Cleeem'. We had a brief
exchange by which I understood that it was `Ice Cream' pronounced in Thai.
He grinned bashfully when I used English pronunciation, but it wasn't as
sweet as Ai Cleeem was it? So I adopted the Thai pronunciation. (When he
became more fluent in English, he told me many Thais had English words for
their nickname.) He was nineteen years of age, although he looked at most
fourteen. I asked to `take off' this exquisite lad, and he disappeared
again, to return fully dressed. Little black booties and pale tight jeans
completed his outfit. With his broken English, we very soon ran out of
platitudes to exchange, so I paid for the drinks and `take off' fee, and we
left. We took a tuk-tuk (three-wheeler taxi) to my hotel in silence (again
his hand on my upper thigh), and I got my key. The concierge didn't bat an
eyelid ― I don't know that in Thailand they ever do.
  We got into the lift, where another `farang' (Thai nomenclature for
Western foreigner) was waiting with two pretty Thai girls. They all smiled
as my boy and I walked in. The lift ascended, and one of the girls asked
us: `Where you go?' My boy smiled daintily and I reddened and everyone
burst out laughing. (Later I learned that this is the Thai way of greeting
someone, just as we might say `How do you do?') Still grinning, we got off
at my floor, and I followed him to my room. The hotel was fairly smart,
with my room overlooking the sea, and when he walked in, he said: `Velly
nai loom (Very nice room).' He wasn't anything if not well mannered. He
didn't smoke and declined a drink from the mini-bar, but I took one, and
sat down, and had a smoke. He sat on my lap, light as a young boy, his arm
round my neck, smiling demurely as I caressed him. Then he got up and
declared he was going to have a `sha-wuuur (shower)'. He removed his shirt,
and then modestly wound a bath towel round his waist before he removed his
jeans and underpants. Face impassive, he hung his clothes up carefully in
the cupboard. and then went into the bathroom and closed the door. He
emerged with damp hair, wearing the bath towel round his waist, and I went
in to have a shower.
  I emerged to find he had turned all the lights out except one at the far
bedside and was lying in the double-bed, under the sheets, with a smile on
his face. In my white CK's, I slipped in beside him, not sure what to do. I
studied the sweet face beside me. He scooted over, his mouth on mine, and
his hands in my crotch. We snogged as he fondled me to almost immediate
oozing hardness, and I let my hands slide down his boyish body and fondle
his naked bottom. Small and smooth and bouncy, his cock barely a handful. I
pulled back the sheet and studied him further. A little triangle of shiny
black pubes, and a perfect cock with symmetrical testicles. Like a boy's,
they didn't hang, but were snug in their pouch. Greedily, I mouthed his
genitalia and then commenced to suck his cock.
  Last time round, I had feasted on my boy's sperm as he came in my mouth,
but now they said such pleasures were perilous. After feasting on Ai
Cleeem's crotch for quite a while, I didn't bring him to his climax but
pulled up again, and we snogged. And Ai Cleeem went down on me but not for
long. With a smile, he asked for a condom. I got one out of the bedside
table, and then he asked for `Kay-Whyyyy'. No novice to the game, it
seemed, and I handed him the blue and white tube from Boots. Gleefully,
even playfully, he pulled off my briefs, and expertly rolled the condom
onto my cock, lathered it with K-Y, all the time glancing at me with a
impish grin. My cock is by no means small, but he seemed unperturbed. He
lathered some K-Y on his anus and then manoeuvred his nimble body over me
and tried to spear himself. But the condom numbed me, and my cock had lost
its hardness. Ai Cleeem stroked it trying to make it hard again, but to no
avail. I simply couldn't maintain an erection with a condom on. (When
people appear to have intense sexual sensations while wearing a condom,
it's mere pretence. Even if one's mother didn't have one mutilated as an
infant, and one has that natural hyper-sensitivity below and about the
corona of one's cock, the sensations are severely dulled by a condom ― it's
unavoidable. If one's mother did have one mutilated, of course, it's even
worse ― the sensitive skin has already become desensitized because it
hardens. That's why American porn stars are so forceful when they engage in
sodomy, in an effort to get some strong sensations. It looks quite
barbaric, even farcical.)
  Ai Cleeem was undeterred by my condom-induced impotence. Still grinning
merrily, he pulled off the condom, and grabbed the K-Y again. He was going
to spear himself bareback. Again, I don't like K-Y, so I gave him the jar
of Vaseline that I had in the bedside drawer. Grinning impishly, he fondled
my balls, and lathered Vaseline on my cock, and it grew completely hard
again. Grinning, he manoeuvred himself over my crotch again, I held it
upright, he flared his buttocks with his hands, and eased himself onto my
cock. There was resistance, and then in one go and without a squeak, he
sank down. The sudden envelopment of heat and tightness made me gasp. I
felt as if I would come at once. I could barely believe it ― my rather
large cock inside that little bottom, and so fast. I ran my fingers down to
his anus, and sure enough, it was all inside. His buttocks touched my inner
thighs. He embraced my neck with one arm, and began to snog me, his locks
tickling my face, and I embraced his waist. So slight he was, so smooth,
and so hot and tight his arse. His other hand, Oh Lord of Lords, went down
between my thighs, and he fingered my anus. He pulled his mouth away, and
began gleefully to slide up and down my cock, as if it were a game. The
friction and heat was acute, and almost at once, I felt the prickle of an
orgasm at the bottom of my spine. He said, `I cum, I cum!' as I commenced
on a most exquisite orgasm. It felt as if my heart was being wrenched from
its cavity. The sperm shot through my urethra with such force it burned,
and so much of it, it was as if I was urinating. All into Ai Cleeem's
little bottom. I groaned as if on the rack, my heart hammering in my
breast, as with slighter convulsions, I ejaculated the final dribs into his
bowels. Then I rested my head on his shoulder, panting. He was still
fingering my arse. Like a true Oriental, he had made not a sound throughout
― not even audible breathing. I, like a true Occidental barbarian, had
huffed and puffed and moaned and groaned. I looked up at his pretty face,
those Oriental eyes watching me with impassive grace like an idol, and we
kissed. It was he who'd been penetrated yet it was not he who'd been
ravished, oh no, it was I who'd been ravished, transported by this naughty
man-child. As I sat there, leaning my head on his shoulder, my arms about
his waist, fingering those divine little buttocks, I thought this must be
how a girl feels when she's been ravished by the man she desires. (I didn't
know that a boy too may feel this way after he's been ravished by the man
he desires.) The sort of thing one reads about in racy novels. Soon, my
cock withered and slipped out of his little bum. He rose from my embrace
and ran into the bathroom.
  I wanted us to bathe together, to wash his lovely body, to feel his
delicate hands on mine, but he closed the bathroom door behind him. So I
forewent that pleasure. (I have never understood why some punters think
they are lord and master merely because they're paying.) When he emerged in
his towel, I had my shower, and returned to find him under the sheet, on
his side of the bed, with his back to me. So, no cuddling either, not even
pretend cuddling. I was disappointed, and then again, he rose even further
in my estimation. No need to prostitute oneself more than necessary, yet no
need to be rude. I liked his tactics, somewhat like Tolstoy's daughter
Aleksandra. She said something to the effect that a woman who makes love
should discard her modesty with her clothes, and only put it back on when
again she gets dressed.
  Next morning, Ai Cleeem came out of the bathroom again in his bath towel.
I had already bathed and shaved, and was sitting on the bed in clean CK's,
drinking a Milo. I beckoned him over, and he indulged me by sitting on my
lap again. He sniffed my aftershave, `Velly nai', and I got up and applied
some on his beardless face. He embraced me, and we snogged, his mouth fresh
with toothpaste. He undid his towel and put my hand down into his lap. He
was hard. We were soon embracing in bed, and I sucked his lovely little
cock, rubbing it in my face. He reciprocated after a fashion, and then
again we kissed, and I motioned him to roll over onto his stomach. He
rolled over, and there in the soft morning light, his lovely buttocks,
small, smooth, and springy. I covered his thighs with light kisses, then
his buttocks, and parted them carefully, as if opening a priceless casket
of even more priceless jewels. A small tuft of black hair above his anus
gave evidence of his age, but the sleekness and springiness of his
buttocks, and the light rose of his anus, gave the lie. I spread his legs
further, and then delirious with desire, I feasted on his rosy anus,
blushing fresh, smelling faintly sweet of soap and even more sweet of boy.
Alternately, I ran my mouth up and down the silken divide, and kissed those
satin buttocks. He gave not a squeak, not a sigh, not a single indication
that he in any way enjoyed my anal devotions. So a frisson of delight, nay,
of gratitude, ran through me, when he eventually reached back and ran his
hand round and round in my hair, indicating pleasure. But it seemed
deliberate rather than reflexive; not a spontaneous reaction but a
considered gesture, an act of politeness.
  I wanted never to stop, but eventually my tongue got tired. I rubbed my
lips round and round on his anus, up and down between his buttocks, and
then moved up and kissed his back. Without a word, without even a glance,
he handed me the Vaseline. I knelt behind him, as I lathered my cock with
Vaseline. He rose onto his hands and knees, his page-boy locks concealing
his face. I lathered his anus, and eased a finger inside. He must've been
at the receiving end of dozen's of men's cocks, if not hundreds of them,
yet he was tight. Perhaps the voluptuous Mama Sang transvestite who was in
charge of the boys taught them all sorts of tricks, like geisha boys, who
know how to maintain a tight arse, in spite of regular onslaught.
Well-lubricated and agog, I pressed my corona in between those two little
buttocks. It was difficult to believe. That exquisite boy naked before me,
offering himself, leaning on his hands, his head down and beautiful hair
hanging like curtains, his exquisite little arse and my big cock. Press,
press, and then sucked into his hot rectum. Tight, tight, hot, hot, and so
narrow his hips in my hands. Gently, I began to slide back and forth,
watching my cock distort his anus, so tight, and then he swung contrariwise
― slap ― slap ― slap. And it was mere minutes before I had another
heart-wrenching paroxysm. Gasping out aloud, I spurted and spurted and
spurted into Ai Cleeem's bottom, and then breathless I leaned over his
little body and embraced him, moaning as I rubbed my face in his smooth
back. I reached down and fondled his genitals, his cock stiff as a steel
spring.
  Once I'd regained my breath, I leaned onto my heels, and pulled him over
so he sat with his back to me, spiked on my lap. I kissed his neck and
nuzzled his hair as I masturbated his little boner. In absolute silence, we
watched my fingers slide his foreskin back and forth over his rosy glans,
my cock still swollen inside him, my face in his hair. It wasn't long
before we watched him spurt onto my fingers, and not a sound. How I wanted
to lick my fingers clean of his warm sperm, but made do with rubbing my
thumb round and round on his soapy corona. He turned his face and looked at
me with some bemusement, as if to say, `Why do you go on?' And winsomely,
he protested: `Finis!' He'd spurted, he'd done his duty, he'd finished, so
I too had to finish. So quietly he'd uttered that one word, as if boyishly
unaware of my infatuation ― like a schoolboy being tossed off, with no
notion of love. The way he said it, winsomely, one word that appeared to
sum up the intense intimacy we had just shared, made it seem almost
magical, and as long as I remember him, so long shall I never forget that
innocent utterance. (As I later discovered, he wasn't at all the innocent
schoolboy, but was very well aware of my infatuation. He wanted to
discourage it, wanted to keep things purely businesslike. It turned out I
was not the first farang to become infatuated with him.)
  The idol had spoken, so reluctantly I disengaged, and he raised his pert
little arse free of my cock, which still engorged slid out. So
disproportionately long and big compared to where it had been, my cock was
covered in a thick layer of sperm. Ai Cleeem looked down at the glistening
monster, glanced at me, and stepped over to the window and looked out ― a
nude, delicate figure. Like Donatello's statue of David, he stood with hand
on hip, the embodiment of beauty, although he was the slim adolescent
rather than Donatello's child David. Ai Cleem's sleek nudity, the little
buttocks, and even the glorious erection with corona partly concealed by
his foreskin, radiated boyish innocence, rather like the first wet dream.
His smile was almost imperceptible and belied his arousal. His cock was not
merely swollen, it stood at a 70-75 ° angle. He had just completed a cycle
of rhythmical penetration deep into his bowels, had received a large dose
of sperm, and had then been tossed off, yet he remained completely hard
throughout ― with no change in his arousal. (When the cock remains
unmutilated, the state of full arousal means it stands right up, parallel
with the stomach, even curving inwards because of pressure, maintained by
the brace-like hold of the frenulum. There is no big difference to be seen
in the aroused boy who is lying down and the one who is standing up, merely
an inch or so of space between the corona and the stomach of the latter.
This is impossible once mutilation has taken place, and one sees the cock
stand at a pitiful 45 ° angle, like an old man, because the brace has been
sliced away. Ancient Greek statues and images of youths have the version of
the intact foreskin.)
  I entered the bathroom, with semi-hard cock swinging, careful not to
spill anything. How I wanted to embrace him again, the pliant boy, and how
I wanted us to bathe together, but we were finis for now. When I emerged
from the bathroom, a new thrill ran through me, because there he was still
standing at the window, in the exact same state of captivating nudity and
arousal. He had stood at that window for maybe ten minutes and his cock was
still completely stiff. Nineteen years old.
  He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, to emerge
again, with damp hair and a bath towel round his waist. He undid the towel
only when he had pulled on his briefs and jeans. He dressed, combed his
hair before the mirror, checked his pretty face for blemishes, waited
graciously for me to remember to pay him, gave me a peck on the lips, and
was gone. Impeccable almost stylized manners, impeccable honesty, after the
most intense lovemaking I had ever experienced. I was smitten.
  The next night, I returned to the go-go bar, my tongue hanging out. He
appeared at once at my table in his little white underpants, smiling
winsomely. He sat down and told me quite cheerfully that he was going home
to Bangkok that very night for a few days ― Mummy's orders. I said I'd take
him `off' for the few hours that remained, and quivered with dismay as I
waited for him to get dressed, my eyes brimming. He allowed me to take him
to my room, and allowed me to kiss him, and allowed me to pull down his
jeans and his little white briefs and suck his cock and his lovely little
anus. He did not get an erection, and said about his penis: `He sleep.' I
didn't even undress or demand caresses. I paid Ai Cleeem as if we had made
full-fledged love, and then he was gone, and I fell back on the bed in
tears. Desolate. His last words were: ``Too muts luv! No good!' Too much
love, indeed.
  I had a few days left, and stayed at the hotel, without taking `off'
anyone else. How could I? And on the second day, he called me from home. We
had a sweet chat in broken English. He asked me if I was coming to Bangkok,
and I told him I was coming the next day. He asked me to call him, gave me
his number, and rang off.

I BAD BOY
  Overjoyed, I went to Bangkok, checked into an hotel, and rang him. My
flight was late at midnight. He said he'd come at once. I bathed and placed
the Vaseline on the bedside table. No condoms. The reception telephoned to
tell me I had a visitor, and I went down to receive him. There he was,
delicate as a boy, smiling his sweet smile, with a bunch of flowers for me.
He had to show them his ID card and be registered, and then we went
upstairs to my room, he quite blasé about the grand surroundings. He sat on
my lap on the sofa and we kissed. He declared he'd take a shower and this
time stripped down to his white underpants before going into the bathroom
and closing the door. How I loved the Thai insistence of cleanliness.
  Soon we were snogging under the sheets, I slobbered over his genitals,
and then rolled him over, so I could savour his arse, he again indicating
his pleasure by mussing my hair with a hand. Once my face was covered in my
own saliva, and there was a wet patch on the sheet, I turned him over and
wiped my face on the upper sheet. He sat up, reached for the Vaseline, and
slathered it onto my cock, grinning as he did so. Then he reached behind
him to apply some to his arse. And then carefully, he speared himself,
watching me as he eased his hot, tight rectum down to envelop my large
cock. This time, he gave a barely audible sigh as he descended. He placed
his arms about my neck and we snogged, and then he slid up and down. One
hand went between my thighs, again to finger my arse. As before, I lasted
little more than a minute, maybe even less. I was utterly overcome by
piercing sensations ― his angelic face pressed against mine, his hair
tickling my face; his tender mouth upon mine; his willowy body in my arms;
his little buns in my hands, my cock sliding in and out between them; and
the tight grip of his sphincter and the burning heat of his buttersmooth
rectum. A bouquet of sensations. Again I pulsed what felt like a pint of
sperm into his bum, my heart beating in my chest, and a voluptuous frisson
tearing at my spine, from my coccyx to my brain. And then we were still, I
puffing like a marathon runner, clutching him tightly in my arms. I pulled
away and looked at him. He was smiling winsomely, still fingering my anus.
I watched his face as I tossed him off, but he became bashful, and looked
down: `No look, no look!' So we both looked down, his hair brushing my
face, as he spurted, again giving an almost inaudible sigh. This time, when
I rubbed the sperm round and round, he chuckled. And then I kissed his
cheek, and he disengaged.
  This time I did wash him. He smiled: `Like babee'. But he didn't wash me,
almost diffidently not. When we were both presentable, I was thrilled to
see him study the restaurant menu and over the phone order our dinner, and
then sit beside me, eating daintily, in his tight jeans and horrid little
black booties. He would have no coffee, but willingly sat on my lap as I
drank coffee and smoked, caressing his head gently, pressing my arm about
his slender waist, pressing my face against his ears and hair. And he
accompanied me to the airport. Let me hold his hand in the tuk-tuk, helped
me check in, and then we had a mineral water in a bar.
  He gave me a photograph of himself, standing by a tree in a flowering
bush in a park, wearing jeans and a pink polo shirt, with the innocent
smile of a blameless life. Smirking, he showed me a small stash of this
photograph: `I bad boy.' He marketed himself to worthy farang punters. He
asked for my address, and I wrote it for him in a small book, where he
showed me he had other addresses: England, Germany, Holland, Brazil, no one
from the States or Canada. `They love me', he announced with a smile: `I
bad boy.' They'd return and take him `off' for a week or two, or even a
month, lots of fun, fuc-king, and good money. Money to support his two
little sisters. His family had been fairly prosperous, with travels abroad
to Singapore, China, and Taiwan, but then his father got himself a
mistress, and then he became a drug addict, so now times were hard. Ai
Cleeem had no education, so to support his family, he turned to
prostitution. `No good', he said, `No good.' But he paid for his sisters'
upkeep and schooling, and contributed towards the household. Sometimes, he
even bought drugs for his addicted father. The strong sense of duty in Thai
society taken to its logical conclusion. I gave him a large gift of money,
and then we parted. I would return like the other men who loved him.
  Given that if I just turned up, he might be away with one of his
regulars, he `booked' himself to be ready and waiting for me at a certain
date, to be taken `off' for two weeks. At once, I proposed for him to come
to England and live with me, to study English, and go through English
schooling, to enable him to get a really good job in Thailand, maybe in the
hotel business. He was very doubtful that he had the ability, but I was
pretty confident that he could if motivated. The motivation was lacking,
due to lack of confidence, and because he quite openly told me that even
though I was `good man', he didn't love me. He said I was `bore', which I
probably was by his standards. Even as a teenager, I had loathed
discothèques, and found no pleasure in endless shopping and eating in
restaurants and sightseeing, which is what any self-respecting `farang'
did, and in Thai eyes was supposed to do. I decided to let all the love
therefore be on my side, and please myself by giving him the opportunity to
improve his chances in life. He was most reluctant, and discussed it at
length with his mother. Eventually, with he pressing, he agreed to give it
a try. She had begun a money-lending business, and was doing quite well. So
even without his contributions, they would manage. She was in fact, very
unhappy about her son's prostitution, and very keen for him to get a better
chance in life, no doubt with ulterior motives. She persuaded him to give
it six months and see what happened. I'd send his mother an allowance every
month for his sisters, whom he was more concerned about than himself. And
the following summer, about a year after I'd met him, he came to live with
me in London.
  When he arrived, he insisted that even though I gave him a room of his
own, he would sleep in my bed, and our lovemaking continuing. As usual,
there was no lovey-dovey cuddling, although there was occasional pillow
talk, but only after we'd turned out the lights. Very quickly, his English
improved so much that he could express himself quite well. And every now
and then, he would quietly tell me about how bad he was. `Too muts
fucking', with the stress on `king' ― fuc-king. `I am a bad boy.' It
bothered him that he had allowed so many men to penetrate him, and that he
enjoyed it. He wasn't in the least inclined towards the `lady boy' type,
yet he enjoyed being the passive partner. And that wasn't very macho, was
it? He wasn't happy being homosexual, for he was neglecting his duty as a
son, to provide his mother with grandchildren. So underneath that dignified
mien, underneath that stylized courtesy and honesty, was an insecure and
not very happy young man. He still looked fourteen but was now twenty.
  He came on a student visa, and was registered with a leading language
school in Piccadilly, to learn English, and eventually take the Cambridge
Certificate of Proficiency in English. And, of course, he was diligent, and
as I had anticipated, he was clever at learning. But I was dismayed to find
he continued to lack confidence. Ever so often, on the dark pillow, he
would complain about feeling humiliated in the presence of the other
students, because of his dark history.
  When he opened his heart to me in this way, he'd let me hug him, and I'd
try to talk him out of his bad humour. It was past, I'd tell him again and
again, past and over. He'd done it for his sisters' sakes, which was noble.
He'd enjoyed it, so what? And I'd list all his fine qualities to him:
clever, honest, clean, polite, kind, thoughtful, etc., I'd emphasize how
kind he was to me, even though he didn't love me. And he'd listen in
silence, stroking my arm gently, without thinking about it. And he'd
whisper: `Why you love meee? Why? Why you look after meee? I am bad boy.
You good man, but you crazeee man too.' And I hugged him more. The only
thing that seemed to make any lasting impression was when I reminded him of
the monk under ‬The Buddha who had been a murderer and the nun who'd been a
courtesan for many years. They'd both put their past behind them and become
enlightened. I reminded him that according to ‬The Buddha there is no soul
forever tainted with the evil one has done, that according to ‬The Buddha
one can cover the evil one has done with good. He had never killed anyone
or stolen from anyone, he never told lies and didn't get drunk or take
drugs. So he enjoyed being buggered up the arse, but boys had enjoyed that
for millennia. It was a physical thing. The arse was an erogenous zone.
According to convention the passive partner wasn't a real man but that was
just politics, like when the white man said the noble Oriental was a
savage. Being homosexual wasn't something to be proud of, I explained, but
it wasn't something to be ashamed of either. Many great men had been
homosexuals, and many homosexuals were very good men, far more beneficial
to society than a great many heterosexual men. And I worked in this way to
unravel his Oriental conditioning, medieval as it was. We went over this
again and again, in the dark, his understanding improving as his English
improved, and eventually, those moods became a rarity. When he did mention
his past `sins' now, it was with a smirk: `So muts fuc-king! Too muts!' I
never probed, however, and he never volunteered any details. I would never
know how it had all begun, I would never know anything about his other
punters, and I didn't mind. Telling me was his prerogative.
  Even though he didn't love me, we did make love. His favoured procedure
was `lim-ming' (rimming with stress on `ming') and `fuc-king', but not a
word, not a squeak while I slurped and then moaned and groaned. Afterwards,
I'd give him a blowjob or a handjob. He liked to snog as I wanked him. We
both had ourselves tested and were both clean, so now I drank greedily when
he came in my mouth, or licked his cum off my fingers or his, or off his
face or his body. At first, he'd watch me delight in his cum, with Oriental
inscrutability. Then he began to smile indulgently, and eventually he
played along. One of our sweetest rituals was for him scoop up his cum with
his fingers, call it love cream (in Thai, it is called `love fluid), and
let me suck his fingers clean. `Babee like luv cleeem? Babee wan more luv
cleeem? Vellee naughtee babee, like vellee nai boy luv cleeeem!' But the
greatest thrill was when he laughed out loud, as if he'd forgotten himself.
And more and more, he'd become playful, walking around in the nude, an
absolute taboo before. Even so, we'd sleep apart, no cuddling, although
he'd sit in my lap, with his arm demurely round my neck, and he'd kiss me
on the lips when he left for school and when he returned. I'm pretty sure
it was to please me rather than to please himself. He did try to please me
as much as he could. It was always a stroke of my face and a kiss on the
mouth: `You good man. You take care of meee.'
  When I asked him why he that first time had let me bugger him without a
condom, he smiled and stroked my ear. `You are not like the other farang.
You like sek (he still couldn't say `sex') but you same schoolboy, no
experience ― no sek, no Aids.' And he kissed me on the mouth. `You like
fuck the boy, but you don't like the boy fuck you. So no Aids.' How did he
know? `You love Ai Cleeem, Ai Cleeem has small dick. You love Ai Cleeem's
small dick. If you like boy fuck you, you wan boy have big dick, no?' Out
of the mouth of babes and sucklings.
  Happily, he was as averse to lollygagging as I was, and there was nothing
at all `gay' about his apparel, his appearance, his walk, or anything
external. `I don't like lady boy.' At the same time, he insisted that
everyone could see he was my `sek boy', `take-off boy'. So we tried to make
him look less nubile, by getting him a pair of glasses. Black ones, really
nerdy. He liked wearing his nerdy glasses, said they made him look like a
professor. They did make him less dishy, at the same time they made him
ever so cute. Eventually, of course, I told him so, and explained the
meaning of cute. He studied himself in the mirror, and twirled round. `I
cue?'
  One day, after he'd learned how to turn something `on', to have something
`on', I told him about Marilyn Monroe's being asked if it was true that he
she had been photographed for a calendar with nothing on, and the answer
was: `It's not true I had nothing on, I had the radio on.' And he got it
immediately and was tickled pink, and then a new ritual. He'd tiptoe in,
stark naked except for his glasses. I'd pretend not to see and ask: `Do you
have nothing on?' And he'd jump in front of me and answer: `I've got my
glassez on.' And he'd laugh out loud, `I've got my glassez on', and onto my
lap all nude and kittenish and hug and kiss me. Not a few times, this led
to a romp, his glasses falling off as he rocked. As his English improved,
and he began to read and write English, so did his ingenuity improve. Now,
he'd sometimes tiptoe in and touch my hand or my face with the tip of his
erection. `Do you have nothing on?' `I've got an electi-on! An electi-on!'
And loud laugh and he'd press my face to his stomach, and jump naked onto
the kitchen top or my desk or the back of the sofa, pull my head into his
lap, and give suck to my adoring lips, mussing my hair all the while.
Silently, he'd ejaculate and I'd gulp it down, and he'd whisper down into
my ear, `I got an ejacurati-on'. At times like these, when he let go, I
almost imagined that he loved me, and probably he did in some kindly way.

WHY NO?
  As previously agreed, he went home for Christmas. When was he returning?
Very quietly he said not sure. I gave him an open ticket. He looked almost
apologetic when he kissed me good-bye, and when he looked back, he looked
sheepish, my idol, my prince. He left me in a sparkle, for my eyes were
full of tears. I was sure he wasn't coming back, but for fear of hurting me
didn't want to tell me. He never pretended to love me, but he always tried
not to hurt me. That made me love him even more, of course. He was to call
me when he decided to return. He looked down and nodded almost
imperceptibly when I said so.
  I returned to the flat as the husband returns from his beloved wife's
funeral, the father from his son's funeral, the elder brother from his
younger brother's funeral. The flat was as a sepulchre, the last resting
place of my love and hopes, echoing `Ai Cleeem is gone! Alone, alone!' I
spent my days weeping theatrically, feeling ever so sorry for myself. Slept
on his side of the bed, imagining it still smelt of him. A pair of his
underpants in the laundry basket became my rosary. Clean they were, as his
clothes always seemed to be, and almost odourless, but I sniffed and kissed
them, rubbing my face in them, wishing they were stained with his semen,
wishing he'd worn them for a month or more. In the shops, a few times, I
reached out for a bottle of vodka or gin, but withdrew my hand. Now I
couldn't bear preparing food for myself alone, so I ate all my meals out,
even breakfast. Friends were politely told I was busy and going away,
although that was a lie.
  After eight days, the phone rang late at night. Some emergency? My
granny? Click, click, and then a distant voice. `Helloooo, helloooo?' It
was he. Bangkok calling, Bangkok. The little prince calling his bondservant
in the darkest of night. `Hello? Ai Cleeem? Is that you my darling?'
Silence. `Hello? Are you all right, my darling?' Silence. And then his
little voice. He was returning in a week. Flight No. and ETA. No more,
except a long silence, and then just before he put down the receiver, `I
love youuu, I missss youuu.' Emphasizing the /s/ sound as I'd taught him. I
didn't sleep that night, I could barely sleep that week. What was going on?
He couldn't be returning for good. `I love you'? `I miss you'?
  I stocked up on rice and Thai condiments and spices, his favourite tea,
his favourite biscuits, scarlet carnations and scarlet roses and scarlet
tulips (all his favourite flowers) ordered for the day of his arrival. And
gifts. Neither of us celebrated Christmas, but gifts, what gifts? He'd lost
his black beret, he needed a real overcoat, we'd get him a proper suit,
good shirts, cuff-links, a leather jacket, he liked red, a red beret,
scarlet pyjamas to keep him warm, in slinky silken jersey, new shoes, I had
all his sizes, a hot water bottle, slippers, warm slippers, scarlet
slippers, he liked Trumper's sandalwood scent, and sandalwood soap, and
sandalwood shampoo, a warm dressing gown, a kimono, woollen with silk
lining so it didn't itch, ah, my darling was returning. But for how long?

  He emerged from behind a family of tanned Brits in shorts and T-shirts,
my love, my lovely, lovely love. He was looking for me, wearing his
glasses, a navy-blue blazer, pearl-grey trousers, white shirt, and his
favourite scarlet tie. His hair was the same but newly cut, like a
schoolboy. He looked like a schoolboy. He saw me and smiled. Let go of the
trolley and ran. Ai Cleeem, my prince of reserve, ran up to me, reached up
and threw his arms around my neck, squeezing me hard. Jumped up and clasped
my waist with his thighs and squeezed me again, hanging onto me like a
monkey. Not a word as usual, but a smile so tender it brought tears to my
eyes, and were his lovely slitty eyes really moist? He pressed his face
into my neck and squeezed again, and then he jumped down like a boy, and
stood before me beaming.
  `I am schoo-boooy. You like? You like schoo-boooy?' He'd done it for me.
He'd dressed up as a schoolboy for me. Twirled round, smirked as he raised
the back of his blazer and showed me his little bum in those light
trousers. `You like?' I was all of a tremble and speechless, almost in
tears. He ran back to his trolley and came bounding towards me.
  In the taxi, he took my hand into his lap, caressed it, rubbed it against
the erection inside his light trousers, smiled at me, checked the driver
couldn't see, looked out of the window, smiled at me again, and again out
of the window, smiling and rubbing, smiling and rubbing. My dignified
prince, my idol, had become a bubbly schoolboy. By the time we arrived
home, I was burning with love and lust in equal measure.
  He ran into his room with his hand luggage, I chained the door, and then
followed with his suitcase. I put it down and we stood watching each other.
He was beaming and I was quivering. He took my hand and made me sit on the
little sofa, sat contrariwise on my lap, arms round my neck, and kissed me
― snogged me, snog, snog, snog, his hands mussing my hair, his hard-on
rubbing my stomach, his bottom rubbing my hard-on. Then he stood up and
thrust forth his narrow hips.
  `Open, you open.' Like a Christmas present. I undid his cheap black belt,
unhooked his trousers, and let them fall. Oh Lord of Lords, he was wearing
white schoolboy briefs with a fly. He stood with hand on hip like
Donatello's David in underpants, but aroused.
  `You like? You like schoo-boooy brief? You like? Robinson, I buy for
youu. For youuuuu!' He'd been to the Robinson department store in Bangkok
to get them, just for me. And he bent over and again kissed me. I pulled
him to me and rubbed my face in his crotch. His schoolboy erection in
innocent briefs; the cotton soft and warm; I caressed his little
cotton-clad bum; manoeuvred his cock out of the fly, then his scrotum, oh,
what a sight. Rubbed my face in his sleek genitals, kissed them, licked
them, and proceeded to suck gently, gently, the smooth corona, the whole
thing, his hands on my head. Then I swivelled him round and buried my face
in his arse. Soft white cotton, springy buttocks, I burrowed my nose into
the hollow. Sweet-scented arsehole, and he stretched out a leg, pulled
aside the hem of his briefs, all the way across, so his anus was exposed.
Pulled apart his buns, exposing the little tuft of hair and the pucker. He
relaxed his anus so it was slightly agape. Feverishly, I kissed the rosy
rim, and sucked and probed, he pressed back against my mouth, and I moaned
as I ate him out. He climbed up onto the sofa, onto his knees, his trousers
round his ankles, and I sat behind him. I pulled out my handkerchief to
soak up any saliva that might drip onto the sofa, and continued to snog
that glistening arsehole, whoozy with the balm of his bum.
  `You fuck mee.... fuck meee!' He said it very quietly, and I kept on
snogging as I undid my trousers and pulled them down, and then my cock and
scrotum out through the fly in my CKs. We were going to do this real
schoolboy style, both dressed, still wearing our underpants.
  I was dripping pre-cum, so Vaseline was unnecessary. I rubbed my corona
against his anus, lathered his anus with pre-cum. I pulled his underpants
further to the side and held them there, and then pushed. It wouldn't go
in. I pressed out more goo. He eased back and I eased forth, and I slid all
the way into his tight heat. And then he began quietly to rock backwards
and forwards, his glossy hair swinging like curtains, and the flaps of his
shirt and his schoolboy blazer, his buns slapping onto my hips. Soundlessly
now, because we still had our briefs on. My hands on his cotton-clad hips,
my glistening cock in and out through the leghole in his white underpants,
and in between those adorable buns. I leaned over his willowy body and
sucked his little ears, he turned and we snogged. `You cum, you cum', and I
picked up speed, and then I groaned and squirted into his hot rectum. Was
this love? All my faculties gathered into this one boy, and all adoring. I
clasped him round the waist and hugged him, my face pressed against the
back of his head. His cock as a steel spring.
  `You sit, pleas.' I sat back onto the sofa, and with his back to me, he
sat spiked on my lap, leaning back, his head on my shoulder. `Kiss, kiss.'
And he turned his face and we snogged and I tossed him off. Together, we
made him shoot into the palm of his hand. Then he held up his hand and I
licked it clean. `You like schoo-booy ai cleeem. Schoo-booy ai cleeem velly
tastee, yess?' (His Oriental pronunciation was such an important ingredient
of his fairy-tale quality, that I didn't actually want him to learn how to
speak Standard English.) When he was done, he squeezed the last globs out
of his corona and fed them to me, and `Finis!' We both laughed out loud,
and he stood up, releasing my glistening cock. I spread his buttocks, and
there, his glistening anus with a tiny lustrous bead in the centre, and I
laved it with my tongue, his hand on the back of my neck, pressing my face
into his arse. Then he was clean, and he turned round. Dishevelled hair,
bowtie awry, steel-hard cock standing out of the fly in his white schoolboy
underpants, smooth bare legs, his pearl-grey trousers entangled about his
ankles and black socks. `Fuc-king finis, arse cleeen, now schoo-booy go
back to crass!' And he laughed out loud, and we laughed out loud. And he
fell into my arms. I kneeled down and laid him over my shoulder, held up my
trousers with one hand, and carried him into my bedroom, my hand on his
bum. He giggled and slapped my bottom in protest, as I pulled back the
bedspread, pulled back the oversheet and laid him onto the bed. Still
dressed, but with trousers down, we kissed and cuddled and drifted off to
sleep.
  That night, we had dinner at the Savoy, and then walked home for coffee.
It was an icy clear night, and he delighted in making `cigalette smoke'
with his breath. No headgear on, his head was cold and his little ears
hurt, so I gave him my hat. Oversize, pushing down his little ears, but
adorable he looked, the little face underneath the wide brim, above his
scarlet cashmere scarf. But it didn't cover his ears, and soon he squeezed
my arm, `Too cole, too cole for mee', and we took a taxi the rest of the
way. I wrapped his head in my cashmere scarf, covering his ears, and rubbed
them. He was shivering as we entered the flat, and I told him to strip and
get into bed. I drew a hot bath, and unusually acquiescent, he sank into
the hot water. I let him soak, even replenished the hot water, and when he
declared he was boiling hot like a `robster', I washed his pliant body.
Being washed was something he had become accustomed to and formerly he had
often asked for it, and he always got hard. I rubbed his glans with soapy
hands until he squealed and then I rinsed him clean with the shower head.
Into the slinky new pyjamas and under the duvet. Dried his hair with the
drier and then brought hot chocolate. I took my own shower, put on my own
pyjamas, and then joined him in bed with my own hot chocolate.
  He'd finished and kissed me on the cheek for the umpteenth time. Then he
laid his head in my lap, glancing up at me with a smirk, as he pressed his
face against my hardening cock. Before I had finished my drink, he fished
out my cock and scrotum, and langorously mouthed them, watching me, smiling
sweetly, his dark eyes soft in their slits, filling me with unutterable
love.  When I had put my empty cup down, he sat up and slipped off his
pyjama bottoms, and then turned round, one knee on either side of my waist,
and stuck out his bottom, pressing his anus against my mouth. He knew what
I wanted. And now I rimmed him langorously, masturbating him gently, as he
fellated me langorously. He'd never done any such thing before. Long did we
made love, and his expertise made me sigh again and again. After what
seemed an eternity of ecstasy, I told him I was about to come. And for the
first time ever, he let me ejaculate into his mouth. But so tenderly had he
brought me to a climax, that my orgasm was delicate, almost magical. I
whimpered into his slippery arse and felt him lazily suck me dry. He turned
round, sat on my hips, and smirked: `Schoo-booy drik luv mik from
teachuur.' I was too full of tenderness even to smile, but drew him to me,
and he pressed his slippery mouth against mine. He was still hard as steel,
and I manoeuvred him round so he sat up in bed, leaning against the
headboard. Then I slid down and reciprocated, gently fingering his anus as
he always fingered mine, his thighs about my neck, his feet crossed on my
back. We exchanged glances as I pleased him, and again for the first time,
he whimpered as he spurted, filling my mouth with warm love milk. He
stroked my face as I gulped down his offering, and squeezed out what
remained for me to lap up.
  I laid my head on his stomach, and fell into a swoon of love, a swoon of
dreamy happiness. His thighs about my neck still, soft as sighs. His feet
were crossed on my stomach now, his genitalia pressed against my throat,
his pubes tickled, and his fingers played with my hair. `Velly sof, velly
sof.' He'd never been so loving ever before. And now, in the subdued light
of the one single bedside lamp on the far side, he told me what had brought
him back to London so quickly, his sweet voice speaking from above me.
  As he'd never concealed from me, he'd liked me, respected me as a `good
man', but he'd never loved me. `I velly stupid. Velly stupid.' And he
pinched my cheek gently. Then he resumed playing with my hair. He went home
with the intention not to return. There was nothing about our life in
London that he could fault. I'd given him everything he needed and more, I
was kind, thoughtful, and I was helping him get ahead in life, a promising
career. But I believed in him more than he believed in himself. He kept
that to himself, because even though he didn't love me, he didn't want to
disappoint me, because `You velly good to mee!' He liked our lovemaking,
but it was merely for the pleasure, and to make himself feel less guilty.
He was going to have a letter translated into English and send it to me, to
tell me that because he didn't love me, he couldn't live with me and enjoy
all my kindness, etc. It made him feel bad, ashamed, as if he was
exploiting my love for him. And he arrived at Bangkok airport full of
anticipation, but there was no one there to meet him. He took a tuk-tuk
home, to find his mother playing mah-jongg as always, with her friends. She
barely acknowledged his arrival, as if he had been away mere hours rather
than months. The TV was blaring, the women were babbling, and from next
door loud music was blaring too. His little sisters were in school, and he
was delighted when they came home. And then some of his friends turned up,
and everyone was babbling loudly and laughing and smoking and drinking Thai
whisky, and singing along to the loud Thai pop that was blaring, and the TV
blaring, and he was very happy. He was happy to eat his mother's food
again, to go to the market, to talk with his friends, and to hear his
mother tongue all about him. But it seemed no one gave a damn whether he
was there or not. And after three or four days, the incessant noise and
talking began to grate on him. Endless repetitions, idle speculation,
gossip, backbiting, and always the TV blaring in the background, and the
same loud, loud music, day in and day out. He recalled my quiet flat, my
quiet speech, our quiet life. How quiet it was all day, how we'd be
together and not talk, how the TV was so seldom on, how I'd never interrupt
him or anyone else, how thoughtful I always was (`You alway think of
meee!'), how I'd often accompany him to and from school, how I'd take him
out for treats and the cinema and theatre and sight-seeing, how I'd taken
him to the airport, and especially he recalled how I'd never impose myself.
So different it was from life with his mother, her voice always cutting
through the house (`Pain in my ear, pain!'), bossing people about, her
mouth forever on the go, most of it unnecessary, and never a moment's
respite. And then he missed my flat, he missed our life together, and he
missed me. He thought: `Why I no love you? Why no?' And he realized that
what he had thought was fun, the noise and babble, etc., was in fact what
was boring, and what he had thought was boring about me was in fact a good
life, an orderly and happy, peaceful life. And remembering how I loved him,
how sweet our lovemaking was (`Your fuc-king vellee nai'), he missed me,
and at night he dreamed a sweet dream about me, where we made love and
cuddled and kissed. And he woke up aroused and in love with me. All day, he
thought of me, and was even aroused by some of his thoughts. But he was
ashamed. (`Velly stupid!') How could he face me and admit his immense
stupidity? After a few days, he couldn't bear it anymore. He had to trust
me, he had to trust that I was there for him to love. That was surely what
I had always wished for. But he let a week pass, just not to seem too
babyish, and then he rang me. When he heard my voice, he could barely
speak. (`I wan to cly! Cly like babee!') So that was why his call had been
so abrupt. And then he could barely wait to return. He knew I loved his
boyishness, so he went out and bought schoolboy clothes ― a complete set of
schoolboy gym clothes, the khaki shorts that Thai schoolboys wear, and of
course, white schoolboy briefs.
  `You like?' And I kissed his belly button. Yes, I loved him dressed as a
schoolboy. It was an excellent present. And he slid down into the bed and
we watched each other, overflowing with sentimentality. He leaned over me
and turned out the light, and then we embraced, and for the first time
ever, we went to sleep in one another's arms, my nose in his hair, his nose
on my breast, both wearing our pyjama tops but not our bottoms, my big hand
on his succulent bum, his delicate hand on my genitals.
  Next morning, I woke up in the morning twilight. My love lay beside me,
his head and right hand on his pillow, facing me. I watched him with
devouring affection ― the lock of hair that covered his eye, those fine
lips, and the exquisite slit eyes.
  I got up to pass water and then climbed back into bed. Studied his body
under the sheet, before I pulled it up again. We were both still naked from
the waist down, his pubes black under the scarlet pyjama top, his cock
erect, the corona partly covered by its silken collar. I laid my face close
to his and studied him in detail. He raised his eyelids, made langorous eye
contact and again let his eyelids fall. Then he snuggled up close, rubbed
his flat little nose in my neck, and slipped his hand down between my bare
thighs. I could feel his eyelashes as again he raised his eyelids, his warm
nakedness lavish against mine.
  `Where you go?', he whispered.