I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy: Take Care

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Gay Bangkok

I want you to want me,
I need you to need me,
I’d love you to love me . . .

Whodathunk the lyrics of a popular American song from the late ‘70s would so aptly sum up one of the integral aspects in Thai/Farang relationships? Then again, that the tune was sung by Cheap Trick may be telling in its own way. To those whose sole pursuit is a warm crotch, cash is always king when it comes to dealing with a Thai. To those who are looking for an experience beyond an orgasm, figuring out what makes Thai guys tick is a pursuit of its own. Each guy is, of course, different. What one Thai is looking for out of life, or out of his relationship with a farang, can and does differ greatly from what is important to the next guy. But there are some traits all Thai men share. You could easily say the same thing of any nationality, but it holds true more so with Thais thanks to their culture. Thailand is a collectivist society, where like with The Three Musketeers it is all for one and one for all.

Even if it is difficult for the western mind, having been raised in an individualist society, to grasp what that really means, ignoring it is fraught with peril. To the Thai way of thinking it isn’t about you and/or me. It’s about us. And that us often includes at least half the rest of country. That causes a lot of problems in Thai/Farang relationships. Because far too often the farang only sees his giving. And fails to see that the Thai gives just as much if not more. If you allow him to.

Every relationship in the world is based on needs. And on satisfying those needs. For some, in a relationship’s highest form, it’s about needing to be loved. For others it’s about needing to love. There are a lot of aspects of a relationship that determine if it will be successful or not, but when a balance, or match, between those two needs exists you’ve always got a winner. Not that either is necessarily one-sided. Within the heart of most men there is both the need to be loved and the need to love. I suppose the same holds true for women, but trying to figure out the female mind is always a lesson in futility. As is failing to account for the workings of the mind of a Thai.

The key, and where I think many farang blow it by being too wrapped up in their personal neuroses, is in empathizing with the mind-set of the Thai guy you are attempting to have a successful relationship with. Because I too can be dense in matters of the heart, it has been a slow road to comprehending how thoroughly Thai nature impacts my relationship with Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life. That has been largely due to, for a change, not being guilty of that often repeated Thai phrase of, “ You tink too much!” but rather having tinked too little. It has been the little things he has said or done over the years that have clued me into what it is as a Thai he needs out of our relationship. And while the naysayers will always claim that’s money, it’s not.

Recently a poster on SGT started a thread questioning what it is that Thai guys think is important to a relationship with a farang, and what it is that they find attractive after you remove money and means from the equation. It was a good question, and an honest attempt at trying to define just what a Thai’s needs are in a relationship. Of course the usual group of disgruntled and disenfranchised immediately chimed in that it is always about baht. Which, for them, I’m sure it is. The OP listed a variety of possible considerations, most of them physical. Which can play a role (it is difficult to love someone who has such a complete disregard of his own self-worth that he smells like a pig sty 24/7) but seldom are the end all.

Ceejay offered the opinion that the Thai ideal of ‘taking care’ was an integral part of a relationship with a Thai, and noted that the English translation of this phenomenon really doesn’t do it justice. His is a spot on call. And serves to provide a basis to understanding both what a Thai needs from a relationship and why that cultural oddity fits, and entices, so many farang into a relationship with a Thai. For both it is about a need deep within them. And – bless us all there is hope for the human race after all – that need transcends from the me to the you and to the we. Cheap Trick managed to get it right, even if their goal was nothing more than snagging a Top 40s hit.

Noom makes his livelihood from having sex with visitors to Thailand. And yet his #1 complaint about those customers is that all they want is sex. Or as he puts it, “Sex, sex, sex, all time sex, sex, sex.” Um, hello? I thought that was what it is all about. Silly farang. To him, sex is just part of his service, and not the most important part. It is the physical part of him taking care of a customer. It is the physical part of him addressing a customer’s needs. But he knows that is not all they need. And can’t understand why they too don’t realize that.

He once told me about a customer who took him to Singapore for a few days. His customer had business there and decided to add some pleasure to the trip by taking Noom along. Nice, I thought, that Noom got to see Singapore while his customer was busy working and attending meetings during the day. But he didn’t. The customer was concerned that Noom’s tats would be viewed as gang markings and trouble would ensue. So Noom spent his entire trip in their hotel room. I expected him to be pissed that all he got to see was the inside of a Marriott. Wrong again Grasshopper. He greatly enjoyed his holiday and thought quite highly of his customer. The highlight of his visit, the part that really stuck with me (and took a year or two before it made sense), was that every morning Noom got up early and ironed the dress shirt his customer planned on wearing that day. Noom is a manly man. I never thought emulating a happy homemaker from the ‘50s would be his personal path to happiness.

Though that act too was physical in nature, it allowed Noom to take care of his customer’s need. It wasn’t the act of ironing shirts that brought him pleasure, but rather being allowed to do his part in providing for yet another of his customer’s needs. Many farang mistakenly believe that in a relationship with a Thai guy they are the benefactor, the source from which all blessings flow. That guy doesn’t see it that way. To him there is balance – a win/win if you need to put it into a more familiar form of reference – where both parties take care of the needs of the other. And where what either side has to offer is of no more importance than the other. Opening yourself to being cared for, which for a western man raised to be the provider is not as easy as it sounds, is key in a relationship with a Thai. Whoever thought that being needy would be the trick to having a successful relationship?

Thai culture, and society, is socialist in nature, if you will. It is a culture where everyone contributes to the well-being of the group, where everyone does their part in taking care of everyone else. The group benefits, as does each person within that group. It’s not something they consciously think about, it is an integral part of their nature. It is the it takes a village-based nature of how they are raised. You can see it in how they interact with their friends, co-workers, and family. And in a relationship, it is what they respond to. Provided you allow them to. Even when it is a need that you don’t realize you have, they try to fill it. They need to be needed to feel whole. Even though that mind-set is not how we are raised, it is surprisingly that so many farang fail to recognize the Thai need to be needed. Because for many of us, that desire to love is the very need that draws us into a relationship with a Thai.

Noom likes to repeat often that before I met him I was a butterfly. I like to repeat often that his saying that has more to do with him reconfirming his place and importance in my life than it does with my nature as a gay man on the prowl. No matter how true it is. But the first time he made that announcement was on our first night together. Before we’d even discussed extending our relationship beyond that night. He recognized both a need within me that I had not yet acknowledged to myself, and my ability to open myself to what he could, and needed, to offer. He’s a pretty sharp cookie. I’d teach him that Cheap Trick song; he would immediately comprehend the meaning behind its words if not the words themselves. But singing in key is not one of his talents. And one of my needs is not an evening of having him screech the Thai version of an American tune in my ear. But he probably knows that too.

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Gay Thailand

Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, considers his family mine and my family his. Even though I have met most of his and he has not met any of mine. Regardless, my parents and brothers have been adopted into his world and he makes sure on every visit I make to Bangkok to send his love to my father, while mom always gets some small gift he has picked up for her. Mom gets her tchotchkes, without comment. I’ve yet to tell my dad that there is a bar boy in Bangkok who loves him.

Years ago, before he even knew what it meant – and mostly to piss off my sister-in-law – I told my eldest nephew that when he was 18 I’d take him to Bangkok to get laid. Several years passed, and though he still wasn’t sure what getting laid was all about he was sure that the idea bothered his mother so at each birthday celebration he’d count down how many more years before his trip to the flesh pots of Thailand. When he hit puberty and girls no longer had cooties, his count down took on an urgency not previously displayed. And his mother found the whole thing even less funny.

My brother, remembering what it was like to be a teenager with raging hormones, bowed to the inevitable. His only caveat – knowing my sick sense of humor well – was that I not set his son up with a ladyboy. Unless that was what he wanted. And then my bro didn’t want to know about it. Not that he was necessarily jazzed to hear of any other developments either. Jake, my nephew, took that as a blessing and quickly altered ‘to when he was 18’ to “when he turned 18”. As in minutes counted. But then at 18 when you are talking about an orgasm, with someone else in the room for a change, minutes do count.

Jake’s 18th birthday fell a mere five days before Thanksgiving. His mom, thinking she was smarter than the average bear, said he could make his Thailand trip provided he was back home to spend the holiday with his family. Huh. A bit obvious. She doesn’t cook. And the only time they have a real Thanksgiving dinner is when I invite them over to my place. No problemo. Jake gave me a high-five and asked what day we were leaving.

I’ve accompanied a lot of newbies to Thailand over the years, and with a few minor adjustments for tastes, have a pretty standard plan of attack to ensure they get the full Bangkok experience. An 18-year-old is a different story. And a straight 18-year-old boy who is looking to have his cherry popped is a story of a totally different color. And it’s not pink. I was a bit stumped figuring that beyond booze and broads, the enticements of the Land of Smiles for that age and level of testosterone, was pretty thin. Noom felt otherwise. Once I told him he’d be meeting another one of his family members, and why, it was like watching a kid in a candy store. The plans came fast and furious.

For it being his first international trip, Jake took the plane ride with stoic resolve. His only question was whether if once we were in international airspace it’d be legal for him to drink. Kids. Whatchya gonna do. So I got him plastered. Rather than listen to him whine. Uncles. Whatchya gonna do. But it set the tone for the next few days; he got to drink all he wanted and I got to dispense with baby-sitting duties once he’d past out. The only glitch in that plan came from the disapproving parent, which took on the form of Noom. For the first time in our history together, I allowed him to met me at the airport. Not that I had much of a choice. He was so excited about meeting Jake and about beginning his duties as host I doubt if I could have kept him away. To say he was less than pleased with me thanks to the kid’s inebriated state when we got off the plane is putting it mildly. Uncles-in-law. Whatchya gonna do.

I’ve always been the cool uncle, largely due to having so few boundaries in life and a ready willingness to encourage, if not help, my nephews to misbehave. One look at Noom and Jake’s estimations of me skyrocketed. I got a high-five for that one too. Which had to suffice because by the time we’d loaded ourselves into a taxi he’d past out again. No problemo. At least he got to avoid listening to Noom scold me the entire trip into town.

Jake is a big kid, well over six feet tall with a football player’s build even though the only football he plays is in video games. Unfortunately for him for our first night in town he was still 17. He coulda passed, coulda drank to his little heart’s content, but fresh from having my ear chewed off I played the adult for a change and told him he’d have to wait for his birthday the next day. With all of Noom’s plans for a birthday party, a non-stop “whaddabout . . . whaddabout . . . whaddabout,” I shoulda let him drink. And joined him. Instead we headed to Noom’s bar so he could show off his new nephew.

I’ve got to give the kid credit. He’d flown half way around the world to drool over little Asian chicks with big tits and our first night in town was spent at a bar filled with not only naked, but hard little Asian guys instead. He took it in stride and even managed to have a good time. I rewarded him by ensuring his lap was not one of those singled out for an up close and personal visit by a pair of copulating Thai guys. The only negative comment he made was during the Big Cock Show! when he leaned over and whispered, “Um, that’s not very big.”

We made an early night of it, at least Jake did. I got to spend several more hours once back in our hotel room listening to Noom plan Jake’s birthday for him. I finally convinced him that while a cake would be a nice gesture, and a party at his bar overkill, that what the kid really wanted was pussy. We finally agreed a shopping trip to MBK the next day so he could pick out a gift from Noom might suffice. And it did once Jake got a load of all the bootleg games for sale. He and Noom spent an hour consulting with each other on which were the best, and then decided to drop me back at the hotel so the two of them could head to Noom’s loom for hours of gaming. That, btw, became ‘our’ daytime activity for the rest of the trip.

The big night finally arrived, and after a late dinner at Condoms & Cabbages (a somewhat low key reminder of the need to play safe) we headed to Nana Plaza to start the night out at Cascade. Young, strapping, and a quick learner regarding the benefits of being a big tipper, Jake was a hit with the girls. Noom too was enjoying himself, even more so once it dawned on him that Jake didn’t realize the girls weren’t. Hey, I promised not to set him up with a ladyboy, not to not take him to a bar full of them. The joke didn’t last long. Noom couldn’t contain himself. And Jake finally figured out what his braying laughter of “She not real!” meant. But it did teach him the dangers of over-indulging in alcohol while on the hunt for pussy in Bangkok.

We hit a few more bars in Nana with Jake quickly figuring out by Noom’s giggling which were ladyboy bars and managing to avoid having that experience again. And then headed down to Soi Cowboy where the third sex is less well represented and where Noom suddenly remembered he was straight. Shame for him that it wasn’t his birthday. Jake had been enjoying looking at all the girls, but finally remembered the purpose of his visit, and after getting Noom’s approval picked out a cute young girl who despite her outfit on stage managed to not look like a pro. I don’t know if it was his intention to play it cool, but once I’d paid the bar fine, Noom carefully explained to her Jake’s status as a freshly minted hetro and gave her detailed instructions on how he expected her to treat Jake. Considering the smile on Jake’s face the next morning, she must have taken direction well.

The next night we hit the bars in Patpong. Jake, already a connoisseur of female flesh on display, was less than impressed saying he’d just as soon go hit the ladyboy bars in Nana. But our proximity to Soi Twilight allowed for another visit to Noom’s bar, and the little party planner finally got to throw the birthday bash he’d envisioned. I’m sure since returning home Jake has regaled all of his envious friends with his tales of touring the red light districts of Bangkok. But I doubt he has told any of them about having a stage full of Thai guys in their underwear singing happy birthday while he blew out the candles on his cake. What he wished for wasn’t hard to guess. We made a quick exit and an even quicker beeline back to Soi Cowboy where he offed the same little hottie he’d had thee night before. Maybe it’s genetics. I’m expecting to run across a blog with a series of his posts, I Fell In Love With A Bar Girl, any day now.

On our last night in town we dispensed with surveying the bars we’d not yet hit and headed back for Jake’s third and final act with the new love of his life. Newly confident in knowing the night’s ending would be a happy one, there was less of a rush to get to the good part and we partied on Soi Cowboy into the early hours of the morning before hitting G.O.D. to finish the night off. The most expensive part of the night was the bribe I had to pay to a tuk tuk driver to let Jake drive his contraption back to our hotel. As scary of a ride as a tuk tuk careening down the street at 3am can be, it’s even worse with a white boy at the wheel. Especially one in lust and headed home to get laid.

I think I now know where Thailand got its nickname of The Land of Smiles, months later when I mention Bangkok to Jake that shit-eating grin that spreads across the width of his face says it all. And his younger brother is anxiously waiting, and counting down to, his turn at the bat in two years. Noom is just as anxiously looking forward to that date and his chance to meet another one of his family members. My dad still doesn’t know there is a bar boy in Bangkok who loves him, but I’m expecting Jake’s Grandpa will soon; Noom and Jake text and email each other frequently – Jake calls to tell me Noom said Hi quite often – and Noom always sends along his love to the rest of his family in America. The only downside to the trip is that I think I lost my status of being the cool uncle.

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Gay Thailand

Just thought I’d get the bitch slaps in right up front with the title . . .

This is the third and final part of what was originally intended to be a 738 part post in honor of my favorite blogger and his fondness for beating a subject to a bloody death. And beyond. But I’ve already provided enough backstory and explanation in the previous two parts, and beating around the bush further just delays the inevitable. So here’s the problem . . .

Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, is one of the most incredible guys I’ve ever met. He’s got a body to die for and a heart larger than Oprah’s ass. And for some unfathomable reason, to borrow from Sally Field, he likes me, he really likes me. So, okay, he does have that fault.

I saw Noom last just before Thanksgiving last year on a short trip to Bangkok, the primary purpose of which was to make good on a promise I’d made to my nephew to take him to Thailand to get him laid for his 18th birthday. Noom was thrilled to meet another member of his family. I think he was even more thrilled to be spending his evenings in gogo bars that displayed vagina for a change. My nephew was just happy that I didn’t set him up with a ladyboy. Getting laid a dozen times put a smile on his face too. But that’s a story yet to be told. As well as a threat of a story to be told to his mother. In any case, Noom and I were glad to have had the time to spend together, sad that it was too short, even sadder that we were separating yet again, and happy about looking forward to my next visit and the next time we would be able to see each other once again. That was then. And between us nothing has changed.

So here’s the problem . . .

A few weeks after returning home we were blessed with one of those days that only Californians can expect in December and I decided to take advantage by returning to a scene I’d spotted the week before while driving through the foothills. There was an old dilapidated barn sitting maybe half a mile off the highway, the sole structure amidst an expanse of knee-high wild grasses still golden brown from the summer’s heat and shimmering in the gentle blasts of air making their way down through the mountain pass. It was a scene worthy of Ansel Adams if he’d ever bothered to spring for color film. And good for an hour or two of indulging my photography jones.

I’d spent about a half hour snapping shots when some asshole decided to interfere; another photographer who couldn’t resist the sun’s play over the bucolic scene. In a small crowd of strangers you can acknowledge the presence of others with a slight smile and nod of the head. When there are only two of you, politeness dictates something more. An insincere greeting if nothing else. But then I’ve never been accused of being polite. Instead I said hi by accusing him of trying to steal my shot. That type of greeting is usually good for at least a momentary look of concern. But he laughed, immediately, and then told me it was a shame that whatever photos I’d be taking would never be as good as his. Yup, it was love at first bite.

Photography, like masturbation, is a solo sport. While you may occasionally share the fruits of your labor with someone else, it’s really about your own equipment and what you can do with it. After our quick bout of Who Has The Bigger Dick, we separated, and spent about an hour engrossed in setting and lining up the type of shots that cause most people to shake their head in bafflement, trying to make the most of a scene that with the exception of a few rickety buildings that had lost their battle with the elements was an otherwise featureless landscape where nature seemed to have run out of ideas. A rusty stave here, a partially buried piece of equipment only those with a cowboy fetish would recognize there, an occasional glance at what the other guy was shooting proved that besides being surly, we shared the same taste in photographic subjects. And thanks to the digital age, the few times we ended up standing in the same place we’d quickly flash our best award winning shots for the other guy to properly admire. If admire is the right word for caustic comments about lousy depth of fields, angles, and the dire need of cropping.

Tiring of the barn’s one-note act, Phil – as I learned his name was once we got around to introductions later – nodded toward a few equally world-weary outbuildings further up the hillside, a small grouping of boxy structures perched on tall, skinny stilts reminiscent of the illustrations in a Dr. Seuss book. Our solo efforts became a group grope and we headed up the hill with him leading the way which, conveniently, allowed me to check out his ass. It was as fine as the rest of him.

Falling back into our routine of ignoring each other until another opportunity presented itself to prove who was the better photographer, Phil finally committed a foul by, in response to my incredible shot of a weather beaten wood support post, he showed me his latest treasure: a picture of me. Though he controlled himself from making a comment about the similarity of the two photos, I scoffed at the idea of my suitability as a male model anyway. Phil brushed away my protest. “No. Seriously. The strength in your face . . .,” he said. And then gave me The Look.

So here’s the problem . . .

Phil is gay; he’s out to family, friends, and acquaintances who care enough to notice without the demand for a proclamation to satisfy their curiosity. Filipino-Hawaiian with the typical smattering of a conglomeration of Anglo-Saxon bloodlines that are responsible for making island boys so beautifully exotic, he’s a transplant from O’ahu and now lives a mere 20 minutes from where I do. A hunk with a nicely defined muscular build and the shade of dusky brown skin that gets even my little toes hard, he’s 32-years-old, and – with apologies to Sally Field once again – he likes me, he really likes me.

That afternoon, we quit ignoring each other and then ended up spending the rest of the day, evening, and night together. (I know, a gay meets gay has hot, steamy, sex in a secluded outdoor setting scene would have made for a much better tale, but – unfortunately – we managed to keep our clothes on for several hours instead.) We got together again a few nights later, made a habit of that, found time to spend together for Christmas, traded New Year’s Eve countdown kisses, and went from getting in touch with each other to see if we both had the weekend free to just assuming we’ll spend every night together unless one of us has another engagement and says differently.

One of the nice things about aging is the incredible number of gay boys who are into daddies. I get laid more since turning fifty then back when I could understand why some hottie would want to get tangled in the sheets with me. The only problem is too many of those guys want to call you daddy. And want you to call them son. Unfortunately when “Oh, Daddy!” becomes the mating call, far too often diapers or corporal attention to their buttocks soon follows. Not that I can’t or won’t role play (at least until the diaper thingy comes up) but for many it is beyond a mild infatuation and instead is a true fetish. Enlivening your sex life is one thing, when it’s a mandatory part of your mutual orgasm, it’s a bit too much and I can’t really be bothered.

But Phil is not into daddies. He has had boyfriends younger, the same age, and older than he is in the past. It’s scary when you met a gay guy who’s actually normal. It’s even scarier when you’ve been enjoying an unattached life of sexual freedom to meet a gay guy you begin to think of as a boyfriend. Especially when he’s hot. And feels the same way about you. And appears to have absolutely no interest in wearing diapers.

Besides sharing with me an interest in photography, and sex, Phil loves travel too. Though his arena has been South America primarily while my interest has been SE Asia. I’ve shown him a few photobooks of my shots from Thailand – there’s no competition about who has taken the best shots of Bangkok since he hasn’t been there – and he wants to accompany on my next trip. He’s also seen pictures I’ve taken of Noom – ‘cuz what value is a photobook of shots of Thailand without shots of Noom included – and considering both the frequency and intimacy of those photographs, who Noom is and what he means to me has been discussed. To some degree. We’ve yet to put a name to what the two of us are currently sharing, there have been no spoken commitments about being faithful, or considerations about what our future may hold. So jealousy – or concern – over a Thai bar boy has not been a problem. But then that view may be different when said hunk is staring you in the face. That Noom and Phil will meet is a given. How those two (in my mind) separate relationships manage to allow for the other – or not – is yet to be seen.

So here’s the problem . . .

I want my cake. And I want to eat it too. Straying outside of a committed relationship for sex, when it’s only sex, and when that act has been blessed by both parties involved, is one thing. When that sex also involves love, respect, friendship, and caring, it’s a different story. Obviously a three-way is the answer. But outside of my fantasy life, that’s not likely. That’s like buying a lottery ticket. You hope you win, it’d be nice to win, the chances of winning millions of dollars however are slim to none.

With the exception of wanting to make sure I do not hurt him in anyway, I do not see a problem with Noom’s side of the equation. Fortunately, we’ve gone through a similar scenario when my buddy Dave and I revisited our old haunts in Bangkok accompanied by Noom that time around. Both did fine at first, and then it became a bit problematic when each realized there was love in addition to friendship involved. But once Noom learned his position was not threatened, it was no longer a concern. The difference is that in that battle Noom had sex on his side, Dave did not. Even though we did all end up naked in bed together. (I really, really need to stop wishing for that three-way resolution!)

I love having sex with Noom. I love having sex with Phil. I’d love to have Noom for sex when I’m in Thailand, and to have Phil for sex when I’m not. But with neither guy is it sex and sex alone. Regardless of how much I love the sex. Just in case I failed to mention that before. How the sex part of our relationships will shake out when all three of us are in Thailand is part of the question. Though that could easily end up being me shaking it on my own. I know – and just don’t yet want to admit to it – that that probably means giving up doing Noom. Unless I hit the three-way lottery. And I suspect – and just don’t yet want to admit to it – the same will hold true for not just when Phil is with me in Thailand, but for any future trips I make on my own. Assuming what Phil and I share continues to grow into a full blown relationship. Which is safe to assume.

Phil is a pretty levelheaded guy. Meaning he doesn’t act like a woman. I do not foresee him objecting to my continued friendship with Noom. A friendship that incudes sex may be different. The commitments I’ve made to Noom and my continued support of his efforts to make a future for himself are not on the table for discussion; behaving myself while doing so may be an issue. I fell in love with a bar boy, because Noom being Noom, how could I not? But now I’m falling in love with an equally incredible person, one with whom there holds the promise of a relationship beyond what Noom and I can have.

So there’s my problem . . .

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Wow. You look just like him!

I know. I owe you an I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy Post having left off last time in the middle of a train of thought, and I need to finish that off before Ndro’s tub of popcorn goes stale. But it was a long weekend and yesterday’s article on Ryan Gosling tickled a memory or two so I thought I’d go with this one first. Mostly because I’d written the bulk of this post a few months ago; it only needed some minor adjustments. Besides, posting the denouement entry from the anticipated trilogy on April Fool’s Day would have been an iffy proposition. Y’all are a suspicious lot. Smart, but suspicious. And rightly so. In any case, this tale too is more about me than it is about Noom. But then Noom’s part is what makes it worth telling and unlike with the next one it’s about me fucking with him in the past rather than how my fucking with him might affect our future.

Years ago when the Rocket Man could still fit inside of a rocket, being the young stud on the town that I was I bought a stylish white fedora to wear when out, about, and on the prowl. It lasted for two nights. Both of which I spent being told how much I looked like Elton John. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing back then. Those were the days when Elton was at the height of his popularity and was considered by many to be pretty hot. Those were also the days when he still thought people believed he was straight. Like no one ever saw that coming. And not that I didn’t get laid thanks to that hat on both nights either. ‘Cuz I did. But Elton John was just not the persona I was trying to project. Maybe if I was a bottom I would have stuck with that look. But those were the days of disco, and I pictured myself more of a John Travolta clone. Oh. Wait a minute . . . .

Fast forward a few years: Despite having done a post about Ryan Gosling yesterday, and even though he seems to be everyone in Hollywood’s idea of hotness, I’ve only seen two of his movies. He just doesn’t quite do it for me. I’d have to see him naked before I decided whether or not to kick him out of bed. One of his movies I did see – I can’t remember what the other was but can remember looking at him and thinking, “Really?” – was Blue Valentine. I went to see it at the theatre with my friend Dave, who I’ve known for like 100 years now. When Gosling came on the screen, Dave, who didn’t know who he was either, went silent. The hit me with his elbow. “Dude! That’s you!” he whispered. He didn’t mean then, but back in my 30s. And it bugged the crap out of him. For the rest of the flick every time Gosling’s face came on the screen he’d mutter, “Jesus!” The similarities in his mind ruined the movie for him. I didn’t take it as a compliment. But then it could have been worse. The similarity could instead have been with Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet.

Fast forward a few years: Maybe it’s just straight guy’s gaydar pinging without them knowing it. Another old friend called me after watching Kevin Spacey’s homoage to Bobby Darin, Beyond The Sea, on DVD. He’d had the same experience as Dave, and had been just as bothered by what he considered the resemblance of Spacey during the scenes filmed at Big Sur. The era was right, the similar ages at the respective times were right, the idea that we could pass for twins was just not right in my book. So, okay. Maybe the pornstach I rocked in those days wasn’t the best idea.

So I watched the movie. Unfortunately. I like Kevin Spacey (as an actor), but if I were looking for a role of his with a resemblance to yours truly I’d probably go with Seven instead. Not for his look so much as his general attitude and demeanor. Though when I get out of bed in the morning, physically these days I’m probably a better match for Keyser Söze.

Fast forward a few years: Noom – my bar boy friend and current love of my life – and I were in Chiang Mai late one afternoon having breakfast at an open-air dive across the street from the Tha Pae Gate. It’s one of Noom’s preferred establishment as the bill never totals more than 200 baht for the two of us for breakfast or dinner. As busy and popular as the place is, it still manages to be an oasis of tranquility while sitting a mere three feet from the congested street where unmuffled tuk tuk engines and diesel fumes battle for supremacy. There is an outdoor area where we usually sit, shaded by trees and surrounded by plumeria that glow in the sun like a dream by Van Gogh. Next door is a small used book store with one of its outside racks facing the restaurant’s tables. On this visit, I spotted a book staring at me by Hunter S. Thompson, one I hadn’t read. I went over and bought it. It cost more than our meal. I browsed through the book with Noom sitting across from me at the table while we waited for our food to arrive. That would usually be a cue for Noom to chat away noisily about nothing. I love the dude, but his ego needs constant attention and being ignored brings out the chatterbox in him. Instead there was dead silence.

“What?”

“Dat you!”

It took me a minute to realize he was referring to the picture of Hunter on the book’s cover. In my defense, I’d like to remind you that Johnny Depp portrayed Hunter in a movie. Twice. Just sayin’. And fortunately the book wasn’t The Great Shark Hunt, or I’d be once again cursing the day I’d ever bought that damn white fedora. Instead I tried not to read too much into the book’s title being Better Than Sex.

I laughed, shrugged off the idea of there being any resemblance between the two of us and told him that no, that picture was not me. Noom wasn’t buying it. And like Dave’s reaction to Blue Valentine and like with Kevin Spacey’s version of what Bobby Darin looked like is his stoner days, Hunter S. Thompson’s far too familiar looking countenance bothered Noom. Greatly. He grabbed the book out of may hands, eyeballed the cover photo and then me, and then the cover again. He thumbed through the book looking for further photographic proof, found none, and decided despite my protestations he was right.

“Why you on dat book?”

“Really, that’s not me. Us old farang all just look alike.”

He scowled, flipped through the book’s pages again thinking somehow further proof would have magically appeared over the last minute, mumbling, “Yet, you,” as he did so. Our food arrived. Still with a skeptical snarl on his face, he laid the book down on the table. With its cover and ‘my photo’ face down. And then got busy communing with his meal. As Noom always does when there is food in front of him.

Back in our hotel room that night I’d laid the book on the nightstand next to our bed, not unusual as I always have a book next to my bed. Noom turned it over to hide the picture again before he slipped into bed. And then later slipped it into the nightstand drawer when he reached for the lube. I haven’t a clue why that book cover bothered him so much. He’s a Buddhist who now considers himself a Hindu. But he’s not a Muslim. And it’s not like he isn’t used to me staring at him.

Early the next morning, using the bathroom first, I placed the book so that Hunter’s picture was eyeballing the toilet. Because that’s how I roll. When I went back in later, Noom had turned the book around so its back cover faced outward. Maybe he’s just not a fan of Hunter S. Thompson. And though I hadn’t planned it that way, on our flight back to Bangkok he sat to the left of me and wasn’t happy about having Hunter staring at him for the entire flight. But that’s what you get when you always demand the window seat.

It’s a shame I don’t hold onto books I’ve read but pass them on to friends to read instead. Otherwise I would have packed that one to take with me on my next visit to Thailand. Maybe I’ll pick up a copy of Blue Valentine to screen for Noom instead.

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Gay Thailand

Again, so soon?

This is the second in a series of posts within the I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy series of posts, though it will appear to have little to do with Part One, which I posted a day or two ago. Like that post, this one is capable of standing on its own. But it is a lead in to the post that (should) tie them all together. Coming quickly one after the other, this mini-series should provide a basis to better explain a dilemma, an unforeseen and unexpected problem that has recently risen, though I coulda just as easily asked you to go back and read the previous 91 I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy posts instead. But this way provides an excuse to post another few dozen pix of some hot Asian guys. I’ve always been a firm believer that when life throws you a curve ball, your best response is to turn to porn . . .
Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, is my friend. And a sex partner. He’s also a buddy, travel companion, confidant, fellow provocateur, not to mention an all around nice guy. What he isn’t is a live-in partner. Which may be a good thing since he identifies as straight. Whatever in the hell that means to a Thai. Not that that necessarily precludes us from becoming live-in partners. Distance is to blame for that. As is that I enjoy living in my country too much to ever consider moving to Thailand, and Thailand is too deeply embedded in Noom’s soul for him to ever be happy living in America. That does however preclude me from calling him my boyfriend, ours is more a friendship with benefits regardless of how much we care for each other. And regardless of how much I enjoy having sex with him, our friendship precludes me from calling him the other FB, fuck buddy, because while important (to me), the sex is not the driving force in our relationship. But it ain’t a bad shot in the arm either.

Boyfriend, bar boy friend, lover, sex partner, customer and john . . . what ever you call it, it still boils down to being a relationship. ‘Being in a relationship’ should not require further comment, the parameters of every relationship are different and yet the concept is the same. Or so you’d think. Throw in an adjective or two, however, and what is a relationship to some no longer qualifies as one to others. In my book, a ‘committed relationship’ is an oxymoron; if there is no commitment then there is no relationship. And while whatever works for you is fine by me – because it’s your relationship, not mine – an ‘open relationship’ has just never made much sense to me. It’s a committed relationship without the commitment. Ergo, it’s not.

But then there are nuances to every relationship that are not apparent to outsiders. I’m in a relationship with Noom, a adjective free relationship that we both consider to include a commitment to each other, yet due to his line of work when I’m not in town he’s often to be found in bed with some other farang. Neither of us would call what we have an open relationship; others would say it is the epitome of one. At best, I’d agree that we are not engaged in yet another adjectived relationship: a monogamous one.

Monogamy, as a concept or practice, just doesn’t work. The idea is foreign to mans’ existence. Like with all species on this planet, for men it’s all about procreation. Spreading your seed as often, as far, and as wide as possible is where it’s at. I hope whoever came up with the concept of monogamy died a bloody and well-deserved death. Because that little nugget of moral rectitude is the cause of most problems in relationships.

Throw in the pure pleasure of an orgasm – assuming you are doing it right – and it is astounding that any man would ever be capable of a monogamous relationship. Some would even argue that you are not being monogamous when you have sex with yourself. Most guys masturbate, partnered or not. Even the morally righteous do. In a recently conducted poll 61% of married Christian men admitted to masturbating regularly. Damn cheaters every one.

I do, however, believe you can be monogamous in your heart, while other parts of your body are busy at play. Sex is one thing, an emotional attachment to someone is different. The former does not have to infringe on the latter, though it’s a good idea to establish that parameter before stepping over the line. It will be interesting to see what paradigm develops as gay marriage becomes the law of the land. Some localities, preparing for the inevitable need for divorce laws once same-sex marriage becomes a reality, are having a difficult time defining what constitutes consummation when both parties sport the same sex organs. They are quickly discovering that applying traditional concepts and legal terms to gay marriage is not as simple as it seems. Monogamy is part of heterosexual marriages; it may not necessarily be for same-sex unions.

And when monogamy isn’t a legal/moral boundary, but rather a self imposed one. . . well,

I have to wonder how much monogamy owes its existence to problem avoidance. I’ve been in enough relationships to know that at first the idea of looking for sex elsewhere just doesn’t enter your mind. Your guy is all you need, he is all you want. But then, over time, the idea of a little something on the side takes root. Devotion keeps some from acting on that urge. Guilt does it for others. The possible messiness of being caught and the ensuing arguments, fights, and drama are probably an even greater deterrent. For me it’s never been a question of whether or not to cheat, but rather that if I am contemplating doing so, what then does that say about the relationship I’m in? Which usually results in being about the relationship I’m no longer in.

I take commitments seriously, that includes the commitment to being a couple. No problemo with a traditional boyfriend, at least not until my eye begins to wander. With Noom, it’s different. We are a couple only when I’m in town. Even then, when schedules conflict I’ve sent him off for the night to fleece some other customer. And he has, in turn, given me permission to off other bar boys. Provided I tell him first. Right. I can sometimes be dense, but I’m not stupid.

On every trip I’ve made to Thailand since I met Noom I have serious intentions of playing around, trying someone new, hitting the bars and hitting every hottie I find on the first night or two of my holiday. Or the last few. Or both. Gay Romeo alone offers a wide selection of willing partners. And there are enough gogo bars in Bangkok that even the most picky punter is sure to find one Thai hunk that measures up to his standards. I love Noom. But I’m still a guy. Though evidently a castrated one because despite plans of doing otherwise, as soon as the plane lands I make a beeline for Noom’s arms. In reality, I’m monogamous in our relationship by choice. Possibly, due to laziness.

Whether it is with a bar boy or not, a relationship between a farang and a Thai, where distance is more prevalent than not, presents a whole host of problems. How you deal with the question of monogamy in those relationships differs from one couple to the next. The more frequently you are together, the less of a problem it is. When you are apart, what, if any, boundaries you set are up to you. As are promises made. And whether or not they are kept. However the two for you decide to deal with a long-distance relationship, trust becomes the key. If that trust is lost, whether over a real or imagined infidelity, that relationship is over. Though it may take you a few months, or a few years to realize it.

Noom and I have avoided problem within our relationship by not setting any rules regarding the times we are separated. It wasn’t a conscious decision to do so, but rather by default. By not deciding to, we decided not to. But then we both have a leisurely attitude toward sex. Our emotional attachment is of greater importance. I don’t care how many customers he has – a good thing since that’s how he makes a living – and he doesn’t care what I do back home, or if I off another bar boy in Thailand as long as it’s just sex. Neither has anything to do with what we share. The only time jealousy reared its ugly little head – which actually happened twice – was when he perceived his position in my world was being threatened. But that was about trust too. Both times I was able to reassure him. And both time the make-up sex was incredible.

Even then, Noom likes to remind me that I was a butterfly before meeting him. He likes to remind me of that often. I think that is more about the reassurance he gets from hearing the words than it is about my history. It’s not about my previous habit of flitting from on bar boy to the next, it’s about having finally found a guy to share my in-country life with, the companionship and warmth of knowing an actual person instead of just a nice piece of ass. The sex is just a bonus.

In my last post I wrote about the collectivist society that forms the basis for personal, family, and village life in Thailand, and purposefully did not use the word obligation even though a lot of that culture is based on obligations. My iconoclastic soul bristles at the thought that there are things I have to do, that there are requirements I am obligated to meet. I prefer to think of them as choices. Because all obligations and commitments ultimately really are a matter of choice. Noom and I have made commitments to each other, I have obligations to him as he does to me. Some, in fact most, stem from my accepting and participating in the way Thais have decided the world works. Like with monogamy, none of those obligations can be forced on you. You always have a choice in the matter. If you choose to be monogamous, it’s no longer an obligation. It’s something you do willingly, without thought. When you choose to make a commitment or a promise to someone, it’s no longer about a duty owed. It’s about a mutual agreement, in our case to take care of the other guy’s needs, whether that be emotional, financial, or physical.

The importance of Noom in my life is unquestionable. Defining our relationship isn’t as simple. That I’m a happier person knowing him is a given; that I’m a better person because of him is too. We have both made promises and commitments to each other, out of choice. Monogamy may not be one of those, but seeing to the welfare of each other is. Ours may not fit into the traditional perception of what a relationship is, but it works. Glitches only arise when that relationship encompasses life outside of Thailand’s borders.

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Gay Thailand

This is gonna be an unusual entry into my I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy series of posts. For several reasons. First, while I think it will still stand alone (no guarantees since its ending is not yet in sight), it actually is Part One of a god only knows how many parts series within the series. The multi-episode format is due to, I think, that I’m missing Boo Hoo’s habit of making a 738 part post covering a two day trip he once made. Okay, so I don’t believe that myself. But it was worth a try. The important thing is that this post is leading somewhere; it’s part backstory, part explanation . . . when I finally get to the point where it becomes important I’ll remind you. I’m not sure when that will be.

Second, usually when I write these posts I have a story to tell or a point to make. Sometimes both. This one not so much. Though that is more about what is to come. There is a point to this part, there may be a story coming later. I’m not entirely sure where this is all headed, or what will eventually appear on your computer screen. Not that that is unusual. I’m surprised at how often these posts about Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, end up taking me somewhere other than planned. So you can add Muse to his list of talents. And I can add yet another of the miraculous things about him of which I’m in awe. Though his muscular body will always start that list off.

And lastly, I’m kinda cheating because this mini-series of posts is more about me than it is about Noom. Though he does play a prominent role. I’d like to say it is in fact about him, because he is the problem. But that’s not fair. To date he doesn’t even know a problem exists. And probably wouldn’t see it as one anyway. If you are confused already, don’t worry. It’ll get worse.

While I am still hesitant to refer to Noom as my boyfriend, I’ve never shied away from calling him my friend. Or what we share, a relationship. That’s not an attempt at being coy, nor is it in anyway meant to diminish what he means to me and what, I hope, we mean to each other. If anything, as loosely as ‘boyfriend’ is used by some who have formed an attachment to a Thai bar boy, or boys, calling him my friend is a higher honor. It removes the sexual aspect of our relationship to some degree, and while I hope physically that never happens, I value Noom’s friendship above all else. If his dick fell off tomorrow, I would still want to be his friend, I would still want to share the closeness we share now, I would still want to be part of his life. It just wouldn’t be quite as much fun.

I also prefer calling Noom my friend because of what that means in Thailand. I have friends in the states too whom I enjoy being around, people I care for and care about, but when you are part of someone’s inner circle in Thailand it’s a whole different ballgame. Being a collectivist society, when you become a Thai’s friend you also become part of his family, part of his group, part of his village. As our relationship has grown, I’ve been able to experience the constant give and take, the sharing, that Noom indulges in with both his family and those he considers friends. And have become a part of that world. His world. Doing so has been an edifying experience for me. And he’s probably been happy to watch while I’ve finally begun to see what the world is really all about.

Coming from an individualistic society where life is more self-centered than it is in Thailand – where the needs of acceptance and community always outweigh the needs of the individual – it’s difficult for many to grasp how much that mindset permeates daily life. That’s because we of the west tend to always view things from our perspective first. And last. Recognizing the ‘us’ in place of the ‘me’ is not something that comes naturally. For many, it’s something that never comes at all. This gives rise to the frequent citation of the walking ATM syndrome, the general feeling of it always being about a farang’s wallet, and the often defended reality of the bar boy who is only interested in getting as much baht for as little effort as possible that the disgruntled and disenfranchised love to promote. Huh. I guess for a lot of those guys it really is all about them. It’s just a shame their negativity drives their perspective and disallows them from experiencing the warm and supporting culture that exists in Thailand.

As Noom and my relationship has grown, so has our friendship. And I’ve been adopted into his family. I frequently get text messages and email from the brother he’s closest to, none of which is ever really about anything other than staying in touch. Papa, who speaks not a word of English, lectures me on the ways of the world as he does his other sons whenever we visit. I listen dutifully while he rambles on for ten minutes, understanding 20% of what he says at best, and then turn to Noom for a translation. Which always starts with, “He tell you . . .” and then succinctly sums up what was said in just a few words.

No problemo. It’s not really about what he says but that he feels the need to say it. And that he cares enough to do so. Much as it is with my real father. My new sister-in-law indulges me with her love of cooking, and teases me unmercifully. Her husband, Noom’s oldest brother who is the same age as I am, gets teased just as much over his inability to come to terms with not being the sole eldest brother any longer. Family is what it is whenever you are in the world.

What I bring to the table, obviously, is primarily financial in nature though I like to think my charming wit is as highly as valued. But that is not about me being a farang, it would be no different were I the rich Thai uncle. When the us takes precedence over the me, everyone contributes what they can toward the betterment of the whole. And personally, I think I get much more than what I give. It’s kinda like those Master Card commercials – a group of people who care about you beyond the materialistic aspects of your relationship: priceless.

I’ve become friends with Noom’s friends too, primarily his bar mates. There has been a noticeable difference in how they act around me as Noom and my friendship has grown. And in how I act around them. It used to bug me when while at his bar Noom would ‘suggest’ I tip a boy or two who was doing nothing that would suggest he should be tipped. I know now those were and are his friends. And those tips were about sharing the wealth. Even more so, it was about Noom bringing me into his circle.

Originally, I’d watch Noom pull money out of his pocket – that I’d given him – to pass on to his friends in need. That eventually changed to a direct transaction from me to them, thanks to Noom attempting to teach me a lesson in how the world works. At least his world. It just took a while for it to sink in. Even though his friends understood what that gesture meant immediately. Now when I’m in his bar or on the soi I get well taken care of. Not because of the baht I have or am willing to share, but because I am part of the community; the money I have has little to do with the riches that I enjoy.

As quickly as Thailand is growing and taking its place as a developed country, it’s rural past is not that far in the distance and is still a major part of the country outside of the large cities. Village life still resonates deeply within the Thai soul. The banding together for the betterment of all is still the main focus of how the majority of Thais live their lives. Bangkokians no longer live in a traditional village. But tend to treat their neighborhoods as such. As well as their circle of friends who may be brought together through school, work, or some other shared interest. That connection to a community is a necessary part of their life. It means having a built-in support group, as will as immediate acceptance into a group of people who care for you and care about you. It’s also about caring for and about others.

Farang who are afforded the opportunity of entering that world often immediately react negatively over the financial aspects it can entail. Caution is never a bad thing. Wearing blinders can be. Money, believe it or not, is not the end all. Noom happens to love the stuff. I’ve watched him become incensed over an amount as little as 10 baht. And then watched him turn around and hand out several hundred baht to friends with a smile on his face. That’s because he knows that it’s not the value of money that is important in life but the value it brings to your life. And to the lives of your friends and family.

So, I warned you that I had no idea where this post would take me and it isn’t where I expected to go. This part was suppose to be about my friendship with Noom, and though it is, the latter half seems to read as if it is all about money. I guess that’s to be expected. I still get defensive about the subject because I hear too often about how it is the financial aspects of Farang/Thai relationships that really matters. When it is not. Even though it takes money to keep a village going. It’s not a bad point to make in any case. And worthy of a post on its own. Now we’ll just have to see how that ties in with Part Two .

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I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy: Thanks For The Memory

Tags

Gay Thailand, Offs

One morning I woke up Noom – my bar boy friend and current love of my life – with a blow job. Though ‘woke-up’ is a euphemism for both of us acknowledging he was awake. When we sleep together the least little unusual movement on my part brings him immediately to a state of alertness. I like to think that is because he is so attentive to my needs, but realize it probably has more to do with his history of sleeping with farang customers. If I were him I’d sleep with one eye open too.

But the blow job, coming from me first thing in the morning while his eyes were still closed, was unusual. Unlike what is probably true with far too many of his customers, I don’t usually molest him before he’s had the chance to greet the day. I let him shower first. Not that I’m adverse to morning sex. Even though the time of the day that qualifies as morning for us comes closer to qualifying as a nooner for most. It’s just that by the time we wake it’s a rush to get to breakfast. And then there’s things to do and places to see. Which leaves little time for people to do. Even though doing Noom is one of my favorite things. I’m not sure how Julie Andrews missed that one.

Regardless of the time the clock says it is, a blow job is a nice thing to wake up to. There aren’t many better ways to start your day than getting head. Some gay guys would argue giving head is a great way to begin your day too, but though I do suck dick – it’s kinda one of the things us gay guys do – I’m not one for whom life’s greater pleasure is having someone’s dick in my mouth. At a minimum, I like to be on a first name basis with a dick before I start deep throating it.

Not that there is anything wrong with guys for whom life is the pursuit of dick to suck. I’m thankful for the cock sucking lovers of the world – I am not as picky about who has my dick in their mouth as I am about whose is entering mine. For me though it is more about giving my partner pleasure than it is about unbridled joy at having a dick to suck. Though admittedly, it’s usually about nothing more than returning a favor.

Noom and I have spent enough mornings waking up next to each other to have developed a routine. Noom is big on traditions and routines. Like most guys he is also big on having his dick sucked. With us, come morning, his fondness for routine wins out over his enjoyment of a blow job. So on most mornings I wake up causing Noom to officially wake up (god knows how long he’s been laying there faking sleep). Then he leans over, kisses me, and says, “Good Morning!” In return, I scowl at him. Not because of anything he did but simply because that’s my natural reaction whenever I hear someone say good morning in a far too cheery voice. By then we both need to pee – and since beauty before age doesn’t apply to who gets first dibbs on the toilet, I plod off to the bathroom to give myself some relief for believing it is a good morning.

But on this morning I decided to give Noom a good reason for believing it was a good morning. I’m not sure why, I’m not sure what got into me. Other than Noom’s dick. Obviously. Not that having Noom’s dick in my mouth was unheard of; it’s been there before. Just not at the hour of the day. And Noom, with his eyes still closed, did what any man – straight, gay, or confused – does when he suddenly feels his cock engulfed in a warm, wet mouth. He smiled.

When you wake up to a blow job, smiling is the right response. A small groan of pleasure ain’t bad either. Noom did both. Then his training kicked in and he reached down to take matters in his own hand. Not quite getting the gay man’s fascination with dick, to Noom sex is about the end not the means. And from years of experience, he knows he is much more adept at providing a happy ending for himself than the one any other guy is capable of regardless of how proficient he may be at that task. When it is my orgasm that matters, I’m cool with that. But on this morning, for once, it was about him more than me. So I brushed his hand away and went back to work. He knew something was up. Besides his dick. And let a confused, pleased, and surprised exclamation of “Oh!” escape his mouth. I would have responded but mine was occupied.

It’s nice when your day is so free of plans and obligations that you can spend your morning giving the man you love the devotion he deserves. I suppose it’s even nicer being on the receiving end. Not that my initial intention of waking up Noom with a blow job had as its ulterior motive the design of planting a seed in his mind about future mornings and the spilling of my seed, but I do wish the boy could take a hint. But that’s about future mornings with the prospect of qualifying for once as good. On this morning, Noom’s pleasure was all that mattered. Which he finally got when after I’d brought him to climax he moved down to repay the kindness only to be stopped. “No,” I told him after spitting. “For you.”

For a self-labeled straight man, Noom has shared a hell of a lot of orgasms with other men. And has provided those joys without reciprocal treatment to many more. I’ve no doubt he has been on the receiving end before too thanks to those into muscle worship, but even when those end in an orgasm for him and not for his customer, they are still about the desires, pleasure, and needs of the farang and not Noom. Having someone give him a blow job for no other reason than to give him the pleasure of having his dick sucked was an unusual experience. And being the polite man that he is, after it’d finally sunk in, he responded appropriately. “Thank you,” – which with his accented English comes out as ‘Sank you’ – replaced his normal first utterance of the day of “Good Morning!” And was much more sincere.

Thais are not big on saying thanks. It’s a cultural thing. The best explanation I’ve heard for their lack in practicing what in the west is a normal social nicety is that it has something to do with Buddhism. Which some how translates into that by thanking someone for what they’ve done for you, you make their gesture about yourself instead of about the person whom you are thanking; by saying thanks you are stealing that person’s karmatic thunder, as it were. So by not saying thank you, you are actually honoring that person’s gesture more than you would by expressing your gratitude.

Noom seldom says thanks. No problemo. I don’t expect to be thanked when, for example, I’ve paid for dinner because I always pay for his food. Being the more financially well off of the two of us, it’s expected that I’ll pick up the tab. That too is a social norm for Thais. It’s almost an obligation. So why would you say thanks? Or expect to be thanked? At other times when a thank you seems more in order, well, there’s a wai for that. And that gesture holds far more sincerity than the thank you that trips from Westerners’ tongues with little thought or meaning.

There was a thread not long ago on one of the gay Thailand message boards about the Thai practice of not practicing saying thank you. It evidently bothers a lot of guys. Some reported they’d gone as far as demanding their boy du jour thank them for the little things they did which they felt the boy should be grateful to them for. Because forcing someone to thank you is the surest way to warm your heart. The discussion dwindled into a general agreement that those Thais who’ve been exposed to western ways have adopted our practice of saying thanks whether we really mean it or not. As they should. Because coming from the more developed nations our social norms should be the ones that count. Not those of the country we are visiting or have decided to make our home.

That morning Noom got an unexpected blow job from me, an uncommon but pleasurable gesture for that hour of the day (which the bastard has still not reciprocated). His sincere thanks was equally rare, but of the two probably meant more. And was, and is, the more memorable of the two. And for that, I thank him.

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Tags

Gay Bangkok, Gay GoGo Bars, Offs

Surprisingly, I get a lot of comments posted to this blog that include a note asking that the comment not be published. That wouldn’t be so if I published an email addy to use, but the result would be the same: lots of private communication, questions and comments readers for one reason or another don’t want made public. That’s cool. I’m just amazed that anyone who has read this blog for any amount of time would actually trust me to keep their private comments private. I don’t exactly have a stellar track record for being discreet.

Not surprisingly, most of those comments are about Noom – my bar boy friend and current love of my life – and our relationship. Many are from readers who are or who have been in similar relationships with Thai guys. They tend to explain their relationship and comment on how familiar my tales are to them. Even when they don’t name names, I understand why they do not want their comments made public. Not everyone wants their private life published for the world to see. Even when it is done anonymously. Still, it’s a shame those stories never see the light of day; there are a lot more positive and successful Farang/Thai relationships out there than you’d expect considering how you only here about the doomed ones elsewhere.

The second most popular theme in the private comments I get are well-intended messages questioning my sanity. I appreciate that those reader want to keep their comments private too. While they are usually polite and come from a good place, the you-should-never-trust-a-bar-boy train of thought gets plenty of airing elsewhere. As for me wearing rose colored glasses, I think if you read through the bulk of my I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy posts you’d see that isn’t a valid concern. I probably question Noom’s motives more than what should be healthy for our relationship. But then so does he.

Even those comments that question our relationship and the wisdom of becoming involved with a Thai bar boy almost always include and exemption for Noom. Part of that, I have to assume, is that people are generally polite and don’t want to unnecessarily dump on someone’s relationship. Not that that makes a lot of sense. There is little logic in saying, “Beware of bar boys,” coupled with, “You really need to be careful,” followed by, “Well, except for Noom.” Huh. That message is a bit muddled. Which is why I personally try to avoid being polite as much as possible. Regardless, I appreciate the attempt and concern. And appreciate even more that in telling these tales I must have managed to portray Noom as the wonderfully exceptional man that he is. Readers tend to want to idolize him even though he is a money-grubbing not to be trusted bar boy. And so do I.

I also get a lot of private comments either from those currently trying to find their way through a similar relationship, and/or those who are open to becoming involved in a similar relationship who have a million questions about the necessary balance between caution and going for it with all your heart and soul. Those are the more difficult comments to answer. I can speak from my experiences with Noom. But that doesn’t mean the guy someone else is involved with will react the same or that he has the same motives. Whether it is Thai bar boys – or any other group of people – making generalized statements that supposedly cover the entire group never works. There are always exceptions to the rule; you are dealing with an individual, not a group.

There are cultural issues that (almost) all Thais share, many of which I’ve attempted to highlight in these tales. And while you should be aware of them – or more precisely aware of the differences between your culture and Thai culture – above all the best generalized advice I can give about being in a relationship with a bar boy is to remember he is an individual first. Focus on what it is/was that attracted you to him in the first place (besides the sex), not on all the stuff you’ve heard about bar boys. ‘Cuz you’ll be surprised how little of that crap ever surfaces.

Most of the comments I get on these tales – both positive and unintentionally negative – dwell far too much on the issue of love. But that’s human nature. Pop music wouldn’t be the billion dollar industry it is if people were not so wrapped up in the L word. You’d think with all the people either pursuing love as a goal, busily trying to hold on to the love they found, or trying their damnedest to get over the love they lost that it wouldn’t be such an abstract emotion. But then if love was that cut and dried Adele would just be another fat, white chick from England instead of the popular chantreuse she is. It’s kinda sad Babs stole her thunder at the Academy Awards, but then ugly female singers have always held a monopoly on love songs. It’s interesting that while so many people want to be in love, or at least to be loved, the closest love song any one has come up with that best reflects reality is one of R.E.M.’s most popular tunes.

But then a love song belted out by either Noom or I would put a quick end to that genre. It’s not that some things are best left unsaid, but rather best left unsung by some. What that song would be would be the major question in any case. Love, as popular as it is, is difficult to define. Even when it isn’t expressed in song. For being such an important aspect in everyone’s life, the word itself just doesn’t measure up. It isn’t specific enough for its purpose, it’s too generalized and covers too many different emotions and too many different things. I love my dog, but not in the way opponents to legalizing same-sex marriage would have you believe. I love my mom, but that whole Oedipus Rex thing just never made sense to me. I love apple pie, but . . . okay maybe that’s not a good example.

The point is it’s too easy to read your idea of love into my love for and with Noom. That’s my fault. The title of this series of posts itself rubs some the wrong way while painting an untrue picture for those who focus on the positive attributes of Cupid (forgetting that that little fat bastard is armed and dangerous). And it doesn’t help that I introduce Noom into each of these tales as ‘my bar boy friend and current love of my life.’ Each of these stories is intended to stand alone. I thought that phrase summed up who and what Noom is, quickly, so anyone reading one of these posts would instantly understand the dynamic of our relationship. Silly me. That’s what I get for being facetious. I shoulda know better than to use the L word in such a frivolous manner.

So a lot of the private comments I get center on love; the curious question the future of our relationship, those trying to make sense of that relationship wonder about its details, those attempting to define what it is that we share question if it is love, lust, or simple infatuation. Not that I haven’t wondered about all those things myself. There is no question that I love Noom. Nor is there any question that he is a bright, shining point of goodness in my life. I am happy when I’m with him. And when I’m not, thinking about him makes me happy too. He is not, however, The Great Love of my life. At least not yet. Who knows what the future may bring. Ours is not an all-encompassing love; Romeo and Juliet can rest easy. Which is probably a good thing ‘cuz that tale set in Thailand would end with one of the two leaping from a balcony.

While I shudder at the thought of placing myself in the role of the fish, Juliet found a much better use for her balcony than the flying farang of Thailand have in questioning, “What’s Montague?” Her observation that a rose is a rose by any other name can be applied to Noom too; that he is a bar boy should be of no more importance than Romeo being a Montague. That seems to be a major issue for some in coming to terms with our love affair. I often get comments worried that I may be losing sight of that little fact. “He’s a bar boy!” (which is a nicer way of saying, “Yo dude! He makes his living having sex with any guy willing to slip him a few thousand baht!”) is a common warning. Yeah, I know. But he’s also Noom.

Maybe it would be less of an issue if I only identified Noom in these tales as ‘my bar boy friend’ (ignoring for the moment how often y’all couple boy and friend and ignore that all important space between the two words). Following its popularity thanks to Facebook, it might be better if I titled these posts instead as ‘I Fell In Like With A Bar Boy’. Either or both would remove the L word from the equation and would help avoid readers from assigning their own definition of love to what Noom and I share. But I don’t think ‘like’ – while less confrontational – cuts it either. Instead I’ll keep using the L word and let you define it as you see fit. Just stay away from Chris Brown and Rihanna’s version, okay?

I can’t define what love is and what it isn’t any better than you, even when it comes to what Noom and I share. It’s a crazy little thing that works, regardless of how it’s defined. So don’t get too caught up in applying the L word to what we have. I still like, prefer, and will continue to label these posts with I Fell In Love With A Bar Boy. But the most important word in my phrase ‘my bar boy friend and current love of my life’ is the one infrequently honed in on: friend. Love may be grand, but it is our friendship that means the most to me; I love that we are first and foremost friends. The rest is just a happy bonus.

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Tags

Gay Thailand, Hotels and Restaurants

Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, is proud of the body he’s built. And he should be. He has no problem in showing it off, which is probably a good thing since that’s the way he makes his living. Stripping naked on stage in front of a room full of horny gay men nightly can’t be a comfortable experience, regardless of how often you do so. It must help greatly to know what you are stripping down to is an enviably hot physique. Noom is comfortable in his skin. Even when that’s all he is wearing.

I enjoy watching Noom on stage. I enjoy watching him walking around his bar naked and hard. Pride of ownership isn’t limited to only the actual owner. Even more, I enjoy watching him wander about in the nude when it’s just the two of us in a hotel room. Which happens often. I’m not sure if he parades about naked because of the familiarity between us, or because he’s just indulging my passion for his body. Sometimes questions are best left unanswered. Sometimes you really shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Even when that’s not where you are staring.

As comfortable as Noom is in that state of undress, and as comfortable as he is in being naked around me, there are times when he considers the view of his body off-limits. Privacy does poke its little head out on occasion, even when his not so little head is usually on display. And I’m cool with that. It’s not that he is unduly modest, but rather that he’s appropriately discrete. The eye candy is to fuel future fantasies and dreams, stroke material for when we are thousands of miles apart anyway. And watching him use the facilities does not play into those fantasies.

Being Thai and automatically expecting others to know and do what is right, in most cases Noom relies on me to act appropriately on my own without his input. When it’s time to go, he doesn’t take any chances. Closing the bathroom door would work, but instead he announces what he will soon be up to. “Toilet,” he advises me, just in case I can’t figure it out on my own. “I go pee pee,” works too when he feels the need to specify. When no announcement is made, I’m free to assume he’s headed to the shower. And free to watch. Or join him. Getting my voyeur jones satisfied during most of the time we spend in a hotel room together, I usually opt for the latter. Noom extends the same courtesy to me, though rather than take the chance of using English I rely on a closed bathroom door to do my communicating for me.

Privacy at certain times and when certain bodily functions are involved is not something unique to our relationship. It’s not like we haven’t stood at adjoining urinals before when using pubic restrooms, though admittedly that happens infrequently because someone has to stand outside and hold his Ganesha ring for him (Ganesha is Noom’s personal god and evidently he’s a bit pee shy). But in the privacy of a hotel room, privacy takes precedence. Among a lot of couples. So you have to wonder who in the hell decided hotel room bathrooms with clear glass walls were the way to go.

I’m always looking for a new hotel in Bangkok. Usually, for several years now, I stay at Centre Point Silom. But there is a part of me that says there just might be an even better place at an even better price. Sometimes it’s more about a better location, a hotel closer to the area I plan on hitting when I’m just in town for a day or two. The first time I ran into what is basically a wall less bathroom was at Sacha’s Hotel Uno, a small boutique hotel on Sukhumvit soi 19. I liked the idea of being able to lay in bed and watch Noom take his morning shower. Fortunately, there were a set of wooden blinds on the inside of the glass wall that could be closed for more private times. I don’t know if Noom had experienced the wall less bathroom phenomenon before, but as soon as he came into the room he went into the bathroom and closed the blinds. They stayed closed throughout our stay.

When Glitz opened up on the corner by Tawan I was intrigued. It’s a great location, right in the middle of Patpong. The hotel’s rates were reasonable, and all of the red neon on its exterior seemed a perfect match for Bangkok’s red light district. Thinking that I might book a room for my next visit I went on-line to read reviews (which are not always accurate) and to check out pictures of the rooms (which are almost always not accurate). The rooms were a bit on the small side. I could live with that. The bathrooms, however, were small cubicles enclosed with partitions banded in frosted glass. And I knew Noom could not live with that.

Ditto for the Park Plaza on Sukhumvit Soi 18, a stylish hotel that gets goods reviews until someone mentions the clear glass walls of the bathrooms, though there is evidently a ‘privacy screen’ you can us to block off the view. I get that it’s a benefit for smaller hotels with small bathrooms to have walls constructed to let more light into what could otherwise by a dark and dank cubby hole. The ladies – and ladyboys – like lots of light to get their faces put on just right. Even the most masculine of Thai guys primp their asses off, so a well lit bathroom is a plus for them too. But not at the sacrifice of privacy.

I get that ‘boutique’ hotels all want to be hip and trendy too. I just don’t get who decided hip and trendy must mean guests displaying what they are up to in their rooms 24/7. There’s nothing hip about watching your boy du jour taking a dump. That’s kinky, not trendy.

On a visit to Chiang Mai we stayed once at Raming Lodge. It too is in a great location, right on Loi Kroh Road about equidistant from both the Night Bazaar and the Tha Pae Gate. It is not a hip and trendy hotel. It’s old, dark, and well-used. In our room, the wall separating the bedroom from the bathroom had a large set of wooden plantation shutters. Once again thinking how enjoyable laying in bed and watching Noom take his morning shower would be I immediately threw the shutters open wide. Noom waited until he’d unpacked his bag before closing them. Tightly. We did reach a compromise on that one, when it was appropriate. I got my show and he got his privacy when needed.

The old Montri hotel is an even better location in Chiang Mai. It’s right across from the Tha Pae Gate. I stayed there on my first visit to The Rose of the North, and have again numerous times since. They’ve upgraded over the years, moving from dowdier to dowdy. I suppose the upgrades are a positive thing, but I miss the old ceiling fans in each room made out of spare vintage army jeep parts. Noom and I have stayed there a few times, including during out first visit to Chiang Mai together. As down market as it is when we stay elsewhere he’s always a bit disappointed. Noom is big on traditions.

The hotel’s latest renovations are the biggest step they’ve taken, including rebranding the old dowager as the Hotel M in an effort to be hip and trendy. During all of the previous upgrades the bathrooms remained the same: a large closet with an open shower head that soaked the entire room. Now they’ve enclosed the showers with a glass partition. And added a glass wall to separate the bathroom from the bedroom. Like at Sacha’s Hotel Uno, there are a set of wooden blinds to close for privacy. I’ve stayed there without Noom. I don’t think he will feel quite as nostalgic about the place the next time we check-in. At least the blinds allow for some privacy. But when the wall is glass and any covering over it is opaque at best, that’s not possible.

The Starwood hotels in general and the W Hotel chain specifically have a good rep among travelers. They are clean, modern, and upscale. Unfortunately, the one that just opened in Bangkok in December is also hip and trendy. Located just steps away from the Chong Nonsi BTS station, the hotel is convenient for getting around town. Noom and I won’t be staying there. The pictures of the rooms they’ve published on-line clearly show they’ve gone with the hip and trendy wall less bathroom design. It’s all the rage these days. Unless you’re Noom.

It’s probably a good thing that the closest gay gogo bars in Bangkok get to kink is pseudo SM. If Noom’s bar started catering to the fringe element it would be problematic for him. As one of the guys with the hottest body at his bar, he performs in many of the shows. He does so willingly because he gets paid extra for doing so. And being spotlighted on stage raises his chances of landing a customer. But if his bar moved into the golden showers or scat arena, as a performer Noom would be, well, shit out of luck. Then again, that could open up a lot of new hotels for us to select from.

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Gay Thailand, Stupid Tourist Tricks

Noom, my bar boy friend and current love of my life, gets a disgustingly satisfied look on his face whenever we walk past a vendor selling fried insects. I’m not sure why he thinks eating cockroaches and grasshoppers is something to be proud of, but since he will and I won’t, that damn smirk always spreads across his face. It’s usually accompanied by a raised eyebrow, his invitation for me to finally come to my senses and try some. And then he chuckles when I answer him by talking with my hand and offering him a little bird to digest.

I don’t think refusing to even try a bite of something with six legs means you are a picky eater. Limits are a good thing and drawing the line at insects isn’t quite the same thing as refusing to eat brussels sprouts. Though I’d imagine the taste of the two is quite similar. If I had my druthers asparagus and broccoli would no longer be considered food either. But if I don’t have a choice in the matter I will be polite and swallow instead of spit. Vegetables that should not be considered food are known American dangers. S.E. Asia has its own unfathomable food. In S.E Asia if it ever breathed or had a heartbeat, it’s fair game for the dinner table. Sometimes, even while it is still breathing.

I won’t chow down on insects because they are insects. Not because of what they might taste like. The nice thing about being a Westener in S.E Asia is that if you are willing to try some disgusting dish, no one gets upset when you spit it out. Stupid farang finding good food inedible is always worth a laugh. And I rely on that bit of Thai humor often. I’m usually willing to try just about anything. At least once. As long as it is not a bug. Noom puts up with my dining habits though I know it perplexes him. I will eat what other farang won’t get near, but then will not eat stuff, like KFC, that everyone knows is farang food.

Late one night coming out of the clubs we stopped to pick up a few skewered meat balls as is our norm. Noom always handles that transaction because it is important to him to pick out exactly which sticks of mystery meat we get. The perennial joker, he bought a few that were fish (seafood restaurants are barely one level up from KFC on my list) and then did his damnedest to control himself while watching me bite into one. I didn’t even get the thing chewed before he was rolling on the ground giggling, “It fitsch!”

Okay, so like me he is easily amused. Unfortunately for the little ball of glee, by the time the small amount of fish is mixed in with everything else they put in those suckers, what I object to about eating fish is no longer there. And what is is smothered by the flavor of the sauce. Instead of spitting it out in disgust, which would have been good for another round of giggles, I handed him some baht and told him to go buy a few more. You can make the same comment without resorting to actually using bird.

When we first met, he tried to get his daily ration of mirth by handing me a dish at a street stall made for a Thai. In my world there is no such thing as ‘too spicy’. He didn’t get the laugh he was after that time, and should have taken heed. Since I can out hot him, I’ve managed payback a few times, which he didn’t find funny either. Now we tend to take care of our own dining needs. On the rare occasion when either of us hands food to the other, whoever is the brunt of the meal carefully sniffs it before giving it a try. They say trust is important in any relationship. That’s why ours works. We both trust each other to fuck with the other guy if it might mean a laugh.

Street food in general is good for Thais to use when they feel the need to laugh at a farang. If you’ve been on the receiving end and need some payback, stop by one of the upscale grocery stores in town and pick up a nice gooey chunk of brei. I haven’t had to resort to that trick yet. Noom knows that I like street cart food. As long as it is not an insect or has gills, I’m game. Even on some of the more gamey dishes. So most of what he comes up with, I’ve no problem with. Not that that means he doesn’t still try. I just ruin his fun most of the time. But then he gets a meal out of it anyway, so all is not lost.

When in Bangkok, we often stay at Centre Point Silom. There are street cart vendors all around the hotel 24/7 and a small sub-soi that runs along the length of the hotel’s drive where you can get the most amazing food. I’m not sure if it is purposely planned that way, but the further back you go the more unusual the dishes are. If Noom is hungry, we barely make it past the first few stalls. If I’m the one in need of food, we head for the vendors in the back. Most are fixtures. I know what they have, even if I don’t really know what it is. Others tend to come and go, or the vendor offers a variety of different meals depending on what they managed to score that morning. Starved one early afternoon, we headed toward the back and Noom’s face lit up. It wasn’t the enticing aromas drifting down the soi that put that smile on his face. It was a specific dish he decided I really needed to try. I’m still trying to decide if he has a solid punch coming for that one.

The vendor was doing a brisk business with a long line of customers waiting while he prepared each dish. It was a salad of sorts – as long as you don’t confuse salad with the western version that usually includes some kind of lettuce – mostly green onions and garlic with some lemon grass mixed in. You can never go wrong with onions and garlic. Topping off the herb mix were tiny little translucent shrimp. I’m not a fan of fish, but shrimp, crab, and lobster are okay in my book. Especially when smothered in garlic.

Each portion came in a small metal bowl, with an upside down dish serving as a lid. As usual, I grabbed us seats while Noom went after the food. When he finally showed up at the table with our meal, that upside down dish gave me pause. There are numerous Thai dishes meant to be eaten in a specific manner, which I’ve learned in the past by providing whichever local I’m dining with a good laugh by eating the wrong thing or eating it in the wrong way. I’ve learned to wait and follow a local’s lead before diving in. With this meal, Noom wasn’t buying into that.

“You try!” he urged me while ignoring the bowl in front of himself.

I waited a minute hoping his stomach would get the better of him, but he waited for the punch line patiently instead, an anticipatory grin plastered to his face. With a fork and large spoon provided as utensils, I figured there couldn’t be too much of a trick to eating a bowl of shrimp salad, and assumed rather than eating from the bowl, you were supposed to eat off of the plate that was temporarily serving as a lid. No problemo. I slipped the ‘lid’ off with the intention of righting it. And tiny little shrimp started jumping out of the bowl.

Noom howled with laughter.

Goong ten, or dancing shrimp, is a dish from Northern Thailand. Where, evidently, fire to cook with is a rarity. I’ve had drunken shrimp in Hong Kong, so the idea of chowing down on tiny crustaceans with life still left in them wasn’t a totally foreign experience. Their little antennae waving all over the place was a bit creepy, but what the hell, I had a shit-eating grin to wipe off my boy’s face. I managed to get a few of the little creatures on my spoon along with a good portion of onions and garlic, and only lost another one or two of the little buggers to freedom before cramming the concoction into my mouth.

Not realizing they are doomed, in your mouth the shrimp continue to wiggle. At least until they meet your teeth. With a satisfying crunch, the shrimp rupture as you grind into them. As for the taste, even live critters have a difficult time taking center stage when you have enough garlic and onion in the mix; there is virtually no shrimp flavor to the dish at all.

Noom was a bit disappointed that his session of joy was being cut short, but wasn’t about to waste the food either so he recovered my bowl before too many of my shrimp made their escape. There is lime juice in the mix, along with a few other Thai spices, which kills off the shrimp – they die in a relatively swift fashion. There is less and less jumping as you eat the meal, the wiggle-effect remains for a few bites, and by the end of the meal the only movement left is your throat swallowing what is surprisingly quite a tasty dish.

Since that meal, I’ve tried the dish once more. Not because it was that good, but rather to wipe out any pleasure left in Noom’s memory bank from the first experience. In Chiang Mai, the dish was made slightly different with more shrimp and less veggies. Noom preferred the Chiang Mai version, I preferred the dish I’d had in Bangkok. They say the third time’s the charm, but I doubt I’ll ever be ordering goong ten for a third meal. Besides, I’m sure there are still some equally weird Thai dishes just waiting for Noom to get a laugh out of ordering for me.

Come to think about it, I really do need to stop and pick up some runny brie for dinner one night. I’ll let ya know how much Noom enjoys it, and how much I enjoy watching him try it.

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