Greetings, net surfer. I’m Bangkok Seven, and you’ve found your way to my blog. On Fridays, I like to publish something that connects to the past. My current series recalls and reflects on a set of blogs that I wrote before moving to Thailand. It paints a picture of my previously fractured mind, and the final wringing-dry of my soul that ultimately led to what is today a truly charmed life in paradise.
“Saturday, December 16, 2006 Current mood: inebriated
Don’t f*cking call it champagne!
It’s not my usual fare. It’s a white, and a sparkling white at that. The stupid would call it champagne, but since it doesn’t hail from Champagne (it’s Spanish, in fact) it is merely sparkling wine. Segur Viudas Brut. The bottle is green, heavy, and adorned with a pewter base and emblem—a coat of arms complete with knight’s helmet. It must weigh six pounds empty. You could bludgeon someone with it.
The wine within is heavenly. Tastes like citrus and apple. It snaps. And there’s a creamy aftertaste of vanilla and almonds. It confuses the palate as much as it scrambles the senses. I’ve been saving the empties, assuming, of course, that at some point I will do something creative with them, but also because each represents a memory, a moment in time. Mostly with a certain blonde goddess who shall remain nameless. The last time we drank this together might well have marked one of the top ten days of my life, replete with the kind of tactile moments a hedonist dreams of and an epicurean would sell his children for. It’s uncanny. Her skin, breath, and kiss embodied the same characteristics as the wine. Light (as in sunlight), intoxicating, heady, and crippling in their sweetness. As her voice. As her eyes. She seems oblivious. Like Hugo’s Cosette. She shrugs off the worship of the countless men around her as though blind to it, all the while basking in my company and regarding me with the kind of affection I’ve always wanted but been afraid to think I deserve. It is surreal. She is remarkable. Almost mythical. She strikes me as indestructible, like Abednego. The men who pursue her would burn up in her flames, but I, for the moment, am unharmed. I wonder whether that will last.
She’s dyed her hair brown. She curls up naked on my bed, wrapped in the comforter and the afternoon light like an angel or a phoenix. I simmer in the warmth of her fire. Every kiss feels like a milestone. Her hands pull me close, and I fall under a spell, like a curse that is full of the sweetest poison. I secretly hope that this is what death will be like. Like a hypnosis, like a candy-coated sleep, an orgasm adorned in blinding light and a slipping under to the sound of fading music and whispers and warm skin and the smell of Escada drifting up to the ceiling.
You are my friend, and my dream. My unbreathed confession and my guiltless pleasure. You are radiant in my room, turning on the ball of your foot to fall on me. I breathe you like a last gasp. I wait for the light to wane into blindness in a suspended sunset, in time out of step, out of this moment and into my head like a library of thoughts. I record it as it fades. It is a private volume, kept to myself, kept to yourself and revealed only to each other in stolen seclusion, away from the crowd, behind the curtains that leave out the world but let in the light that glows on your skin. I cannot kiss it enough. Your body gifted, in my arms and falling, finds its way into my senses, diffusing like smoke, becoming what I have lost of myself, and as you find yourself in me, I regain what I’ve let go. It is your caress, your lips on my neck, your body enfolded in this embrace.
The best thing about this wine is, you’re unconscious before you realize you’re drunk. Oh, and it cures all sense of inhibition. Just ask the girl. I have one bottle left, and I’m saving it for her. For another moment, for the privilege of her body, unraveling my senses, igniting a dream like an arsonist in my mind. For this day at least, I am fearless. Let me burn.”
Now, my days are replete with women. They schedule coitus. They sometimes come in pairs. My existence is marked by an overabundance of tail. But there’s a trade-off. As I re-read the above description of my last Western concubine, I realized that, while my Thai playmates are fun, loving, fun-loving, and lovely, none as yet have had the kind of visceral impact that my ex wreaked upon my life. What I feel for my giks is less-intense. Less-impactful. The upside of that is, I feel little discomfort when one of them leaves, and they leave often. I’m also never lonely, and my urge for naughty Olympics is in a state of constant satiation. And while I admit that I do sometimes miss the heart-pounding highs of romance, I don’t miss the crippling lows one bit. That’s the trade-off, and I’m more than happy with it. If you’re currently suffering through relationship woes in the West, or even here in TLOS, I propose considering a life less-extraordinary. Of flings, trysts, and casual affairs. Or maybe I should keep my mouth shut. Maybe it boils down to my own weakness, or cowardice in the face of a real relationship with real stakes. But hey—can you blame me? After reading this record of emotional flagellation?
Let me just say this: cheers to anyone with the fortitude to brave the journey of monogamy, and also to all the women who entertain me enough that I don’t have to. Until next time, may your days be as carefree as they are jam-packed with Thaidoration (adoration from Thai women, copyright BKK7). Peace!