PeterUK
January 29th, 2012, 11:39
The trip hadn't been a great success. Trips which start from the premise 'just one more try' rarely are. For two years we had seen each other often тАУ money for sex, a business-like arrangement. A show of friendliness on both sides, but no deep attachments, or so it seemed. Occasional falling-outs followed by relieved reconciliations. A nagging sense on my part (especially just after sex, just after he had gone, lying there aware of my own dissatisfaction) that wouldn't it be nice if it developed into something a bit more fulfilling тАУ except that I knew very well he didn't have the slightest interest in doing that. Then had come our longest period of separation тАУ about three months тАУ and the surprising realisation that I was jealous as hell of the unmet, shadowy German who had apparently lured him away. Oh, the complicated misfortunes I devised for him! When he had reappeared out of the blue, sheepish-looking, fidgety, I gave him a hug and suggested the week-long trip up north. He accepted without hesitation. He'd never been to Chiang Mai or Mae Hong Son before, never flown before. I liked the idea of introducing him to new experiences. I saw it as a means of getting to know each other better, of deepening the relationship. Self-delusion comes easily to Pattaya dwellers.
The flight might have been a bus ride for all the enthusiasm it generated. He smiled a lot in his usual self-effacing, distant way as we did the familiar (to me) round of sights тАУ the zoo, Doi Suthep, Phuping palace, the old-city temples, the weekend market. I don't recall much about the gay bars; we sat and watched the shows anyway. In our hotel room he was generally in a bad mood and evasive. At a riverside cafe I took a picture of him scowling darkly as he cut into a slice of chocolate cake. I thought it made a fitting counterbalance to all the others with their posed geniality. (Later, I took a malicious pleasure in showing him the developed photo and registering his look of genuine horror at his own appearance тАУ you see what I have to put up with?). The best picture was one of him feeding pigeons by the moat. His lower body is hidden by a cloud of frantic, pecking birds and his face is turned skywards in a merry howl of pain. I liked the spontaneity of it.
We made the short hop to Mae Hong Son in a sprightly little Nok Air twin-engine turboprop. Who could fail to be enchanted by Mae Hong Son? That lovely central lake edged with floral displays, overhanging trees, little pavilions, glittering stupas. Blue-green wooded hills in the background. Throw in a few tinkling cowbells and you could almost be in Switzerland. He seemed to relax more there. Our first full day changed rapidly from pale sunshine to leaden skies and obscured views. We wandered about at random. An afternoon raft trip was idyllic for about thirty seconds until, without ceremony, the rain tipped down. I spent the next hour listening to the furious rustling of the jungle foliage to either side of us and looking at his apologetic, orange-life-jacketed back as he sat a couple of yards before me on the narrow raft under our only umbrella. (He offered me the umbrella once but, already wet, I declined it with a faint, mysterious smile). My mood gradually deteriorated from one of sublime martyrdom to sheer drenched-to-the-bone misery.
Our second and last day dawned calm and sunny and, mercifully, stayed that way. We went on a car tour of provincial sights (a first for me as well as him), our driver/guide a pleasant, intelligent fellow of Burmese extraction. We enjoyed ourselves. In all directions forested slopes and lush valleys looked almost magical in the bright yellow light. He was fascinated by the long-neck village, sharing no farang scruples about poking around other people's homes as if they are exhibits. We bought bargain-basement handicrafts. At a hilltop coffee plantation he sucked in the pure, pungent air with delight. A village of stalwart Chinese immigrants, gamely dedicated to preserving their own culture, appealed to him. Much of my own pleasure came from seeing him looking a bit happier at last. We were almost getting on well!
Mid-afternoon we stopped at a wooded area on a rise and our guide waited by the car as we descended a winding path to a sheltered waterfall. Against a screen of tangled, encroaching trees, water tumbled down the jutting rock face at various locations into shallow pools. We'd worked up a sweat just getting down there and in an instant he had stripped to his underpants and started clambering over rocks to get to where the foamy action was. I planted myself awkwardly against a boulder to watch. He splashed about for a bit, walked agilely along a half-submerged tree trunk, then sat down in one of the pools and scooped water over himself. He looked so happy and I imagined him reliving joyful childhood memories. (My own memories of that kind concerned dreary, echoey indoor municipal baths, furtive glances in changing-rooms and the smell of chlorine). He gave me one quick smile, but seemed completely self-contained and exclusive in his enjoyment; it didn't invite my own participation.
After a while he stood up and leaned against a slab of rock, handsome face tilted upwards, eyes closed, serene smile on his lips, absorbing the rays of the sun coming through a gap in the tall trees above. The small, rather skinny, bubble-butted body that I knew so well and my tireless lust for which had kept me coming back for more through all the vicissitudes of our relationship, glistened and arched before me. I looked at him with a kind of helpless longing. I knew that, given the slightest encouragement, I could have fallen madly in love with him at any time, but тАУ to his credit тАУ he had never attempted to dissemble what he didn't feel. In all honesty I had to admit that nothing had really changed in recent days. Even at the best of times I sensed a wary reserve in him, a preference for his own company. If I'd joined him now for a bit of aquatic frolicking, it would have been a clumsy, embarrassing imitation of lovers at play. Only my own wishful thinking when feeling vulnerable as a result of the business with the predatory German had led me to suppose that this trip might achieve a breakthrough.
He came out of his trance, smiled again in my direction. He joined me and we sat quietly for a few minutes. I may have made a cheery remark or two about how wonderful this little interlude had been. He put on his clothes and we headed back up to the road. 'He'll think we've drowned,' I said. He smiled.
We flew back to Chiang Mai the next day. An argumentative night there and then back to Bangkok. At Suvarnabhumi he threw the mother of all hissy fits because a bottle of rare, incredibly expensive (according to him) body lotion, which he had had to deposit with security on the way out, had gone missing. Trembling with indignation his little frame was. In the taxi back to Pattaya we stared out of opposite rear-seat windows, each locked into his own sombre thoughts.
The flight might have been a bus ride for all the enthusiasm it generated. He smiled a lot in his usual self-effacing, distant way as we did the familiar (to me) round of sights тАУ the zoo, Doi Suthep, Phuping palace, the old-city temples, the weekend market. I don't recall much about the gay bars; we sat and watched the shows anyway. In our hotel room he was generally in a bad mood and evasive. At a riverside cafe I took a picture of him scowling darkly as he cut into a slice of chocolate cake. I thought it made a fitting counterbalance to all the others with their posed geniality. (Later, I took a malicious pleasure in showing him the developed photo and registering his look of genuine horror at his own appearance тАУ you see what I have to put up with?). The best picture was one of him feeding pigeons by the moat. His lower body is hidden by a cloud of frantic, pecking birds and his face is turned skywards in a merry howl of pain. I liked the spontaneity of it.
We made the short hop to Mae Hong Son in a sprightly little Nok Air twin-engine turboprop. Who could fail to be enchanted by Mae Hong Son? That lovely central lake edged with floral displays, overhanging trees, little pavilions, glittering stupas. Blue-green wooded hills in the background. Throw in a few tinkling cowbells and you could almost be in Switzerland. He seemed to relax more there. Our first full day changed rapidly from pale sunshine to leaden skies and obscured views. We wandered about at random. An afternoon raft trip was idyllic for about thirty seconds until, without ceremony, the rain tipped down. I spent the next hour listening to the furious rustling of the jungle foliage to either side of us and looking at his apologetic, orange-life-jacketed back as he sat a couple of yards before me on the narrow raft under our only umbrella. (He offered me the umbrella once but, already wet, I declined it with a faint, mysterious smile). My mood gradually deteriorated from one of sublime martyrdom to sheer drenched-to-the-bone misery.
Our second and last day dawned calm and sunny and, mercifully, stayed that way. We went on a car tour of provincial sights (a first for me as well as him), our driver/guide a pleasant, intelligent fellow of Burmese extraction. We enjoyed ourselves. In all directions forested slopes and lush valleys looked almost magical in the bright yellow light. He was fascinated by the long-neck village, sharing no farang scruples about poking around other people's homes as if they are exhibits. We bought bargain-basement handicrafts. At a hilltop coffee plantation he sucked in the pure, pungent air with delight. A village of stalwart Chinese immigrants, gamely dedicated to preserving their own culture, appealed to him. Much of my own pleasure came from seeing him looking a bit happier at last. We were almost getting on well!
Mid-afternoon we stopped at a wooded area on a rise and our guide waited by the car as we descended a winding path to a sheltered waterfall. Against a screen of tangled, encroaching trees, water tumbled down the jutting rock face at various locations into shallow pools. We'd worked up a sweat just getting down there and in an instant he had stripped to his underpants and started clambering over rocks to get to where the foamy action was. I planted myself awkwardly against a boulder to watch. He splashed about for a bit, walked agilely along a half-submerged tree trunk, then sat down in one of the pools and scooped water over himself. He looked so happy and I imagined him reliving joyful childhood memories. (My own memories of that kind concerned dreary, echoey indoor municipal baths, furtive glances in changing-rooms and the smell of chlorine). He gave me one quick smile, but seemed completely self-contained and exclusive in his enjoyment; it didn't invite my own participation.
After a while he stood up and leaned against a slab of rock, handsome face tilted upwards, eyes closed, serene smile on his lips, absorbing the rays of the sun coming through a gap in the tall trees above. The small, rather skinny, bubble-butted body that I knew so well and my tireless lust for which had kept me coming back for more through all the vicissitudes of our relationship, glistened and arched before me. I looked at him with a kind of helpless longing. I knew that, given the slightest encouragement, I could have fallen madly in love with him at any time, but тАУ to his credit тАУ he had never attempted to dissemble what he didn't feel. In all honesty I had to admit that nothing had really changed in recent days. Even at the best of times I sensed a wary reserve in him, a preference for his own company. If I'd joined him now for a bit of aquatic frolicking, it would have been a clumsy, embarrassing imitation of lovers at play. Only my own wishful thinking when feeling vulnerable as a result of the business with the predatory German had led me to suppose that this trip might achieve a breakthrough.
He came out of his trance, smiled again in my direction. He joined me and we sat quietly for a few minutes. I may have made a cheery remark or two about how wonderful this little interlude had been. He put on his clothes and we headed back up to the road. 'He'll think we've drowned,' I said. He smiled.
We flew back to Chiang Mai the next day. An argumentative night there and then back to Bangkok. At Suvarnabhumi he threw the mother of all hissy fits because a bottle of rare, incredibly expensive (according to him) body lotion, which he had had to deposit with security on the way out, had gone missing. Trembling with indignation his little frame was. In the taxi back to Pattaya we stared out of opposite rear-seat windows, each locked into his own sombre thoughts.