snotface
November 13th, 2019, 10:01
The post below appeared on the Gaybutton board more than two years ago under my former posting name of PeterUK. I subsequently threw a hissy fit (not Gaybutton's fault), had all my posts deleted and came here with a new (charming I'm sure Smiles would agree) handle. I recently reread the post as stored in my computer and thought it might bear repetition here. Begging the pardon of those who have read it before, it deals with a subject that I suspect quite a few on a board like this will be able to identify with, that is to say, those of us who will insist, against all logic and commonsense and concern for our own sanity, on falling in love with barboys.
In July 1997 I arrived in Thailand just as the financial meltdown was hitting the headlines. Suddenly, after years of getting 36 baht to the pound regular as clockwork, I was the delighted recipient of 60, 70, 80, even briefly 90 baht. Heady stuff! And the good fortune (as it seemed) didn't end there. I went into My Way in Bangkok and beheld a gorgeous 19-year-old sensually performing the pole-dancing for which that bar was famous. Goggle-eyed, I called him over for a chat. He was new to the scene and a bit reluctant to be offed, but the no-nonsense manager, Charlie, quickly put a stop to that. Back at my hotel lust had a field day as I explored that slim, beautifully defined body and soon he was coming over to see me nearly every eagerly anticipated afternoon.
By the end of that trip I was madly in love (appropriate phrase). For the next three years or so I spent long painful hours pining for him when back in England and much of my time feverishly involved with him when in Thailand. It was a rocky relationship to put it mildly. He was unusually hot-tempered for a Thai and the reluctance I had observed on our first meeting never really disappeared. I tried to overcome it – oh, how I tried! – but to no avail. There were falling-outs and falling-ins, outbursts, misunderstandings, sulks on both sides, all the crafty mind-games you might imagine when sex and money are the primary weapons being deployed. He was so good-looking that he was of serious interest to a lot of other punters besides me, a fact which was certainly not lost on him. Jealousy was my constant companion in those years, that and an infinite capacity for self-inflicted wounds. Nothing was too humiliating in my desperate determination to hang on to him.
A recurring fantasy was of a period, say ten years hence, when he was no longer quite so good-looking. The arrogance of youth would be gone and he would finally appreciate me for the fine fellow I was. We would embrace in a tearful reunion and live happily ever after. That was the benign version of the fantasy anyway. In my more vindictive moments, I imagined him returning to me after the said ten years begging for forgiveness. With a dismissive wave of my hand I would tell him that he was too late and now it was his turn to suffer what he had once put me through. Begone! (To be accompanied by cackles of evil laughter).
The reality was, of course, a lot more mundane. Once my love/lust had run its frenzied course I saw him from time to time over the years that followed, often on Jomtien beach with assorted farangs. I may have felt the odd twinge of jealousy for old times' sake, nothing more. I had moved on to other fixations, other complications. One day, when he must have been in his early 30s and I was now living full-time in Pattaya, I saw him sitting alone on the beach and we had a chat. He was a bit fleshier than of old, a few creases had appeared in that silky skin, there were two or three black wart-like spots on one hand. But he was still very presentable, all things considered. I couldn't help noticing that he was much friendlier than he'd ever been in the years when I fancied him. Obviously available. We ended up back at my condo, both somewhat self-conscious. The bed event was not a great success, despite the fact that he was now only too willing to kiss (his previous reluctance to do so had always been a big bugbear of mine). I simply couldn't summon the required minimum of desire. I received a few phone calls after that. I made excuses not to see him, then stopped answering altogether. There was no sense of triumph on my part, no malicious glee. A little sadness perhaps. But chiefly indifference.
So why has all this sorry stuff come back to me now? Because I was reminded of it the other day when reading a brutally honest little poem translated from the Chinese:
'I craved the years would quickly pass
That you might lose
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-blossom of your skin,
And all the cruel splendour of your youth.
Then I alone would love you
And you at last would care.
The envious years have passed full soon
And you have lost
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-blossom of your skin,
And all the charming splendour of your youth.
Alas, I do not love you
And I care not if you care.'
In July 1997 I arrived in Thailand just as the financial meltdown was hitting the headlines. Suddenly, after years of getting 36 baht to the pound regular as clockwork, I was the delighted recipient of 60, 70, 80, even briefly 90 baht. Heady stuff! And the good fortune (as it seemed) didn't end there. I went into My Way in Bangkok and beheld a gorgeous 19-year-old sensually performing the pole-dancing for which that bar was famous. Goggle-eyed, I called him over for a chat. He was new to the scene and a bit reluctant to be offed, but the no-nonsense manager, Charlie, quickly put a stop to that. Back at my hotel lust had a field day as I explored that slim, beautifully defined body and soon he was coming over to see me nearly every eagerly anticipated afternoon.
By the end of that trip I was madly in love (appropriate phrase). For the next three years or so I spent long painful hours pining for him when back in England and much of my time feverishly involved with him when in Thailand. It was a rocky relationship to put it mildly. He was unusually hot-tempered for a Thai and the reluctance I had observed on our first meeting never really disappeared. I tried to overcome it – oh, how I tried! – but to no avail. There were falling-outs and falling-ins, outbursts, misunderstandings, sulks on both sides, all the crafty mind-games you might imagine when sex and money are the primary weapons being deployed. He was so good-looking that he was of serious interest to a lot of other punters besides me, a fact which was certainly not lost on him. Jealousy was my constant companion in those years, that and an infinite capacity for self-inflicted wounds. Nothing was too humiliating in my desperate determination to hang on to him.
A recurring fantasy was of a period, say ten years hence, when he was no longer quite so good-looking. The arrogance of youth would be gone and he would finally appreciate me for the fine fellow I was. We would embrace in a tearful reunion and live happily ever after. That was the benign version of the fantasy anyway. In my more vindictive moments, I imagined him returning to me after the said ten years begging for forgiveness. With a dismissive wave of my hand I would tell him that he was too late and now it was his turn to suffer what he had once put me through. Begone! (To be accompanied by cackles of evil laughter).
The reality was, of course, a lot more mundane. Once my love/lust had run its frenzied course I saw him from time to time over the years that followed, often on Jomtien beach with assorted farangs. I may have felt the odd twinge of jealousy for old times' sake, nothing more. I had moved on to other fixations, other complications. One day, when he must have been in his early 30s and I was now living full-time in Pattaya, I saw him sitting alone on the beach and we had a chat. He was a bit fleshier than of old, a few creases had appeared in that silky skin, there were two or three black wart-like spots on one hand. But he was still very presentable, all things considered. I couldn't help noticing that he was much friendlier than he'd ever been in the years when I fancied him. Obviously available. We ended up back at my condo, both somewhat self-conscious. The bed event was not a great success, despite the fact that he was now only too willing to kiss (his previous reluctance to do so had always been a big bugbear of mine). I simply couldn't summon the required minimum of desire. I received a few phone calls after that. I made excuses not to see him, then stopped answering altogether. There was no sense of triumph on my part, no malicious glee. A little sadness perhaps. But chiefly indifference.
So why has all this sorry stuff come back to me now? Because I was reminded of it the other day when reading a brutally honest little poem translated from the Chinese:
'I craved the years would quickly pass
That you might lose
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-blossom of your skin,
And all the cruel splendour of your youth.
Then I alone would love you
And you at last would care.
The envious years have passed full soon
And you have lost
The brightness of your eyes, the peach-blossom of your skin,
And all the charming splendour of your youth.
Alas, I do not love you
And I care not if you care.'