by Randy Ross
The next day, he went to work, the girlfriend went to work, and I sat on the couch and watched TV. At the end of the day, he came home without the girlfriend.
After dinner, he took out the beer, then the weed, and I took out the Percodan, which was known to induce feelings of well-being and camaraderie.
We partied for an hour, and then he said, “Ever been to a gay bar?”
I took another hit of beer and another hit of weed, and thought: Why not?
At the bar, guys were checking me out and buying me drinks. I thought to myself: This is what it must be like to be a hot chick.
The next day, he went to work and I sat on the couch and watched TV. At the end of the day, he came home without the girlfriend. After dinner, he took out the beer, he took out the weed, and I took out the Percodan, which was known to induce feelings of well-being and camaraderie.
We partied for an hour, and then he said, “I bet that couch is uncomfortable. Why don’t you sleep in my bed with me?”
I took another hit of beer and another hit of weed, and thought: Why not?
His bed was the size of a swimming pool. I considered his long blond hair and beautiful Sharon Stone face. Then I noticed the sheets were bunched up and sprinkled with little white crusty stains. I thought to myself: I don’t think I want to be bunched up and sprinkled with little white crusty stains.
“Thanks, but my sunburn is still pretty bad,” I said. “Probably best for me to stay on the couch.”
The next night after dinner, he took out the beer, he took out the weed, and I took out the Percodan, which was known to induce feelings of well-being and camaraderie.
We partied for an hour. We partied for another hour and another and another. There was no mention of gay bars and no mention of sleeping in his bed.
This continued for two more nights, but my sunburn didn’t get any better.
Finally he came home with a plane ticket for me: Turned out the guy was a travel agent.
The next day, he drove me to the airport, where a gate agent met us and said, “Mr. Burns, I understand you’re not feeling well. We’re going to put you in first class.”
I considered Mr. Sharon Stone with his long blond hair and beautiful face. I gave him a hug, a kiss on the lips, and then the rest of my Percodan.
Since then, I’ve maintained my gay virginity but acquired some suspicious tastes:
• I like mouthy, ballsy women who lace their conversation with words like “asshole,” “cocksucker,” and “scumbag.”
• I don’t like curvy girly-girls. I prefer slender, boyish women who look good in Under Armour.
• I flirt with men. If a friend is dressed nicely, I’ll say, “You’re going to break some hearts tonight.” If a friend compliments my outfit, I’ll say, “I bet you say that to all the guys.”
• I develop crushes on new male friends and during our getting-to-know-each-other stage, we’ll talk on the phone several times a day. At some point in the relationship, one of us will say, “If you had a cunt, I’d marry you.” The other one will respond: “I bet you say that to all the guys.”
Maybe I just don’t like women.
But I’m not exactly attracted to men:
• I don’t like facial or body hair on women or men.
• I don’t like anuses, sphincters, dingle berries, fartel berries, culo cranberries or any of that scene back there.
• I have no desire to touch a schlong other than mine.
Maybe I just don’t like other people.
To have successful relationships, Dr. Moody says you have to learn to ignore a lot of things about other people. You also have to learn to tolerate boredom. If you have to spend most of your time bored or ignoring other people, why bother with them?
Oh, right, you need the oxytocin.
So, say you meet some people you like, and you go out to eat with them all the time, which is expensive, but you do it because that’s what people do, and then these people wonder why they’re fat, and you listen to them complain about their weight, but you endure the complaining and get to know them, and then you establish boundaries, but then you spend all your time defending those boundaries because these people start asking for favors, and the one time you say “no” their feelings get hurt, and they pout and won’t say what’s wrong, and soon you spend all your time worrying about their feelings and have no time for yourself, and then, when you go on a trip around the world, which is like the biggest thing you’ve ever done, the fuckers don’t write.
I admire the ladyboy’s toned legs. A woman outside and a man inside. Too confusing. I’m going to die alone.
Back at the hostel, I look in the bathroom mirror at my wide, anxious eyes. When the Dark Place beckoned in South Africa, I followed Moody’s advice and didn’t resist. It was bad advice then, it’s probably bad advice now. Off I go.
I’m in the foyer of the split-level ranch. The smells: Salisbury steak, pine disinfectant, and a hint of cigarette smoke. By the door, four pairs of galoshes.
It’s two A.M. I’m seven, awake, and wandering. The door to my parents’ room is locked.
The door to my stepsister Harriet’s room is open. I shake her: “I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?”
“Fine.”
She yanks back the covers. She is fourteen and tall for her age. Her bed smells powdery like cupcakes unlike my bed, which smells like a wet dog even before we have a dog.
“I’m thirsty.”
“Be quiet.”
“I’m bored.”
“Shut up.”
“I can’t.”
“If you promise to shut up, I’ll show you how to play the egg game.”
I lie on my back.
“Close your eyes. Now, pretend I have a giant egg in my hand and I’m going to crack it. Imagine the yolk dripping over you, only it’s warm and soft, not gooey.”
Above my head, I hear the clap of hands, the smell of vanilla hand cream. Spidery fingers graze my hair, my cheeks, my neck. I feel chills, prickles, a flush, warm and floaty. Over my pajamas she traces my chest, nipples, ribs. My thoughts wander, drift, evaporate. I’m a feather, a droplet, mist. She circles my tummy. I feel myself dissolve into warm sheets, a cushy mattress. I’m awake but can’t move. Her hands slide side-to-side under my waistband, the pads of her fingertips against my skin. My body tingles like a sleeping arm that just woke up.
“Eeew,” she says. “Gross. Get out of here!”
A paneled den, a month later, Harriet is babysitting me. Her friend Myrna is over. We’re watching TV.
“Randall, Myrna wants to play the egg game with you.”
I don’t like Myrna. She’s mean and Harriet acts mean around her. Harriet met her on the volleyball team. Myrna weighs more than most of the boys.
“No egg game,” I say.
From behind me, someone grabs my wrists and pulls me down. My head thumps on the carpet. Myrna sits on my chest, knees on my arms.
“Get off, you fat pig!” I yell.
Harriet jumps on my shins and tickles me. I thrash, spit, squeal. I slam and bang my head against the rug.
“Come on, Randall, show us the little pocket rocket,” Harriet says.
She tugs down my pajama pants. I shriek till I’m out of breath. Soft fingers drift across my belly, probe my belly button. The scent of warm vanilla, a warm heartbeat between my legs.
“Look Myrna, the little pervert is loving it.”
In bed that night, my head and wrists ache, I lie awake feeling the warm heartbeat, the buzz of a sleeping arm, the twitch of a phantom limb.
I can’t sleep and go to Harriet’s room.
“Get out you little perv.”
Soon after, my parents buy me, in succession, a chameleon, a gerbil, and a dog.
At fourteen. Same house, same foyer. By the door, three pairs of galoshes. Harriet is off at college or pregnant somewhere, I don’t really care.
In the kitchen, “The Way We Were” is on the radio. A fridge covered wit
h photos of Harriet and me and a magnet that says, “Insanity is hereditary. You get it from your kids.”
Downstairs in a finished basement, another bedroom. Harold the basset hound wags its tail and jumps on the bed. On the dresser, a stacking turntable. On the wall, a Roger Dean black-light poster. On the windowsill, a loaded BB gun. Outside, the neighbor’s window riddled with little holes, a wounded blue jay on the ground.
Across the hall, the playroom, that land of failed distractions. Under the Ping-Pong table, the large cage covered with the paint-spattered tarp. Whimpering emanates from inside. I lift a tarp corner and something stirs against the metal bars. Around the room: a beanbag chair leaking stuffing onto the floor, a hole in the wood paneling where I hide my stash. I pull off the tarp: clinging to a wire hanger covered with cloth, a baby monkey. The baby has wide, anxious eyes that never blink.
Like mine now in the mirror.
I imagine the monkey’s voice: “Why do you keep coming here?”
I hear myself answer: “I don’t know.”
When I told Moody about Harriet, he took out a fresh pad of paper.
“So what?” I said. “I was diddled by my older stepsister. I got a boner, so I must have enjoyed it. My cousin Joey says he’s jealous.”
In the hostel computer room, I check e-mail. There are three messages.
From Match.com:
You caught her attention! She finds you intriguing.
You both enjoy a drink or two in social settings.
Like you, she exercises regularly.
Find out who she is.
I click to find out and the next screen asks for my credit card number. I hit delete.
One person commented on my blog.
Abe, Lenny, Rachel?
No, it’s my old pal, Anonymous:
Dear Friend,
Try this weird trick for better sleep without drugs.
The text is accompanied by a photo of a barely legal girl in a bikini holding a leather strap. I consider clicking but hit delete.
From Ricki:
Hey Burns,
Figures you’re loving Asia. It’s the perfect place for you and your obsessions with germs, smells, bodily functions, and all things weird. Just read a book about a condition called “counterphobia” that made me think of you. Seems there are a lot of fucked-up people who are attracted to things they’re afraid of.
I bet you’re saving money by staying in another hostel filled with college girls. Take a break from stealing their hand lotion and visit some place other than the gym.
And in other news, I’m going in for surgery, so you won’t hear from me for a while.
Safe travels, Ha ha.
—RRRRRR
I begin to type.
Hi Ricki,
Thanks for writing.
Sorry about Wiener.
Sorry to hear about your surgery.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
Instead of hitting send, I hit delete, and then hit the road: Skytrain, ferry, Chao Phraya, boys and frills, couples and roses, temples and statues. Eventually, I’m face-to-face with the giant Reclining Buddha of Wat Pho. I’m not sure why I’m here.
The Buddha is long and serene as advertised. I give the gold-plated Gigantor the once-over:
One-hundred-fifty-foot body lying on its side like a napping blue whale. Check.
Sacred headgear that resembles an old-time, leather football helmet covered with acorns. Check.
Peaceful Buddha smile, the smile of one who is about to depart this world for nirvana. Check.
Feet with mother-of-pearl etchings representing Buddha’s 108 auspicious characteristics, whatever that means. Check.
While pondering the Thais’ obsession with feet, I hear cachinking, like the sound of a cash register. I follow the noise to a row of metal bowls that is about as long as the Buddha himself.
Tourists are buying bags of coins to drop in each of the bowls for good luck. There are 108 bowls, how auspicious. My inkling to drop in some coins is interrupted by a more profound inkling—in my bowels.
The shoe guard directs me across an open courtyard. I pass a row of stupas or chedis or prangs. No bathroom.
A helpful local guy in a linen suit approaches and says that all Wat Pho bathrooms are closed for the king’s coronation day. The guy recommends a bathroom on the other side of town, conveniently located near a bespoke suit store: Lik-Lik herself will measure me. He gestures toward a cab stand near an exit.
“Should I bring my rich, senile father?” I ask. “He loves clothes. He’s talking to one of the stone statues. I’ll get him.”
I excuse myself, and then walk in the other direction and keep walking. I cross a street and enter another compound with orange-robed monks walking around, but no tourists. Deep in my bowels, the inkling has graduated to a boiling. Instead of asking for directions and risk being told to leave the grounds, I pretend to know where I’m going and follow the sound of voices and shuffling feet.
Around the corner, two metal posts spaced about eighty feet apart rise from the ground. Each post is more than ten feet high and supports a fan-shaped sheet of metal that resembles a giant flyswatter. Attached to the flyswatter is a metal hoop. I hear the bouncing of a ball. Someone with a Thai accent yells, “Three pointer,” and then someone else yells, “Brick.” Everyone is wearing orange robes and sandals.
I am considering how to describe this scene in my blog, when a monk exits a small, tiled building and adjusts his robe. The building is the size of an outhouse.
Inside the building, I reach for a light switch and can’t find one. I reach for the door and can’t find one. In one corner, there’s a hole in the floor surrounded by raised porcelain foot rests. In the other corner, a sauce pan floats in a plastic barrel filled with water.
I stare into the soupy, brown hole of the toilet and imagine a hand raising my chin and a voice urging me not to look down. I imagine myself squatting over the hole. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.
I imagine Peter, the Dutch girls, and Pam from the Sukhumvit hostel watching me. I imagine the ferry woman from Denver raising her hand for a high five and saying, “We doing this for the fucking US of A?”
Something with legs and a tail skitters up the wall and onto the ceiling.
A faucet protruding from the tiled wall drip-drips into the plastic barrel. The boiling sensation intensifies in my colon.
I think of Ricki and counterphobia and the rush, the electroshock jolt, I get from doing something scary or repulsive.
I swallow three times, drop my pants, and hover my butt over the hole. I grab the rim of the barrel with one hand for stability. The other hand points my penis back like a little hose. Money starts to slip out my pockets. As I go to catch the cash, my penis springs free and sprays my sandals, feet, and pants. All I can do is let it all go.
After I’m done, I look around for toilet paper. Nothing. Not a shred, not a newspaper, not a magazine, not a parking ticket, not a movie stub. I check my pockets. I have some wet cash and a copy of my passport, which is too small for a mess like this. The floor is covered with leaves, possibly used by previous patrons instead of toilet paper.
My thighs are getting tired from squatting. A monk is walking toward the loo. I try to think of a past experience to apply to this one. I think of the Dark Place and touching my drifting poops. An image pops into my head: a butt with a protruding whip. What would Mapplethorpe do?
I grab the saucepan, fill it with water, and pour it along my butt crack and into the squat hole. Then I put my left index and ring finger together, wince, wipe, and rinse my digits over the hole with another sauce pan of water. Wince and repeat.
I fling a last saucepan of water into the hole, which causes a soupy mess to bubble onto the floor. I run for the exit and pass the monk on my way out. He smiles. Kind eyes.
Back at the hostel, I receive some bad news: My single room has been given to a couple and I will have to sleep in the guys’ dorm. “Not so bad. No
charge,” says the desk manager.
He leads me to the room and opens the door halfway until it hits something springy. He turns on the light. The six-person dorm is smaller than last night’s single room and includes three double-bunks. Four of the beds are covered with grimy backpacks and an assortment of wrinkled clothes, nondescript tubes, and Nalgene water bottles. The room smells cedary and acrid like a gerbil cage. I sidestep a Teva sandal held together with duct tape and head for an empty top bunk by the only window.
I haven’t had a roommate since college. Recently, I’ve had problems sleeping with a woman in my bed, even after sex, even after Ambien. I imagine trying to sleep in the same room with the two Brits, Adler, and two other kids I’ve yet to meet.
My only hope is to exhaust myself before bed, but it’s too late for the gym. I’ll have to go for a walk, a very long walk, to the one must-see sight left on my list: Soi Cowboy.
I’m too embarrassed to ask anyone to join me, so at eleven thirty that night, I start the half-hour schlep to Soi Cowboy, an outdoor sex mall renowned for go-go bars, prehensile vaginas, and the Boston backpacker salesman’s top pick, Tug’s Asian Massage.
As I walk, I practice a little Buddhist serenity and let State Department warnings about Bangkok nightlife drift by like imaginary clouds.
Bar workers and prostitutes have been known to lace beverages with sedatives and rob tourists. Do not leave drinks unattended or go alone to unfamiliar establishments.
I cross under a concrete overpass onto Sukhumvit Road. The sidewalks are well lit, tree-lined, and populated.
Alcoholic beverages may be stronger than those in the US. Every year Americans die of apparent premature heart attacks after imbibing.
After thirty minutes, the streetlights, trees, and crowds thin out. An attractive woman bops by, earphone wires dangling from her head. Soi Cowboy must be close. I make a deal with myself: I’ll hit one go-go bar and then back to the hostel.
