by Randy Ross
Jorani says something to the newcomer in Khmer, and then gestures to the dance floor. The girl takes my arm.
Once we’re on the parquet, the girl pulls me close and shouts into my ear, “Waz you name?”
“Randy. What’s yours?”
“Me Mary. Where you from?”
“England.” I’m not sure why I lie.
“Me Cambodia. You marry?”
“No.”
“Why no?”
“I can never remember to put the cap on the toothpaste.”
“Eh?”
The music pounds and Mary shuffles her black flip-flops. I spin her around a few times. After one song, she points to our high-top table. Mary is not much of a dancer.
“Want a drink?” I ask.
“Coca-Cola,” she says.
Mary is not much of a partier either.
Jorani and Ned join us. Jorani talks to Mary in Khmer, and then suggests that we move to a quiet bar down the hall.
The quiet bar is filled with the usual Western-guy-Asian-girl couples. Everyone is seated at white plastic tables with white plastic lawn chairs. Eighties pop music plays softly in the background.
Once we’re seated in lawn chairs, a waitress comes over and Jorani orders a round of drinks including a Coke for Mary, who is now caressing my arm.
Jorani shows Mary some of Ned’s earrings. Mary picks a pair and tries them on. Jorani turns to me, “Pretty lady?”
“Very pretty lady,” I say.
“You girlfriend her?” Jorani asks.
I think, anything for the team, but then recall that I’ve sworn off bar girls.
Mary offers two dollars for the earrings. Jorani offers an additional piece of jewelry. Mary adds another dollar.
“Two for one,” Jorani says to me. “Girl say she from village in Battambang. Your girlfriend say she twenty-five. How old you?”
“Emotionally or chronologically?”
“Eh?”
One minute Jorani is calling Mary “the girl,” as if she’s a hooker; the next she’s referring to Mary as my “girlfriend,” as if we’ve been dating for months.
Mary starts massaging my right knee. The veins in her hands are like tiny blue serpents, rippling, swirling, and curious. She says in a voice loud enough for Ned and Jorani to hear, “Me go hotel you.”
I feel blood rushing to my face and look around for our waitress, look over at the TV, look anywhere but at Jorani. Carrying on with a call girl in front of another woman, even if that woman is also a call girl, seems pitiful, sleazy, and somehow wrong.
But this is probably how Jorani and Ned started off. This is probably how everyone starts off around here.
The drinks arrive. Jorani dips her finger in Ned’s drink and dabs behind her ears.
“Why don’t you just take Mary home,” Ned says to me.
“She nice girlfriend,” Jorani says.
I gently lift Mary’s fingers from my thigh and stand. “I have to go fix my hair.”
In the bathroom, sheets of wet toilet paper coagulate on the floor. Puddles of fluid have collected around the sinks. A local man smiles as he rubs the back of a middle-aged Westerner peeing into a rust-stained trough.
“Massage, 1,000 Cambodian riel,” the masseur says, as I approach the trough. “Only twenty-five cent.” He watches as I unzip. I inhale and exhale slowly. Nothing.
I give up and visit the toilet stall for some privacy.
During a recent dating hiatus that was stretching past six months, Moody said: “Don’t stay on the sidelines too long or you’ll get used to it, bitter about relationships, as if you’re not already bitter enough.”
Mary is no flaming game fish, but she’s pretty cute.
She’s also half my age and not even pretending to be a hairdresser—she’s a real-deal hooker.
So what?
I review my past slutty behavior.
• I once worked in sales and marketing.
• I once worked in real estate sales and marketing.
• I have brown-nosed and sucked-up to get ahead.
• I have kissed women I disliked and slept with women I hated.
Jumping on Mary probably wouldn’t cause further moral or karmic damage. But what about disease?
I try to recall the AIDS stats for Cambodia. Maybe it’s the Beerlao or a misfiled memory, but I come up with no numbers, just an image of a man with a white Amish beard wearing a double-breasted navy jacket and standing next to an American flag.
Former Surgeon General C. Everett Koop.
If he had his way, Cambodian freelancers would probably carry warning labels. He’d probably advise me to smoke a pack a day rather than have sex with Mary. I would argue: Look, I’ve now been traveling for three months and struck out with women on four continents.
I feel a release and piss away.
Back at the table, Mary greets me with a smile. I sit down and her hand inches up my thigh.
Not bothering to lower his voice, Ned says, “Think of it as a very thorough checkup from a very friendly nurse.” He pokes my arm. “You’ll be fine.”
Mary and I enter the Tamarind lobby arm in arm as if we were returning from the company Christmas party. A uniformed man nods to me, then Mary, and opens the door.
In my room, Mary mewls in my ear, “Me like you.” She heads straight to the bathroom as if she’s familiar with the place. The toilet flushes, the shower sprays.
I recall Guillaume’s comments in Vietnam about bar girls who lift wallets and anything else of value.
My passport and wallet are already stashed in the hotel safe. While Mary’s occupied, I stuff my watch, money belt, room keys, sleep blindfold, nail clippers, sleeping pills, and other valuables into the zip-up security pockets in my pants. Then, for good measure, I take the container of medications out of my backpack and hide it along with scissors and other sharp objects under the bed.
Mary emerges from the bathroom wearing only a towel. Coppery deltoids against white cotton. We exchange smiles. Her lips seem thicker and wilder. She jumps under the sheets, towel and all.
Fully clothed, I trudge into the bathroom, marsupial-like, cargo pockets sagging as if filled with offspring.
I shower and exit the bathroom wearing only a white towel. My clothes clang when I shove them beneath my side of the bed.
Now, we’re both under the covers in our towels, sheets pulled up to our noses, staring at the ceiling.
We remain in this position, like two body bags, for several minutes, just long enough for my thoughts to start swirling.
She’s the professional, isn’t she supposed to initiate?
Since when is Mary a Cambodian name?
I wonder what goes on in curious-finger body spa?
I’m hard. I’m nervous. But mostly I’m hard.
Mary sighs and rustles under the sheets as if she might get up and leave.
The clock is ticking and she probably has other patients.
I roll over and look into her onyx eyes for some clue on how to proceed. She looks bored.
Something finally registers: The guy is supposed to make the move, even when he’s paying.
I kiss the cornices of her collarbones, the cords of her throat, and the amazing lips. Her tongue is fleshy and sweet like a mouthful of raisins. I breathe through my nose and smell her skin cream.
I slide a hand along the curve of her belly, tease her belly button with my finger, and run my hands through her pubic hair. She follows my lead, and cups my balls.
Then she pauses.
“Long time or short time?” she asks.
Our first glitch. I’m not sure what she means, so I pick the option that sounds least expensive. “Short time,” I say.
“Massage, massage?” she asks, running her fingers around the head of my cock.
“Does the massage, massage include a happy ending?”
“Happy, happy.”
She spits into her palms, and I feel them on me, the blue serpents at work. Then I feel
her mouth on my neck. As her tongue eases between my lips, my thighs tingle, my groin tingles.
“Cum for me, Randy.”
And so I do. Months of waiting and frustration barrel through my body. Afterward, I give her a hug and say, “Me like you.”
She laughs and heads to the bathroom.
I slip into a delicious oblivion. I doze listening to the water pulse against the shower door. But my idyllic moment is interrupted by one of life’s big questions: What’s this going to cost?
Mary exits the bathroom fully dressed.
“That was nice, Mary. How much?”
“Twenty dollar plus twenty dollar tip.”
Her English has improved in the last five minutes.
I hand her two twenties and a five. She looks at the bills, puts her hands together, and gives me a little bow. “Me like you.”
Three minutes after Mary leaves, the hotel phone rings.
Crap. I’ve been set up.
The phone rings again.
Mary was underage. Youtube. 60 Minutes. Extortion.
And again.
They know I’m up here and the room has no windows or fire escape.
“Hello?” I say.
“Mr. Burns?”
“Yes?”
“Girl at front desk. OK her go home?”
“Oh. OK, yes, fine, thank you.”
That night, I dream a sweet dream. I’m walking down a street in Phnom Penh. I am the world’s most interesting man, a Manrico among men. Beautiful local women call out to me, “Hey handsome mans.” Mr. Blond from South Africa, dressed in a linen suit, presents me with a big watch, a prescription for a lifetime supply of oxytocin, and a fortune-telling eight ball. No matter how I shake the ball, the same answer bobs to the surface: “You are done banging your head against the wall.”
The next morning, I call Ned.
“How was last night?” he asks.
“Not bad. But I forgot to negotiate a price upfront and I probably got fleeced.”
“This is the deal. For Western guys, it’s twenty-five to thirty dollars for the whole night. Local guys pay five dollars. If the girl says, ‘me like you’ after you pay, you got fleeced. If she says, ‘up to you,’ she figures you don’t know the local rate and will overpay. What did you pay?”
“Forty dollars, plus a five-dollar tip. She likes me a lot.”
“Don’t worry about it. I paid seventy dollars my first time and all I got was a hand job. What color is your tongue this morning?”
I go back to sleep and awake later to the sound of something sliding under my door:
Hey, Ted Williams,
Jorani and I are heading off to Siem Reap for a couple of days. You should join us. Just ask the girl at the front desk to book you the same ferry and hotel.
—Harmon Killebrew
Pittman’s guidebook says that Siem Reap is the gateway to Angkor Wat and renowned for a few other things:
• Wildlife: chicken ranches, cat houses, a crocodile farm twenty yards from a swimming hole filled with kids.
• Disease: P. falciparum, the deadliest form of malaria.
• Exotic Cuisine: Giddy Gordon’s Pizza, known for its specialty pies, such as the Giddy Giddy (topped with pepperoni and marijuana) and the Giddy Up (sharp cheddar and magic mushrooms).
I’m too old for mushrooms and a sleep doctor told me to give up weed, but the local fauna sounds interesting. And having Ned and Jorani as tour guides—even if they’re starting to annoy me—is reassuring. I decide to go.
An e-mail from my mother:
Glad to read that you had fun in Vietnam. I hear it’s nice this time of year. Uncle Heshie loves your condo.
Love,
—Mom & Dad
Heshie is a sixty-two-year-old doctor, a successful, responsible, grown man. Still I worry about how he’s loving my condo.
Blog Entry, November 4
Phnom Penh
Made it to Cambodia, or maybe heaven. Friendly, colorful locals. Lenny, these are our kind of people. Places to go, folks to meet. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while.
—Burns
At a Siem Reap club called the Pohk Pohk Palace, Jorani introduces me to a girl sitting across from us at the bar.
The girl is a wisp, like all the others, but there’s something else about her. Maybe it’s her style: cowboy boots, short denim skirt, denim vest, and plaited pony tail, which she strokes with one hand. Maybe it’s her mug of beer filled with ice—she’s the first bar girl I’ve met who drinks. Or maybe it’s her English, which is better than most. And maybe now that I’ve popped my punter cherry, I’m game for anything.
She says, “Hi” to Ned, sits down next to me, and puts her hand on my knee.
“Waz you name?” the girl asks me.
“Randy. What’s your name?”
“Me Katie. Where you from?”
“Cambodia,” I say.
“You no Cambodia.” She holds her russet-brown arm against my blanched white one.
I point to the burning cigarette in her hand and nod, yes. She roots around in a tiny purse filled with green US bills, pulls out a pack of ARA, which I’m guessing is a local brand, and gives me one. She rubs my knee. I rest my arm on the back of her chair. We smoke together.
Katie points to a girl on the dance floor. “You like the dancing?”
“Sure,” I say.
She stifles a laugh. Her eyes crinkle and a faint line appears across her forehead. I’m guessing she’s in her early thirties.
“She ladyboy!” Katie slaps my thigh.
Jorani returns with another round of drinks including a beer on the rocks. Katie says, “Thank you,” excuses herself, and heads to the bathroom.
Ned turns to me: “This one’s a little old and she’s got a space between her teeth. Let’s find you someone with less mileage who doesn’t smoke. The night is young.”
Jorani smiles and says, “She nice girlfriend.”
“Actually,” I say, “I have a thing for quirky girls.”
When Katie returns, Ned stands and swills his drink. “Suit yourself. Come on, Jorani, how about a Giddy Gordon’s magic pizza? Catch you later, Randy.”
Ned shuffles to the door while Jorani talks briefly in Khmer with Katie before joining him.
Once we’re alone, Katie asks: “You marry?”
“Nope.”
“Why no?”
“I drive a crappy car.”
“Eh?”
“Are you married?” I ask.
“Pehh.”
Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” starts playing. Katie grabs my hand and we join the other couples, mostly old guys, young women, and ladyboys on the dance floor.
Katie grinds against me. She’s lean, as tight as a whippet. I grab her bare, sweaty waist.
She turns to face me, pulls me close, and yells into my ear: “Where you from?”
“Australia.”
“I have Australia man one time. Him no have boom-boom long time. Him pay thirty dollar for five minute. Hah! Hee. Hee. Hee.”
I laugh to be polite.
After another slow dance, she asks for the order: “Me go hotel, you.”
“How much?” I ask.
“Up to you.”
We leave the Pohk Pohk arm and arm. I put my nose in her hair and smell vanilla, my favorite scent.
Katie points to a food cart on the corner: little carcasses, bugs for sale. I buy her a bag, which she opens and shakes in my direction like peanuts at a Sox game. I grimace. She chows down. A little black leg lodges between her teeth. She goes to kiss me. I recoil. She kisses me anyway. Her tongue tastes smoky, nutty, musty like a mushroom.
The lobby of my hotel, the Angkor Princess, has a mahogany-colored front desk and a busty, full-sized statue of what is either a Khmer goddess or a Pohk Pohk ladyboy. Above the desk, four clocks display times for New York, Paris, Sydney, and Siem Reap. A step up from the Tamarind and, at twelve dollars a night, a deal. Jorani is a good negot
iator.
The night guard gestures for Katie to open her purse, which is not much larger than a pack of ARA cigarettes. He roots around and takes things out: lighter, keys, cell phone. He examines each item and puts it back.
She stifles a smile.
“OK,” he says.
I tip him a dollar.
My third-floor room has a queen bed, aircon, a rattan sitting table with chair, and a hand-crank casement window that opens above an overgrown yard. The stinging smell of insecticide permeates the air. Instead of chocolates, the turndown service at the Angkor Princess is a thorough spraying for mosquitoes. According to Ned, the cheaper hotels just hand you a mosquito coil to burn in your room.
Katie sniffs, removes her cowboy boots, and heads to the bathroom. I secure the premises, as I did with Mary, and then wash down a double-dose of antimalarial pill with bottled water.
The toilet flushes.
The shower sprays.
After fifteen minutes, the bathroom door creaks open, Katie stands in the wafting steam, a towel wrapped snugly under her arms. Her braid is coiled and pinned up on her head. Her small breasts struggle against the white cotton. “Soapy massage?” she asks, taking my hand and leading me back to the bath.
In the tub, hot mist, warm spray. Fingers float over me, on me. I tingle like a sleeping arm that just woke up. The egg game and then some.
The squick-squick of soapy breasts on my chest, belly, cock. Her hands, her mouth, a wandering finger between cheeks. I stop Katie before I’m a punchline in her Australian boom-boom joke.
On the bed in white towels our lips are a custom fit. Our tongues entwine like the plaits of her pony tail. I lick the space between her front teeth.
Ricki had a space between her teeth that she vowed never to fix. I always told her, “If it’s good enough for Lauren Hutton . . .”
“Me like you,” I say to Katie.
She laughs, holds a finger to my lips and says, “Shhh. Me take care of you.”
Dr. Moody says I’m looking to be taken care of, to be the beloved, the one who takes none of the risks but has all the power. Whatever you say, Moody.
Katie lets her towel fall away to the bed. Around her waist is a pink belly chain. I give it a little tug.
