Natural Born Killers
I hope there are naïve and genuinely delusional sexpats out there who’d jump off of JLK Building or O-NES Tower or Q1 Sukhumvit if their favorite whore gets herself married to another john, especially now that they’ve made every kind of marriage legal here, and johns who like getting dicked down and johns who like dicking down can both indiscriminately start killing themselves over this sort of thing. It’s true I like making up many businessmen in my head but this is not without basis. I know that many young girls who were prostitutes also soliciting other (kinds of) prostitutes had died on the concrete in front of Dairoktoa, because it was mentioned in a NOWNESS minidocu following a transgender host who lost his ex-girlfriend by suicide. Of course I feel bad for them, and for him, and for others like him. But it’s true I think the suicides would be a wonderful cheer-me-up if the ones jumping and burning and hemorrhaging were the kinds of johns I could hate more absolutely, like Gregs. Everyone I love knows and hates Gregs and I pray one day you don’t ever not need this explained to you.
Erotes, Push-Pulls, Transactions, Economies
I like sex because I don’t like sex and I like the not-liking. I would state this then clink with quiet Hninsi and they would stare, hungry, at the two shots colliding rather musically. The appeal was an impenetrability.
I was told the bar had a 30k kyats/hour rate for the giggers, which wasn’t bad pay. I thought maybe I’d consider it for when my talking-my-talk ran out. Something was always running out. The tabby kitten of my sweet friend Kalyar ran out into the street last week and got pulped by a car and died. Then Kalyar started calling me every night over the past week. We quickly ran out of things to beat around the tabby corpse with, and I was running out of my reserves of reciprocal sweetness, so I turned my phone off, hit Hninsi up, and came back to the boys. I wanted to be paid for my unsweetness in whatever currency they got on them—they’re easy. You only had to pretend to be interesting, and I was interesting, no pretense, I knew this already.
When I was a boy scout I snuck out and got myself spidered and mosquitoed and red and blue from all sorts of things to get to the nameless, fishless stream. I put my hand in its running. I also had my experiences. They were soundtracked and cinematic. I became interesting when I learned the roaring dark could make itself quiet and you empty. I could be interesting, I was told, and it turned out to be right and I turned out to love it more than I had ever loved anyone and anything. The boys love it too, those cowering, uncanny boys, and yeah I knew this, of myself and them. Nothing is ever a surprise to me.