On a String in Bangkok

The Indian doctor wasn't thick, but he was among the longest I've had, and his cock was evil. His cock had the flexibility of a snake. I felt he could almost reach my stomach with it, but it was the other things it did inside me that had me charmed and kept me coming to the Indian doctor—and for the Indian doctor—long after I knew that his hold over me was evil. He could slap my channel walls with it or caress them as my moaning directed him, or revolve it inside me so that it rubbed against the channel walls in revolving succession, and he could make me come just with the sensation that the piss slit of the bulb was latched onto my prostate and sucking it hard,, pulling a prodigious-cum ejaculation out of me. Now, after all these years, I think he was drugging the drinks he gave me before we fucked and that, with me in a mild hallucinatory state, he was whispering in my ear what his cock was doing inside me, and I was taking that for reality. Whatever the circumstance, he had me in thrall, until he released me for some reason, a magnet for men who wanted other men and conditioned to be an easy slut, into a hedonist city.

And he could pull ejaculation after ejaculation out of me. Which, of course, was the goal of it all.

The bantam rooster, cocksure Marine guard, Rodney, was reassigned from Bangkok a couple of months after he started with me. I didn't miss him.

* * * *

What the first time that the Marine fucked me on my back on a platform on the Bhirasri stage provides in connection with the multiple partner theme of this remembrance is what happened after he pulled out of me and just strutted off, leaving me uncompleted.

The Marine had just left me, flopped out on my back all askew, panting, and my legs spread open from the release of his ankle hold, buzzed by the pistoning of a thick cock inside the entrance of a tightened hole and by the three strong spurts of his cum up into my channel—but not completed myself. Within seconds, a tall Thai guy I never saw again and who likely had been watching, and stripped while he did so, slipped in from the shadows and finished me with a long cock squishing through the still-warm cum the Marine left inside me. A thin, lithe, berry-brown body—good muscle tone, though, which most Thai men have because they are manual laborers—torso covered with blue tribal tattoos. The proverbial Thai smile of "everything's just fine; you'll like this." And I did.

He whispered to me in Thai—maybe asking for permission, maybe telling me he couldn't resist, maybe admonishing me for being a slut and telling me I needed to be punished. I don't know what he said; unfortunately I didn't speak Thai. As long as he was going to finish me—and do a good job of it—I didn't care. He showed every indication that's what he was going to do. Whatever he had said didn't prevent him from gently taking hold of my ankles again, raising and spreading my legs, and taking a long, long slide into me that had me arching my back and burbling my pleasure and acceptance of a second cock within barely a minute.

He smiled, knowing by how I groaned and clutched his waist with my hands, holding him to me, that I wanted him inside me.

Long, slow, deep strokes, me coming first—and second—but not right away, and him later, deep inside—again, condoms weren't thought necessary there yet, and fuck strings were fairly common, more than one guy in succession. He fucked me longer than the Marine had—some half an hour of "this is what a fuck should be." He released my legs and let me dig my heels into the wood surface of the platform and raise my pelvis to him for an even deeper reach of the cock. He ran his hands over my torso and gave me nipple play. He even let me suck on his thumb while he slow-stroked me. The minutes clicked by. He stroked my cock, making me hard again—for him. But it was about both of us, not just him. He played my body with his hands and his cock. He raised my pelvis to his face, palming my buttocks, taking my cock in his mouth and sucking me to a second ejaculation.

He lowered my pelvis and slid into me again, still hard, still long, still making me moan with pleasure.

Maybe what he had said at the beginning was, "Sorry about that little bastard. Let me show you how it's done." Because he was doing a great job of showing how it's done well.

He squeezed my knees with his hands and moved them in and out with the rhythm of the stroke like I first experienced with the Indian doctor. That was pretty much a Bangkok technique that I haven't encountered much since then. I found it arousing, and in later years I asked my Lebanese lovers to do it—I would work my pelvis to the rhythm too. In the circumstances, I thought that was hot—even with him just pulling out and melting into the shadows again after ejaculating, retrieving some cum from inside me, and, giving me a smile, taking it to his lips.

I thought I'd see him again—and maybe experience him again—but I never did. He knew how to give and receive pleasure in a fuck. I occasionally thought about the encounter for months thereafter—until other memorable fucks caused it to recede into the recesses of my brain to only recently resurface by way of having my memory jogged by photographs.

Did I think twice at the time about letting a Thai stranger come in for a second fuck on the stage of an otherwise deserted theater? No, I didn't. What I thought about was wanting to have him inside me again. Would I do this today at that age, knowing what I know now—both the Marine and the Thai stranger (I won't even begin to think about the Indian doctor)? The Marine maybe—with a condom. The Thai stranger, probably not. Multiple partners in a string? Probably not that either.

What it led to at the time, though, was, my black major being out of country on TDY—temporary duty station—the following Friday night at the JUSMAG pool party, my lying on my back on the lounge bed by the pool, keeping my legs open for a succession of cocks pumping inside me in the lubricant provided by the cum of the man's predecessor—on a string in Bangkok.

But those were hedonist days in Bangkok, and, who knows, perhaps they still are today. A friend recently sent me a link to Internet pictures of the Bhirasri Institute in Bangkok—the photographs mentioned above. It was an art gallery as well as a theater. It's now unused, blocked off with a chain-link fence and derelict, covered with trash. I looked at current satellite photographs of Bangkok and found that the compound with the pool where the JUSMAG officer held those male-only nude pool parties is now the location of a high-rise hotel (with, perhaps, just as much sex going on in its rooms as went on at that pool on a Sunday afternoon).

I wonder who is fucking who in Bangkok today, where, and with how many partners?