Sporting and Spying

The Saturday morning impromptu tennis matches at the Royal Thai Military Academy on the corner of Wireless and Rama IV Roads in Bangkok, Thailand, were about sport, exercise, and networking. But they also were about sex and spying. The informal gathering on six courts on the academy grounds, hosting by a bevy of Thai Army colonels who ran the academy, were basically for the military guys in the foreign--farang to the Thai--diplomatic missions based in the Thai capital and not just that, but, specifically, a subset of these men who had a fetish for body sculpting and for driving young men.

I wasn't military, but, at twenty-five, I was a young man who would lay under men, I worked in the American Embassy, and I was a near-pro tennis player. I also, unknown to most of the men in the Saturday morning group, was a spy of sorts. I was early to the game. I wasn't charged with figuring out what information meant. My job was to gather it for others to assess and, if called upon, to function as a honey trap--to suborn men or women sexually to open them up to espionage blackmail.

The common understanding was that one could not be gay and work in U.S. intelligence at the same time--that if it were found that you were gay, you automatically would be drummed out of the service as a security risk. You could easily be blackmailed to inform foreign services on your own organization, or so the common wisdom went. I found that wasn't necessarily the case. Sometimes you were recruited even if you were gay--or precisely because you were gay--by your intelligence service to use that themselves. You couldn't be blackmailed for being gay if your own service not only knew you were but also was using that for its own purposes. People thinking this never could happen were ignoring the power of the world's two oldest professions--prostitute and spy--being brought together to produce results.

Ostensibly, my first-tour job in the U.S. foreign service was as a visa clerk in the U.S. consulate at the American Embassy in Bangkok, which was just up the street on Wireless Road from the Royal Thai Military Academy complex. In reality, I was a young intelligence officer in Bangkok Station, the CIA office in the American Embassy, assigned to Bangkok because it was a wild and crazy, sexually open city with a large foreign diplomatic and military community. Diplomats and military men from around the world who had a fetish for other men wrangled tours of duty in Bangkok.

Americans were no different. JUSMAG--the Joint U.S. Military Advisory Group--which had been set up in Bangkok as the war in Vietnam was winding down to aid Thailand in preventing falling to the communists as Cambodia already had and Vietnam was about to, was almost completely composed of American military men who worshipped both their own bodies and those of other men. This was one of those billets where the Army sent officers they knew or suspected to be gay but who were too well connected or too valuable to U.S. military interests to drum out of the service.

I hadn't been in Thailand for more than a couple of weeks before the commander of JUSMAG, a black major, nosed me out, no doubt with help from the CIA station, and seduced me and made me his. He was a regular member of the Saturday tennis gathering at the Royal Thai Military Academy and, despite my not being military or anyone of importance in that network, introduced me into the group. I was an immediate hit there not only because I was a very good tennis player but also because I was attractive to men and I would let them cover me.

It became known in the Saturday group that I craved having a man's cock inside me and that, after tennis on Saturday, I would generally go with any of the other players whose turn it was with me. I did prefer fit men. They didn't have to be handsome, but I preferred that they had great bodies. That wasn't a problem with the Saturday morning tennis group. You had to be fit to manage to play vigorous tennis for two or three hours under the Bangkok morning sun. The Station encouraged the activity, because the gathering was a rich vein of foreign military and diplomatic information to mine.

The military men knew who I worked for and it became a "thing" for them to lure me to go with them after tennis by giving me a tidbit or two of intelligence to take back to the Station. So, Saturday became not only an exercise and sport day for me but a work day as well.

Sometimes the arrangement had been made who I would leave tennis with, but sometimes I went to the Saturday morning gatherings just for the general play and to see how opportunities would unfold. The organizer, Colonel Samat, who was a handsome, tall, muscular Thai with strong Chinese ancestry, which many in the city of Bangkok had, had taken a fancy to me. There were more dominant men in the group than submissives, so I was in constant demand. I also was young and blond Westerner, which were a premium in Bangkok. But Samat always had to be given his due and made happy, so more often than not I found myself on my back on the desk or sofa in his office at the academy taking his cock. But sometimes I went to the tennis gatherings with a mission. Such was the case on this specific Saturday.

Turkey was playing both sides on the cold war divide--the cold war still being in full swing in the mid-1970s of my "Saturday tennis at the Royal Thai Military Academy" years. The United States had bases there and counted Turkey as a close ally. But intelligence was in that Turkey was permitting the Soviets to build a satellite tracking base in the mountains overlooking the Black Sea. Just what satellites would the Soviets be tracking from there--and why--U.S. intelligence wondered. The United States had coveted putting a tracking base here itself to monitor the Soviet Union and had been turned down by the Turks. That only sharpened U.S. interest in what the Soviets were doing there.

Not all intelligence gathering on another country need be done in that country.

Erol Erdegon was a military attaché at the Turkish embassy in Bangkok. He was a bit more than forty, solidly built, with a heavily hirsute and muscular body. His face was so ugly in a thuggish way that he was, in fact, attractive to young men who wanted to be dominated--and not just dominated; young men in the mood to be manhandled. I was a young man who wanted to be dominated--and occasionally manhandled as well and to suffer a bit--so I didn't shy away from men like Erdegon. That was a good thing, because my brief was to make him think he was seducing me and to find out what he knew about the satellite tracking station the Soviets were building in his country while letting him think I wanted to ride his cock so badly that I would give him a rundown of who really did what in the CIA Station at the Bangkok embassy. He wouldn't expect a consular affairs clerk to know much about that, but maybe something. The station, in turn, didn't mind him knowing more than just a little, because they wanted to recruit and run him. When someone from the Station approached him directly to work for us, via blackmail, if necessary, we wanted him to realize the contact was by the Station.

The temperature was over 100 Fahrenheit on an early October day. This was the tropics: hot and steamy. The men were hot and steamy too, playing bare-chested, all proud of their well-developed, constantly honed military-bearing, now sweat-glistening bodies. It was a two litre-bottles of Coke day in replacing fluids in our hard-worked, bronze-tanned, sweat-shimmering bodies. Given the interest of these men, as much effort was spent in admiring and being aroused by the bodies across the net from them as in the tennis. Although the tennis was good too. These men were athletes.

Without exception, the men choosing to be here on a Saturday morning were actively gay. Colonel Samat, who coordinated the Saturday morning tennis, made sure of that. Even those pushing seventy were in top form, both in terms of physical fitness and sexuality. If they hadn't been, they wouldn't have been invited to Saturday tennis. One or two did have trouble getting hard at their age, but even those knew how to work another man's body to achieve sexual satisfaction. This also was a hedonist city; pills to provide effective help were readily available here. Many were the times that an old Thai general would stand over me, pop a few pills, and, within minutes, could get off while getting me off even without getting completely hard and inside me. There was no embarrassment to driving to an ejaculation in Bangkok in any way you could.

There were three dominants to every submissive on the court this morning, so I had no trouble whatsoever in attracting attention and suitors.

Most knew of Colonel Samat's proprietary interest in me and kept their attention at the admiration level. Erdegon was new to the group. He wasn't on warning about Samat's claim, and I didn't want him to be. I maneuvered to be across the net from him in doubles. Then I arranged to be his partner, coming close to him during consultations on how to handle the next point, letting him touch me, and he was a very hands-on man. It was obvious he wanted to touch me even more intimately than was being accorded. I was purposely teasing him.

Then, at last, with me across from the net from him in singles, each concentrating on the other, we engaged in a battle for control on the court. He lost--not by much, I made sure of--but he did lose. I was much the better tennis player, although he would not admit it and, given my mission, I would not claim it. But I made sure he lost. Turks didn't lose graciously. I had become something that needed to be conquered. He had no idea I was the one who set that up.

Afterward, he whispered in my ear, "I must have you. Go with me afterward. I have tickets to the kick boxing."

"Ah, building up to a mood of cruelty?" I asked.

"Does being cruel and vigorous scare you?"

"Yes, it makes me tremble," I answered.

"Does it mean you won't go with me?"

"No. I'll go with you."

"So, you like to tremble for a man?"

"I like to be satisfied totally," I answered.

The kick boxing arena was next to the academy compound on Rama IV. It was a serious blood sport here. I could feel the connection he was making to sex in the intensity in which he was speaking of it. He was gripping my forearm with strong, calloused hands. I would be taxed hard for whatever information I could pillow talk out of him.

"You'll have to wait," I said. "I have to consult with Colonel Samat after tennis. If you want me to go with you today, you will have to wait afterward." Holding him off would, I knew, have him wanting me even more.

"Samat will fuck you?"

"Yes, it's what I have to give to be permitted to play tennis here on Saturdays."

"But afterward, you will go with me?"

"Yes."

"And I will fuck you?"

"If you wish."

"Then I will wait."

It didn't take that long with Colonel Samat. We were well beyond seduction or foreplay. Sex was exercise for him--and release. Most of the group showered in a communal shower in the academy building afterward. Tennis on Saturdays in Bangkok was such a sweaty affair that cleanup was necessary before going forth, although Bangkok in October was so hot that all were sweaty shortly after going forth anyway.

Initially, I had participated in the communal showering as well, and this was often where the hooking up had happened--in the shower, all naked, after three hours of ogling each other, bare-chested and hard bodied over the tennis net. Here the erections were on proud display and the shopping of bodies was done. There were always more dominants at tennis than submissives. The dominants didn't go unserviced, though. It meant that the submissives must do multiple servicing. One Saturday, before Colonel Samat had laid claim to me, I had been fucked by four men in the shower in the span of an hour after tennis, each watching another fuck me and waiting his turn.

Here was where I usually selected or was selected for ongoing exercise in the afternoon. Sometimes I made my choice based on the Station's direction on who I needed to cultivate. Sometimes I did it out of sheer arousal by that man--or men. Here more than once I had ridden a man's cock while others had watched and then ridden their cocks as well. Here once I had been sandwiched between two men in a standing double. Oh, how I'd gloriously suffered in that coupling. Doing it while others watched let them know I was in play.

After a few weeks, though, Samat, the man in charge of Saturday mornings, had laid his claim and when others went to the communal shower, I went with Samat to his office, which had its own adjacent bathroom, with shower attached. Now, if I was targeting a specific member of the group, I had to make arrangements for a tryst somewhere other than the communal shower--and I had to arranging it around anything Samat wanted to do with me. Fortunately, he wanted to cover any new submissive being tried out by the group, so I didn't always have to go with him first.

On this day, I went with Samat to his office. We showered together in his shower, soaping each other up, and me dropping to my knees and taking him in my throat. Usually we lingered longer than today, with me being the one to spin it out. Samat was all business and this was exercise. His muscles had been exercised well in the tennis, but he was an Asian traditionalist. His beliefs included exercising his sexual muscles and draining his semen system regularly--daily for as long as he could manage it. He was fine with mounting me immediately, riding me in a gallop to release, and then dismissing me well breeded. If he could do it all in twelve minutes, well and good. He'd found additional time in his day for his many other demands and activities--maybe even for another ride on a young soldier.

Today my mission was the Turk, who may or may not have been waiting for me. I was more straightforward with Samat this day, needing to get it over with. After I heated him up with great and quick head, he pulled me up from my knees, turned me, and slammed me against the slick tiles of the shower wall under the cascading water.

"Fuck me. Fuck me now," I cried out, and pressing my cheek against the tiles and grasping my wrists in one strong hand, and pushing my arms over my head, wrists against the tiles, while I jutted my buttocks back, he mounted me and fucked me with much frenzy and vigor as a man his age could muster. It was all over in fifteen minutes from start to finish. He was as satiated and I was as well plowed as we would have been if he'd taken a half hour.

Erol Erdegon had waited for me. He didn't ask what I'd been consulting Colonel Samat about. He most likely knew. It didn't decrease his arousal or his own need to conquer.

* * * *

Thai kickboxing quite definitely is a blood sport. There is blood and there is no-holds-bared jabbing. And sometimes there is maiming and death. It obviously was the Turk's favorite sport. We were sitting just above the blood-splatter row. The ushers recognized and nearly genuflected to Erdegon, so he obviously was a regular here. He really got into the action, jerking with the punches, muttering suggestions, snorting and licking his lips when telling punches or kicks were delivered, and revving his engines for mayhem. The side of my body that was toward him in the seats came away with bruising from his gripping and squeezing as he became one with what was going on in the ring.

"You really seem to know how this was done," I said at one point, which was when he informed me that he had been in the ring here a few times himself, a novelty that the Thai cheered.

I had thought we would pick up something to eat at the arena, but he was glued to the action there. He didn't even seem to notice when I twice got up and went to the lobby because the fighting was getting too gruesome for me. And then after the fights, when I thought we'd get something to eat before getting down to action, he was too keyed up to do anything but satisfy his own blood lust. I had beaten him at tennis. Even without the influence of the war that was kickboxing had on him, he was heated up to need to show me who was master--who was conqueror and who was vanquished. I realized that it might have been a miscalculation not to let him win the tennis match.

Erdegon drove a large Mercedes sedan with smoked windows. We didn't go far, just across Rama IV Road and into the Soi Ngam Du Phli, which isn't far from the Patpong red light district. The street was lined with noodle shops and massage parlors. He pulled into an alleyway, which led to one of the short-time hotels that were scattered about the district. This one was of a common design in which the ground floor was for parking and the rooms were above, reached by individual staircases inside the covered parking place. We stopped momentarily at a guard house, where Erdegon paid the fee and was told which bay to park in. The garages were separately walled and the entries were covered by a sheeting of canvas strips that would part for a car to drive through and into the garage and then fall back into place so no one on the outside could see the car parked in the garage. License plates could not be read from the outside. The room above the garage, reached by an internal staircase on the inner wall of the garage, consisted of a bedroom, dominated by a large bed, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with bathtubs and showers that accommodated more than one. What stood out were the bed and the bathtub. There was a third floor that was a brothel. You still paid for a room on the second floor, though, and that's where you fucked the rent-boy. There was a viewing room on the third floor where you made your choice if you hadn't brought your own candy, and the whore came down to you. Corridors and staircases ran along the back of the building.

This wasn't the first short-term hotel I'd been to in Bangkok. I'd even been to this particular hotel before. It was close to where I played tennis and hooked up with intelligence targets on Saturdays afterward. I had been brought to a variety of nearby fuck hotels frequently on a Saturday afternoon. There was another such hotel even closer to the Royal Thai Military Academy grounds, where the Station paid the gatekeeper to assign a unit that was bugged. If I guided a man there after tennis, the gate guard on duty knew which "take me to paradise" unit to assign us.

Erdegon was in such a high state of lust and need that we didn't immediately make it upstairs to the bedroom. He fucked me in the backseat of the Mercedes, which, thankfully, provided a lot of room. He quickly stripped me and, other than stripping off his own trousers and briefs, remained clothed as I was slouched in the center of the backseat, one leg hooked on his right shoulder and the foot of the other leg pressed into the dome light, and he crouched over me, slapping me about and his hands rhythmically choking my throat while he fucked me with a beer can cock that wasn't long but that was almost impossibly thick and stretched me with great difficulty because it was so thick and because he didn't give me sufficient time to open to him. Ten minutes of his rutting and grunting and me gasping, gurgling, and pleading, "Easy, easy. Give me time!" and he was jerking and releasing into the bulb of his condom.

My second quick rush to servicing of the day. Except it wasn't going to be just the once with the Turk.

Conquering and not giving me time to have any part of being in control was the whole point with Erdegon. He took me and took me hard, leaving me lying across the backseat of the Mercedes, panting and moaning, while he gathered up his trousers and briefs and mounted the stairs to the second floor.

"I'm not done," he growled. "Come upstairs when you're ready for more."