KenW

Ah Wilson Pickett, my man. I'd have got down on my knees and sucked his thick black cock every time he sang In the Midnight Hour for me. That's all he had to do. I already listed that in the all-time favourite song thread - just adding it here for the sheer boredom value of repetition. Here, here.

Many thankx PD

Thank you for that assessment pacman, and your support in readership. As you probably know some of the finest writers in literature have plied their trade as journalists. Names coming readily to mind include Graham Greene, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Hemingway, Orwell, Hunter S.Thompson, Satre, Camus... But no, I aint one of them. I am not and never have been, a journo. You're right, in the end I came out of it OK. Battered and a bit bruised perhaps, but hey, it wasn't 15 rounds with Joe Frazier anyhow. It is only money, and as I recounted in the final series of posts, in the end it seemed to me, or at least seems in hindsight, worth it. For just those fleeting moments when, as they say, I had it!

Thanks for your support throughout willie. Thank you Bb. Thanks Jim, yes, getting out can be hard.

I meant to remind you but forgot that VN holds much promise for the Crimes of F thread. You'll see socks & sandals everywhere and much worse besides.

Touch wood, but I am not a sufferer of hangovers. I blurrily recall my previous hangover some 40 years ago, when I was still learning to drink. So it may be quite something to live through this experience. I have, as Winston Churchill said tellingly, "got more out of the booze than it ever got out of me". So hopefully this current situation is but a hiccup. For like it was for the former Pommie PM, it has been my ally for a long long time. I have never been a smoker, so I hope that goes in my favour. Cutomers is an interesting term. I wonder how many of them are willing marketplace traders. I have heard shock horror tales of poor Indians or Banglas waking up one morning to struggling for breath, woozy heads, vast body pain, and big incisions in their torsos, able to recall nothing of what happened last night, or how to move their body into sitting or standing position without their guts flopping, Snowden like, onto the floor.

pacman, I have greatly appreciated your contributions to my threads: thoughtful, insightful, encouraging, supportive. That such dialogues continue is one of my dearest hopes. I love this forum and find I rely on it increasingly for a network of like minds and good souls. FMs such as yourself are crucial. I have added you to my friends list. I hope you don't mind that. And yes, I do take lots of water, fresh fruit and veges, and have done so for most of my life. It is one of the redeeming features of living in Vietnam: the magnificently healthy diet.

Day 4 I feel no different, outwardly healthy as usual. My shoulders chest and upper back still the colour of the redskins as first described by the arriving New Englanders. (A key symptom of liver disease picked up by my friend and confirmed by googling) My weariness and lethargy still hanging about the place like fog on a winter morning. (A second symptom) Bad taste in my mouth each a.m. But the most noticeable features for me are not physical. They are emotional. I am beset my this signal sadness, a melancholy that has totally replaced any general joy and private gaiety I normally exude. My maid says to me last evening: Anh buon khi khong uong ruou. (You're sad when not drinking wine) I can only shrug my shoulders and smile limply. I mark off another day in my Agenda book and wonder, like Robinson Crusoe, will Friday ever cum?

My favourite albumn was the one with the hit Let's Go to Moscow leading it (forget albumn name). Favourite song on it: Hold Me Down. BTW, Cale, like Garth Hudson of The Band, was classically trained.

I have been ushered into Detox, by receiving a scare from a friend of mine who is into all this touchy feely body energy naturo therapy shit. Doesn't take a medical whizz to diagnose somebody who admits to a bit of drink with liver disease. But she went much further into quite a few subtleties of symptoms and causes that scared me into thinking it over. The aim is apparently to get all the toxins out of your body. Let key organs like the liver heal. So Understanding FMs, if I seem a bit grumpy for a while, a bit lost, or a bit sad, please be tolerant and patient. I asked her how long would it have to be? She replied: 3 months. I pooed my nappy. You'd have to be crossing the Sahara on hands and knees to go that long without alcohol. Or a jewish boy in a WWII army boot camp. I asked: what about 3 days? She compromised by replying: try 3 weeks and see how you go. O dearie me...

Lucky he didn't meet a ninja whale fresh from fighting zombie penguins.

Welcome paul.

Love at first sight (#60) And that, Persistent Reader, brings to an end this long convoluted tale of Love at First Sight. What’s it all been about? Well, we could answer with Yorick and say it’s been about a cock & a bull, but that wouldn’t be fair. For it has all been true, neither confected nor concockted. Well, true with two caveats: one is the failure of memory as it degrades with age to recall all details exactly, and the second is the need for a joke to be inserted here and there to liven up what otherwise might threaten boredom for Dedicated Readers. But that said, we can with confidence assert that the tale of the Perfectly Beautiful Quite-Divine Vietnamese femboy LB known as Bee, or as Ruth, is as it is set out here, with all its pitfalls, its moments of lucidity, its hours and days and weeks and months of madness, of naiveté, of stupidity, of gullibility. It is told – with all its tangents and diversions and reminders into the lives of Lee the Aussie LB and Tulsa and Hilary Buxton and others - more or less as I lived it, as I endured it, as I tried to cope with it, as I suffered it, perhaps in the long run, for my art. It is also a tale of a fool at large, one who flew like an innocent bird out of that cuckoo’s nest they call the ivory tower and crash landed broken wing into the cesspit of the real Vietnamese world. So was it worth it? I guess one can only judge that in terms of risk. I took a little risk, as Warren Zevon’s excitable boy admitted when requesting lawyers, guns and money. I dipped my toes in the pond and they got bit off by a crocodile. But it’s alright Ma, I’m only bleeding! Throughout the adventure, even though it often seemed that money was flowing as from a broken tap into a bath tub, I remained in control. At any given moment I could have told you to within 50 dollars give or take, what he had cost me thus far. I was aware of what I could afford and knew when (or if) I had to pull the plug. I hadn’t come down in the latest Saigon thunderstorm. I knew when I went into it that Vietnamese were – in general – lying cheating thieving deceitful duping swindling cunts. That’s their culture and their upbringing. Werewolves of Dooyadown. When you go into these sorts of things you approach them with a raft of personal baggage: life history, personality, previous relationships, your own cultural influences, your morality, attitudes to others, to life, to love, to money, desires, wants, needs, etcetera, ego and id it are. And, something we shouldn’t forget is that I was paying for play, for pleasure. My baby Ruth was a whore through and through. Despite all my trauma, my misery, my heartbreak, there was an undercurrent of sheer erotic delight flowing beneath all this turbulence on the surface, and that was necessarily going to cost. For me if all that meant being a softie, a sucker, so be it. That I could never be a hard-arse who boasts about not ever falling in love, moving on after three days and nights, never being conned, all that stuff we see on so many threads as advice from the successful, was painfully obvious but could in no way have been otherwise than totally irrelevant to me. That kind of cold efficient iron-clad bravado holds no attraction for me. I am a man of emotion. I am told I don’t hold back. I take chances. I gambled and lost. (But just imagine had I won Headshaking Reader, just imagine! Just imagine what sort of a thread I would now be writing for you! Me and Ruth together after all these years, and it working! Ruth now renowned as the new Elle Macpherson, the face of Invisible Zinc, the wrist of Rolex, the toes of Tissot, me the kept and cared-for geriatric, shuffling every morning from our Saint-Tropez pad, after a night of grappling the world’s most grappable boa constrictor, in grip of the world’s most finely formed bumlets, in thrall with the world’s most sweet succulent sphincter, towel about my naked torso, belly full of cum, to dip in my placid shimmering pool, filled not with chlorinated water, but chockers with cold calming champagne. Why wouldn’t I take such a chance?) However, unlike Kipling’s ideal man, I could not not breathe a word about my loss (sic, no typo). I most certainly couldn’t boast about it, like Kerry Packer did through his own media outlets after he lost his 20 million at the Las Vegas tables. Instead I have eventually laid it quietly unobtrusively down here before you Enduring Reader, in all its tacky self-indulgent painful tortuous trails and entrails, like the innards of a gutted beast spread across the bloody ground for your inspection and contemplation. Hold your noses and make the sausages! For one day, my Bee, my Ruth, you’ll be a man my son, or a Lady Man, and unless I miss my guess you, as you clip on your bra and tuck your cock up your bumcrack inside your knickers, your evil mother long dead, while contemplating the age lines creeping into your once perfectly gorgeous face, along with the silky hair that now demands bottle dye to cover the first traces of grey, as the flies begin to buzz around your dying eyes, will regret that you treated so appallingly the old foreign sucker who could have taken you to the end of the universe and returned you safely, like Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins, to a wonderful life of heaven on Earth. Modus ponens: if Ken, then bliss! (Ah, sweet dreams were made of this.) Modus ponens: if not nice, then Ken‘s away! (Ah, reality by light of day.) There was an American general, Gentle Reader, from the 1960s conflict who advocated the untrammeled use of B52 bombing and nuclear weapons if need be, to “bomb them back to the Stone Age.” He was wrong of course and thankfully his poor judgment was not heeded by his political masters. But he was wrong not only because he was a redneck fool. He was wrong because according to all the archaeological and anthropological evidence we have, and had back then, there is not a hint, not a whiff, that any Stone Age culture on whatever continent was as low, as base, as swine laden, as scum filled, as shit stenched, as modern Vietnamese. The ignorant general was insulting the Stone Age. But, and this is important, a very high percentage of those same Vietnamese, whatever their cultural and moral shortcomings, have genes for the greatest human beauty one could ever imagine on this planet or any other we may encounter in the vast billions of years that lay ahead for our universe. In being a sucker for Bee or for Rootie Root Ruth, I was being but one among many. The tales go on and on like the books of the Old Testament. I wasn’t the first to be used and treated callously by Vietnamese beauty, and I will not be the last. A hundred years from now nobody will care of course, and in the moments left to me in this short sojourn in the biosphere, I can shrug my shoulders and sing, it’s alright Ma, it’s life and life only! The risk was worth it, the loss hard to take but endured, and the amount of money it cost me, in the wider scheme of things, a piffling trifle. (About 3% of what I subsequently lost in the Global Financial Crisis of 2008-9 for example, where a bunch of lily livered jellybacked cowardly greedsodden stockbrokers did me far more damage, by quite some margin, than any VNese ever has.) I can look back on my Bee-haviour now as a fully paid up experiment which, like many that all responsible laboratory directors have to admit to in their annual reports, just didn’t work out. But I have never had before, nor will I ever have again, Such-Divine about me, on my arm, at my table, in my bed, under my tongue, down my throat, and for that, Farewelling Reader, it will always have been worth it, and I will remain eternally emboldened by the experience. Finis

Love at first sight (#59) So now it was time to get this bitch and its cunt of a mother out of my life. But would they let me go? They hated me and used me for their delights, but would they be willing to part peacefully with such a determined cash cow? (Or is that cash bull?) I doubted it. So I had to be careful. I suspected that if they got wind of any departure they would arrange at the very least a punitive bashing, to convince me of my locked-in prisoner status. Having brought heavies around to prosecute this it would probably also entail both the extortion of one large amount of loot from me as punishment and “don’t try that again” edicts. It could get even worse. I let my imagination run to kidnapping, trumped up charges, more extortion, amputations, the lot. Or, once they saw my determination to leave, broken bones and missing digits and all, murder. Exactly like the Quiet American, Ken would be found floating face down in the Saigon River with a knife buried to its hilt in his back. I had seen some of the unsavory types who inhabited their world. The estranged father, a man of the streets who bashed his LB son, the Punch and Judy couple who acted as middleman and middlewoman on the day I rented the flat (then demanded I pay a palm grease fee for no obvious help). The female friends and relatives of mother (one of whom demanded money for her baby having never laid eyes on me before). Some of the characters – young men of the streets - in Bee’s circle who I had encountered at the disco and at various street stall beer bars; not the kinds of company I would choose to meet in a dark alley late at night. I decided the only way out was to do a runner, and began planning my escape. But I made sure I never threatened to leave or even gave the mildest hint of it. Even though I now cursed him daily and no longer cuddled kissed or sought sex in any way, I wanted him to think I was still besotted and hopelessly entangled. I went to apartment security and paid the next month’s rent in advance as was the way. Thereby making things look normal. I reasoned: what was a month’s rent against a bashing, my balls or even my life? A grain of sand. I practised how long it would take me to pack up various things. I walked the stair well and used the lift, timing myself. Add on a little for slowing down while lugging heavy loads. I had come to know how long Bee spent at his mother’s house each time he went over there. He now did this almost every morning after she phoned or texted. I knew I had about two hours. When would I do it? I needed a day when he was not sleeping in, when he was up and about (he had sourly given up going to market and making lunch for us long ago). So I had to play it by ear a bit, awaiting my chance when he was awake early, when mother phoned early. That day came a couple of mornings hence. I went out into the street to make sure the coast was clear, as well as to check that there were taxis available. Then I raced back upstairs and packed everything up, taking all I could carry except the bedsheets, mattress, pillows, laundry drying racks and a thousand plastic coat hangers. I left his stuff wherever he had left it, untouched. I did not write any nasty farewell note. I loaded the smalls like crockery and cutlery into big plastic laundry tubs I had bought for us. I rolled much else in the quilt. Other things went in the esky. Packed my suitcase. Rice cooker in its box. That all took me about an hour. My heart was racing. Would he return early and spring me? If he did, a quick phone call to mother would have the gang over here in a flash intent on no good. I went out and hailed a taxi. I ran up and down two flights of stairs soaking my clothing in perspiration and panic. I could feel blood pressure threatening to burst my vessels, shooting claret down the stairwell like a firehose. Breathing fit to die I loaded the taxi and we took off. A fellow resident, a Japanese guy married to a VNese girl, encountering me loading the cab, puzzled at my panic and perspiration, asked me what was going on? I told him I had to go to Can Tho (a small town in the Mekong Delta) for a few weeks. Wildly I figured that might throw Bee and henchmen off the scent if they asked around the building about me, intent on giving chase. I directed the taxi by a roundabout route, checking always through the rear window of the vehicle. No familiar motorbikes in sight. Nobody I could see was following us. When we turned corners, we turned without a tail. But my heart was still racing. I received a text message: where you? He had come home early. For he never once, at his mother’s or out with his sidekicks or cocksucking customers, texted or phoned me to see where I was or if I was alright. Never once at any time of day or night. He never cared. So this text message meant he had to have returned to the flat, a little earlier than usual, and was shocked to find it empty (apart from his stuff) and me gone. I did not answer. Then, after 45 minutes or so of this cops and robbers type upping and downing and going around, we were home. I unloaded my stuff and hurried upstairs. Then just after I got home, another message. Where you? Again I didn’t answer. In the evening one final text message said: I’m to so happy we finish. I turned my phone off and went out to buy a new number. At least at the very last I had hurt him. Shocked him probably, as he no doubt had come to think of the sucker as a bottomless never ending resource. One who would take punishment without ceasing, and happily go on indulging nasty mean cruel exploiting behaviour for the rest of his days. This claim that he was happy we finish told me clearly that it made him decidedly unhappy. I knew him well enough to be sure of that. He was angry, surly. His cash cow was kaput. His walking breathing ATM on a leash had escaped. He was hurting badly. He now had to go home to vicious evil mother and admit his loss. Any normal logical sensitive people – but not them – would also have had to acknowledge that between them they had blown it. They had this chance, this grand chance, and they had trashed it totally. Serves you right cunts, I thought.

Love at first sight (#58) Groucho Marx once said he would not join any club that would have him as a member. A lovely and delightfully amusing piece of logic that follows one of the oldest rules in the book of reasoning in philosophy. If P, then Q. That is, if proposition P is correct, then conclusion Q follows logically. In this case, P is any club that would have GM as a member. Q follows, ie GM would not join said club. This rule, a conditional (on the condition they would have him as a member, GM would not join), also underpins the structure of theorems in mathematics and theories in science. It is a very powerful piece of reasoning, and as you can see, widely used in the development of Enlightenment knowledge about our world. Here’s a before-you-go-to-bed exercise for after you’ve done your daily crossword puzzle: if like JFK you’ve a mind to put a man on the moon and return him safely to Earth, how many conditionals would be involved in your successful working out of how to go about it? (an approximate answer, please) (HINT: it will not be a small number. Consider all that was learned and discovered between Newton first inventing the calculus during 1665-66 and 1969 when NASA had Neil Armstrong take his giant leap for mankind.) I have turned to the old rule, called modus ponens by the way (the method of positing), in the jargon talk of logicians, to help draw my tale of Love at First Sight to a close. I hope I have by now established for Data Hungry Readers that my formerly beloved but now despised Bee cum Ruth was characterized by: lying, cheating, deceiving, faking, duping, pickpocketing, stealing, thieving, swindling. At the same time he was a whinger, a whiner, a pest, and a dooyadown. Most importantly he was to me, asexual and unemotional. He now denied me sex, while he had never given me emotional return for the love I foisted upon her. So I feel safe to infer from all this that Bee was a) a cunt, a bitch, c) a large piece of dogturd, albeit with the biggest cock sucking lips, or d) all of the above. She was also Vietnamese. Now, the leap from this one example to the power of generalization. For those who have read my thread in its other parts, that is, the posts that are not part of Love at First Sight, it is easy to see that every other VNese LB mentioned also qualifies as a cunt or a bitch. For whatever reasons mentioned in the respective posts. I can tell you Thirsting Readers, even though they do not feature in my thread, that the same applies to VNese GGs. I draw the generalization: all are VNese girls (including for present purposes LBs). Then I deploy modus ponens, if P then Q. That is: If she is a VNese girl, then she is a bitch. (= cunt, = dogturd, = all of the above)

I was lucky enough to see them live on their one and only tour of Australia, just after the Born in the USA albumn came out (circa 1984). One of the best concerts I ever saw. I loved it most when CC and The Boss did a duelling banjos take-off on their live version of Rosalita.

Love at first sight (#57) As the misery ends and my tale nears completion, let me summarise Technical Reader, what I see to be the main fleshpot points of my story. Of course the main theme concerns a VNese femboy LB I loved at first sight, but who did not treat me nice. I will have final developments and thoughts about him in the three posts which end the tale, following after this one. But in this episode I’d also like to point to a few generalisations drawn from the digressions and detours of my adventure. Firstly, I love to play thinking games about things like the ranking of sex events. Of course you can rank sex events however you choose. But interestingly, once I had compiled my Top 5 the baseline property they all shared was fear. For a sex event to have maximum stimulus for me it must involve fear such as when sex is done blatantly in proximity to a sleeping partner, in a professional office during business hours. I’ve never been a soldier or a cop or anything like that, but I feel convinced that fear is a motivating factor in the voluntary attraction within many cultures of a range of people to their professions or their favourite pastimes (bungie jumping, car racing …). I have never before though, seen it linked to sexual stimulation and the satisfaction of desire in the way I detail here. Am I unique? I doubt it very much. But I would be intrigued to hear from others about the issue. Secondly, another common property is what I have called forbidden fruit. That is to say, another bloke’s wife, a slut, a gay or LB, a graduate student. Taboo categories in all cultures normally when broached, bring punishment or at least disapproval. Yet here as I run across a boundary, an edge, it brings, when traversed, not punishment but maximum sexual satisfaction. (But it is fear of that subliminal idea of a taboo, a no-go zone that turns me on.) Again, I cannot believe I am unique. In fact, from the amount of forbidden fruit that gets partaken of as sexuality in all societies, you’d guess the phenomenon is widespread. Perhaps forbidden fruit is a big turnon for many of us. I also arrived at the idea that not cumming made some events very special for me. It turned out to have sound cultural and academic (Tantric) reasons backing it, but it had not occurred to me before I experienced it and began to think about it. Weird kink intruded to show that I also found events very special when I came alone, no hands, and with no other physical or chemical stimulation. Again, not being a singular individualistic kind of guy, I cannot believe I am unique. Yet I have never heard a whisper breathed about this anywhere or by anyone. Why? Is it that we are ashamed to talk about it? (I can’t believe that, for it seems so childish were it true.) Speaking of kink, I provided introductory insights into a D&S world I occasionally travel in. This is of course common, though as I say, I have not heard about it in the world of LBs. (Gay D&S on the other hand, is very common.) Related to that I mentioned another bit of kink, concerning the piss play I attempted with my LB. I talked a little extravagantly, Suffering Reader, about his reactions as they related to hygiene, and my feelings which went a bit over the top into a motherhood analogy. What I did not mention, but now do, is a more standard line of interpretation that relates such impurity – from my perspective, not his - to a kind of holiness (even for atheists like me). I guess that helped shape those strange motherhood thoughts. Finally through my erstwhile friend Walter Charles Hagen I have given a few personal insights into the world of expat business, and its relation to local, in this case Vietnamese, authorities and networks. I’m sure many of you living and working in various overseas cultures can relate to that, in terms of both problems and triumphs. That part of the story also emphasizes the strong contradictions in Vietnamese arrogance and insularity. With help from Mr Walter I could have taken my LB to where she wanted to go, and even to where she had never dreamed of going. If she treated me nice. But while she desperately wanted it, and was too ignorant and insular to know how to do it, she was also far too arrogant, as was her evil mother. That arrogance prevented her and them from achieving her aims. Pathologically she could not be nice to me. Even if being nice would have meant an outcome of heaven on Earth. Culturally they were incapable of decency and niceness to the foreigner. Pick the pocket instead. And let the future fame at Tiffany’s go hang, the world of models and big money sit on hold. Next time I return to make some more concluding remarks about Ruth and the Vietnamese. Three more posts, Supportive Reader, will conclude this story of Love at First Sight.

Love at first sight (#56) I now hated the mother blatantly and openly. And the days of my undiminished love for Bee were drawing to a close too. I could not stand the pain. This was like a cancer inside me, growing out of my bowel and working its way up to a heart that resisted it sturdily, determined to beat until the very death. I had to react in some way that admitted to my stupid self that it was over, that I had to get out. Then I suddenly yelled at him after he had picked my pocket once more: I hate you! I do not like having to admit that Tolerant Reader, for I can count on the fingers of one hand the people I have hated in my life. I don’t find the emotion generally useful or helpful. But I have to admit I hated the mother and now I was on the verge of hating him. I recall with bitterness how the first time I met the mother the boy had made me give her an envelope containing a significant (for VNese) amount of money. Though, to be fair, it could be legitimately interpreted as an unspoken bride price for forbidden fruit. Even so, this woman had said nothing more than thank you. At least she had said that, but in the nearly thirty more awkward minutes I remained in her presence, with other family members leering on, and the boy asking repeatedly, do you love me, do you love me, so that mother would get to hear me affirm my love, nothing else did she utter. No please have some tea. No would you like to stay and eat with us? No you must be tired, would you like to lie down for a while on the boy’s bed? I had wanted to put my logical propositions to this woman, to get her on side, to get the boy to understand that to be loyal, to be faithful, was the way to my heart and my wallet. (Sucker Ken fails to acknowledge they already know the way to his wallet.) I also recall a second and ultimate meeting, a month or so later, when we had to call by her house to pick something up. She sat surrounded by family or friends, a group that included one small baby, and whilst tapping herself on the breastbone between her bra mounds with her fingers, mother uttered her one and only word of English: “mummy.” I know, I replied, disappointed that she thought me so dumb I didn’t know she was mummy. Maybe when you are as dumb a sucker as I was, these people think you’re dumb at everything, like not even knowing who people are. Disappointment grew to disgust and disillusionment when one other member of this female firing squad held up the infant, arm outstretched like a rifle barrel, and ordered me: “Give baby one hundred thousand.” [Vietnam Dong that is – about 5 bucks] I sneered and walked out of the house. Other than that, I never once got invited again around to the mother’s house. Not one time did she ever extend hospitality, inviting me to drink tea, or share a meal. Never once was I made feel welcome. Never once was it acknowledged that the Uc dai loi is doing all this good for our boy and our family. Not one single time. I said to myself: this misery must end, Brennan.

Love at first sight (#55) I reasoned that if I put to Bee a clear proposition, namely: that I look after the boy and, as needs be, his family, and that I am committed to this continuing in a long term relationship, the boy should, logically, admittedly in consultation with the dreaded mother, respond positively. Workingboy could be abandoned, to be replaced by relationship boy. To attain this conclusion, I put the following premises: the boy and his family were poor; they needed consistent income; they must constantly be searching for such income; father fails to support them; mother has no viable means of support; to this end the boy is sacrificed, to seeking clientele and money; I come along offering not only love, but a constant supply of such income; this supply is more than sufficient for boy, mother and family; thereafter the boy should not need to be working boy any longer; boy can become monogamous boy; boy, mother and family should be eternally grateful to Mr Ken, love him for what he’s offering, the reprieve he has provided, and willingly enter into a stable long term relationship. Happy ever after. Ken continues to be so dumb. I know everything is relatives, but I just didn’t get how relatives will do you down as soon as they get a chance, as soon as they detect you’re a sucker. Vietnamese I’m talking about. To Vietnamese you will always be an outsider, for you are not family, and the family is, relatives are, everything. Nobody else counts. Forget love, forget kindness, forget goodness. All means diddly squat. Family is all that counts. So such a boy would never say to his mother: this man loves me, is good to me, we can’t treat him like this. Never. Nor would mother ever say such a thing to boy. Family is for family. Others are for taking, they are suckers. The boy listened to the proposition, then proceeded to trash it and me along with it. He continued to play up to me, churning out all the drivel under the sun about I love you, I miss you, I want you. He continued to playact in my presence, providing luscious voluptuous lip kisses, handholding, loving warm affection. Do you love me? Am I beautiful? Who is Miss Vietnam? Kiss me one time. And every time, every single time, he whinged and whined and cried even, until I gave him more money. My mother so poor. No have. I was already providing money, but it was never enough. Always were there demands for more. La belle dame la bede, she had me in thrall. Then he began to be too tired, when we were together in the flat, in bed. She needed to sleep, not have me do that. Leave me alone. Yet I still had to provide hugs, that much was demanded, and wrap arm and leg about him who needed affection vastly. When I took hold of sleepingboy’s shaft, he often murmured in his slumber, while grinding his molars: “me” (English: “mummy”). Whoa! I’d heard stories of Japanese mothers wanking and sucking their teenage sons to relieve their study stress. Maybe, I conjectured to myself, that happens in VN too. Maybe that’s how this evil mother rewards the bringing it all back home. All the while this boygirl continued to get around the town, hawking beauty to every male who would pay money for it, telling lies to me that he could not stay home in the flat with me today/tonight as he needed to do some job for his mother. The job, as it always turned out, was to be working boy, boy hawking money boy. I knew. Ken foolhardy. Ken foollaurel. But like the moth and the flame, I could do nothing about it, such was my state of besottedness. The world needs its fools, the way clothes cupboards need moths. It appeared I had been selected for this role by evolutionary forces larger than both common sense and won’t power combined. You have to understand Impatient Reader, I had begun to hate myself for this, bitterly, disparagingly, and begun to hate the boy as well, while at the same time still loving him with a passion unequalled and undiminished.

Love at first sight (#54) There is a scene from a Kristen Bjorn movie – I forget which one - showing a country mansion at dawn, where amid lavish colonnades and courtyards, cloistered verandahs, there is a full size swimming pool. A naked boy appears and walks down the concourse of tiles, beside the pool, away from the camera, into a misty sunrise. Halfway along the pool, the boy pauses, and turns side on to the camera revealing a full but suberect member, horizontal, now pointed, by its own suberectness, at the pool. Hands free, he suddenly pisses into the water. A long full healthy stream. That is such an erotic scene, so unexpected, the erotic perhaps stemming from this unexpectedness, but also definitely related to the action itself, shot from an unheld barrel. Look Mother, no hands. Typical Kristen Bjorn flick Another one Watching Bee stream, my mind jumped wildly about, and remained for a time thereafter, tingling, as if with its own memories. Hands free. Freedom of giving forth, bringing forth. Uninhibited urination. Morning micturation glory. I had seen into the boy’s soul, and it was as if this stream of urine was emanating thence, with a glistening message that all could be well in such a relationship, that all promise could be satiated, that petty theft and lies were relative, relative to a larger scheme dictated by much more meaningful forces, ones that made me responsible in a way that mothers normally are, that gave to me the responsibility to say to a void, I will fill you up, I will be your mother, I will take you from where criminal negligence has abandoned you, I will provide for you, where selfish greed has merely used you, I will give you knowledge and learning and morality, where before you have only experienced abuse, I will love you till I die, for you are of me, we have become one, you are my flesh and blood, you are my urine and my shit, you are my cum my jizz my spunk, you are my all and my onlyness. I will love you till I die. You are so beautiful, I spoke out loud. I will love you till I die. The boy continued examining his nose in the bathroom mirror. I was a sucker who just happened to be coming along at the right time. That’s all. For them, especially that mother, I was just another one for a working boy to cope with, to lure, to haul in, and to fleece for whatever they could get. Well done my good boy, she glowed, dishing out her affection judiciously. Working boy must always work hard to support mother, to care for mother, to bring home everything to mother. I want you to stop going with other guys, I told him. I’ll provide all the money you need, but just be good to me, treat me nice, don’t go around looking for trade. Stay home with me. Tell your mother I don’t want you working. My mother say I have to work, was the reply. I’m working boy. You break my heart, I said, you make me jealous. I give you more than enough money. You don’t need more. I know how much ordinary Vietnamese need. Your family isn’t special, you don’t need that much more than others need. My mother need money, the boy said for the thousandth time. Yeh, I bet, answered a disconsolate Ken. She needs the Earth. I needed an unbroken heart.

Cheers pacman, readers like your noble self are very important to me. After about the first fifteen or so episodes of this tale I began - your insight is spot on - to realise I was indeed writing it for myself. I know that sounds selfish, but getting it all down on hard drive, seeing it out there on screen, up in a post each working day, was like a cleansing of my tortured soul, a good old fashioned visit to rehab, or the change that as they say, is as good as a whore a day. I wondered back then, and still do, whether my psyche was damaged beyond repair. To go through all that sentient of the fact that any normal mentally healthy person would not tolerate such a state of affairs, was potentially deeply harmful to me. But as you can, or will see, I survived to tell the tale. I am tickled by the way you describe it as confessions. I guess that's it. Anyway, thanks again, for while it has been about me, and largely for me, as I said above, readers like yourself are deeply important to me too.

Love at first sight (#53) In the bathroom together. The boy standing upright, naked, began to urinate. I turned, dropped to a crouch, right in front of him, taking the golden stream of urine in my mouth. The boy smacked the back of his hand against my cheek, forcing me off balance and clearing me away from the stream. Dirty. He said the word in Vietnamese, not English. I stood up. I want to drink your piss. What’s wrong with that? You crazy, the boy said in English, walking away. Under my breath I agreed that I was crazy. But there was something about my Bay Bee urinating, the sight of a boy peeing, that moved me like I had never been moved before. I always liked piss and pissing, from as early as I could remember. Even in my pants. In the bath. I liked to piss in tandem (is that why I now like public pissoirs and leering at nearby shafts and glans?). When I was a small boy I liked to hear the sound, through the wall, of my old man pissing in the chamber pot after he had finished servicing Mother. But I was moved to search inside myself for why this was different from those other experiences, ones I liked and enjoyed, but not like this, not at this level of feeling, of emotion. This was something akin to motherhood. Articulating that makes me feel a bit silly, but it was truly like motherhood. As if I wanted to take this boy as my own, not just as my ladyboy lover, but as my son, my ward, my baby, my offspring, my progeny, my line, my future, my inheritor, as if the stream of urine carried along with it, like an electromagnetic wave, its own force field that enveloped me, wrapped me in bonds unseen that traversed time and space and portrayed themselves in another universe of their own making, that of mother and baby, creating an umbilical cord from giver to receiver, protector and protectee, carer and cared. This was a mouthful from a source inside himself, from the genesis of the boy, from the genius of the boy, a deep meaningful place located at the very heart of where relationships stem from, where a boy like this can give himself to a mother figure like me, bringing with its own liquid warmth, the life giving ecstasy of insight into how our future might be, could possibly be, the taste of life, the need for life, the boy with his little boy’s, my baby with his baby’s, the love of my life with the love of his life. You crazy, the boy said once more.

I have only been to P twice, staying both times in Sawasdee Seaview soi 10. Sawasdee Sea View Pattaya Hotel I basically knew my tiny bit of info from Google searches, but decided I wanted a joint near the main soi (as the internet told it, 6, 7, 8 one way, 10, 11, 13/1 the other), near the sea, and near a main drag that turned out to be Second Rd. It was a charm. First trip was only five nights and I mainly used ST rooms. But I took Meena from Stringfellows back for 2 nights (after she had cum for me 3 times in the ST room, then announced: I want fuck you - what could I say?). Second trip of 2 weeks I took First from Pook soi Buakhao and had her 8 nights in my room. After that I had a non-P4P waitboy named Boy, then finally my non-P4P LB S for a night. Not a problem from hotel. Lovely and friendly about all that.

I didn't even know there was a private gallery Larry. When I click the icon beneath my Reputation it takes me straight to my gallery albumn no problem. When I click on Albumn name I get both the images I have uploaded. When I go the My Profile dropdown and click on My Gallery, I get the same outcome. When in that same dropdown I go via my Profile page, then in the bar above click on Gallery, again the same result. So for me, no problem anywhere, but as I say, I have no idea about private or otherwise.

Love at first sight (#52) Erste kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral (Brecht). Could I, especially in the face of that woman, the mother, ever retrieve this boy? Ever make him understand simple plain human decency? So what of this soul that we can’t hide? Is Melville right? This boy revealed a soul of warmth, of honesty, of decency, yet here he turns out to be a petty thief, a cheat, a liar. Sells me down the drain. Seeds of uncertainty bloom in Ken. Yet Ken is sure that he is not mistaken. The boy is good and bad, like fruit, and I was right and wrong. He is a cheat and a liar and a petty thief. Yet he is also decent, or more correctly, would be, if allowed. Upbringing has moulded this boy into what he is, just as it moulds all of us, within our family surrounds, in our own worlds of relatives. The boy’s mother is worthy of study, for she has been extremely subtle yet without subtlety in creating this person, her ladyboy son. She has dished out love and affection guardedly, as reward, for each time her son returns things to her, money, jewellery. Otherwise, no. She has treated him harshly, as has the absent father, physically hitting him at times, emotionally charging him with responsibilities way beyond his years, demanding of him things a family provider should normally be expected to provide, making him, the child, play the role of provider for years now, while mother the should-be protector and provider, is receiver. Mother commands and dishes out affection or anger, love or disregard. Mother the teacher. Boy the pupil. When wounded in boyhood accidents mother has done nothing, has not patched up his wounds, allowed them to heal with pain, scarring him physically and emotionally. He has fallen from a cart, badly gashing a kneecap. He is sent to bed, and crying in pain, falls asleep. He is attacked with broken glass in a schoolboy piece of angst, and has a tendon above his little finger cut so badly that he is left with a permanent cicatrice on his hand and limited movement in that finger. Not only is he not taken to a medical practitioner, but he is again left to sleep alone with his wound. And so it goes. I was horrified, despite the beauty, seeing the scars on his body. All this has made the boy totally responsive, like a trained animal, to the mother’s needs. His life has come down to finding money, goods, for mother, so mother will reward him with the affection and love he so craves. He wants to be a good boy, longs to be a good boy, where in his small world of relatives, good is defined by mother. That’s a good boy, mother tells him when he brings home stolen small change and gives it to her. What a clever boy, mother embraces him, when he brings home a gold ring to sell. Mother never asks where did you get this? The moral issue is: giving to mother is good, regardless. Where it came from and how it was procured, do not lie within the moral landscape. Mother wants. Mother gets. Mother is pleased. Boy brings. Boy gives. Boy is rewarded with affection. Belly first, then ethics, to paraphrase the great Brecht. Mother cares not one trifle where and how the boy came by what he brings home to her. I emphasise Patient Reader, what I said in a previous post: boy learns quickly that morals are relative. To take or not to take, that is to say, to steal or not to steal, is not to do right or wrong. But to give to mother, is always to do right, to do good. When days pass without money the boy is vituperated, chastised, as being lazy, lacking thought for his poor mother, careless of his family. Not to give to mother is to do wrong, to do bad. Such does one learn from one’s relatives what is good and what is not good, Phaedrus. Such does morality enter one’s soul.