KenW

I've seen Som do her trick. But I agree with alaskanbear, for me it's cum cum cum every day & night of the week.

To our Ever-Helpful admins: Why are so many profiles so devoid of information and of means of adding or displaying info? You go to their profiles and you see a bit of info down the left hand side bar, but that apart, zilcho. No way of showing friends, no show of who has recently visited profile, no comments, and so on. When so many other profiles (mine for example) we seem to be able to put up all sorts of info. Try it out with an example: tonight I went to a new member PerthCouple, thinking he/they'd be fellow Aussies, just check him/them out. Info: SFA.

In Vietnam where something like 70% of men smoke, they will eat with you, then as soon as they are finished, without giving a rat's whether you are or not, whether their wives, children, mothers are or not, light up and proceed to blow smoke over the dishes, each other, their children, you, the lot. Then to cap it off they will stub out their dumpers in their used food bowls or plates.

Yes PD many sure are receptive to LTRs. For all the reasons you mention. I don't know a word of Thai so that would be the same for me were I there. But VNese I do know, being able to speak quite useful conversational level lingo. (Nothing more abstract or technical though) All the posts seem to be suggesting positive things about the idea, and that such LTRs are out there, even ones like your own with the shortcomings you mention.

Love at first sight (#47) A few weeks later, accidentally, I took it to another level again. This time it was a vibrator. Don’t ask, Eyebrow Raising Reader, suffice it to say that as a lifelong dedicated cock lover I spent a lot of time alone in those years in the company of a vibe. So here I am, the sub-erect cock has the tingles, we’re away, up and running, motor ticking over, body just on the cusp of beginning to rock `n’ roll, and I get this wonderful insightful creative urge. I do not know where it came from, there can be no logic to it, it just happened. I had put dildos down my throat many a time, but this was the very first occasion when I had the two – vibe going down, body beginning to take the sub-erect delight path - in synergistic concerto. And the music we made was as sweet as any symphony Mozart or Beethoven ever put up. My body went completely out of control. Had World War III burst through my spare bedroom wall right then I would not have noticed being bombed shot bayoneted. Had a nuclear holocaust erupted from beneath my floor I would have carried on blissfully being radiation roasted. Had a fierce deranged tribe of wild bloodthirsty New York stockbrokers smashed their way through my locked door, scattering ticker tape asunder and kicking my computer to death, I would have failed to open my eyes to their clamor and cacophony. It was another world where I was. I have never experienced concentration like it. I can only guess it must be like being under the influence of hypnosis, or some powerful hallucinogenic, perhaps having that part of your brain taken over by an external force that can make your powers unlike you ever knew them to be. Or perhaps it was akin to giving birth, wanting to scream but in this case unable to as my throat was full to the larynx of plastic and Chinese latex. Something was coming out of me, pushing its way to the forefront of my cerebral cortex, shooting potassium ions across my synapses like showers of skyrockets on Guy Fawkes night, driving my neurons nuts with a perverse pleasure that told me something bigger than big was about to leap off Everest, and like some great winged creature on skis land gently then slide all the way down Nepal, bounce across the Punjab and descend in heavenly quiescence - as though Siva had been softly sowing his seed - in a big dollop of seminal fluid on my belly. I had cum. Again, no hands. I lay on my back, used vibe discarded at my side, exhausted, hoping like hell I wasn’t about to have a massive life-taking heart attack. Breathe deep. This was, Anxious Reader, as good as it gets for me. It was the best sex ever. It does not list in my Top 5 (discussed elsewhere) because I restrict those 5 to the category: sex with other people. (I failed to tell you that earlier Recalling Reader, as I simply forgot, sorry.) Also, I’m a bit too embarrassed to admit that the best sex I ever had was by myself. Most folks, on hearing that, would think I’m a nutter, or at very least, a pre-pubescent geriatric with some terrible mental and genital disease they shrink swiftly away from in the hope it doesn’t latch onto them. Maybe they’d be right.

Thanks to pacman, willie & Lung. I appreciate those words. Don't fear for the pause, it's the weekend here in VN - as I guess it is elsewhere - when I tend to get lazy and watch a bit of footy & current affairs on cable, don't get to write for the thread. More on Monday morning.

Vale Dr JK. A man of courage and insight.

Well done rx! I envy you. I am both old and old fashioned. I do not like or respect oldies behaving as would-be 17 year olds. Even though my life has been fucked in relationships, either me or the other stuffing up, I have this fantasy and envy of having a LT relationship with a LB. Probably too far past it now but it doesn't stop me admiring the likes of yourself.

Love at first sight (#46) Concentration at this stage was intense, as my mind became, like in meditation, totally set upon that one thing, the nervous action taking place, and all else fell out of my world, out of my focus, out of my attention span. The cock shaft was now moving, involuntarily, in the tiniest of little spasms, my breathing had become shallow and tending towards hyperventilation. No big out-breaths. As my cock controlled everything, I found it demanded to hang free or perhaps lay unencumbered. So I had to adopt postures to accommodate this. The simplest was lying on my side. An alternative, even though it meant not hanging free, was laying on my back whereby the dick was still able to loll about as it saw fit. Some months or so later I began to experiment with getting myself up on hands and knees, like in doggie pose, with the cock obviously hanging down free. But most commonly I merely lay on my side. I found it mostly involved closing my eyes, as you do in meditation. Though never able to seriously achieve much in the way of meditation, I have no idea if what I am trying to describe goes anywhere close to that phenomenon or not. By this time my cock was throbbing, literally, though if my eyes were opened as they sometimes were I could verify that I was still only sub-erect. Also it was easy to verify that – and be a bit surprised by – the shaft was not moving wildly about. The throbbing and rocking I was feeling on the scale of earth tremors, were operating inside the nerve chains themselves, not in the larger infrastructure of the sub-erect member. Then the ante was upped by my control tower. Things were taking off. By staying in deep intense concentration on the nerves inside my dick, those hardly seen movements began to change into wild uncontrolled rollicking of my entire body. I began shaking as if suffering hypothermia, as a man experiencing terror trauma, or someone with whole-body Parkinson’s Disease. My breathing had hit full-on hyperventilation, my heart was pounding through my chest, and because the shallowness of my breathing was gushing air in my gob – which now was locked open – and only returning tiny bits of exhale, I usually began to dribble out the corner of my mouth. It was as if I was an old incontinent man, except that I was not about to piss or shit myself uncontrollably, but rather to dribble and ultimately to orgasm. But the latter was still minutes away. Stillness was central at this stage. Though my body was throbbing and jerking wildly about, my hands and arms, my head position, my open lips, had to remain steadfastly still. If eyes were closed, keep them closed. If open, don’t close. No disruptions, no distractions. Fierce concentration. I could feel – well, that’s what it seemed like anyhow – fluid motion in my balls, in my vasa deferentia, cum moving up into the shaft of my cock. As the rocking and rolling grew more pronounced so did that feeling that cum was creeping up the urethra, poised, waiting for itself to catch up to itself, ready to explode a bucket load. You know, Sweating Readers, that moment when you’re fucking someone, and you are on the cusp of cumming. The greatest moment in sex. When you do cum the feeling is of finality and release. But that nanosecond before you do, that’s all about expectation, about anticipation, when chemical reactions are crashing gouging boring screaming their way through tissue, through linings, through fleshy walls, up and down blood canals, racing about in the entirety of your body and mind. Well, in this kind of auto sex that nanosecond prior lasts about five minutes, or so I found. I often experienced a tendency to lapse in concentration at this time, feeling a bit sad that I was not going to cum (because the so-called nanosecond was taking so long). Concentrate. But it was never that I was not going to cum. By now there was no danger of that. My dick had made itself get within an ace of cumming and nothing was now going to stop it. At this time my dick – in total control – was dishing out pleasure beyond belief to my whole body as well as my mind, sustaining the cusp of pre-orgasm for ages and ages and ages. Then it gave and broke, and like a dam wall breached in an earthquake, my cock burst forth in throbbing cum. Look Ma, no hands. As I said earlier, you can have masturbation. It’s not for me. I had discovered instead a form of auto sex that gave erotic pleasure beyond belief, formed and facilitated by a sub-erect dick that transformed horniness into a consummation of Oneness, and gave new joy to the meaning of being alone with oneself. I read once on a site I cannot again locate, that Buddhist monks have been known to do this, through a combination of meditation and hyper ventilation. The writer likened the experience to levitation. But as no search terms bring up that info again for me, perhaps it was just some errant bullshit. I’d love to know.

Thanx rx, that's the one. I remain amazed, but as others say, perhaps it's just that when a couple get together they drop below the radar. Live the quiet life. Still I'm surprised that not one FM on this or other forums seems to have a friend or former lover who is now in that sort of LT situation. In contrast the gay scene is so much into that. I can name various former colleagues who are thus set up. There are also famous ones like the late Monty Python Graham Chapman who died in his late 40s of cancer having been rusted onto a partner for 20 years. Why not LBs? Is it because of this whole "mongering" culture? (God I hate that terrible awful inappropriate word - not even correct English) Of just using and moving on? Behaving like we are perpetual 17 year olds? Is that at the heart of it?

Love at first sight (#45) It’s time to say some more about auto sex. I’ve been a bit carried away with other tales of late, haven’t I, so pardon that Panting Reader. Here we cum again. It all started through this increased sensitivity to what my rubber hose pipeline was up to. At that stage of my life I was more highly charged across my erotic nervous system than I ever was before or have been since. I cannot explain why. During the sex events discussed here I was never drunk – well perhaps slightly occasionally – and most certainly never under the influence of any drug or medication. Nor hypnosis or any other form of psychiatric alteration or influence. I have never talked about all this with anyone before, so forgive me Sympathetic Reader if I stumble a bit and take a roundabout sort of route to where we’re going. For I’m not familiar with the road. My vehicle for explanation splutters into start mode and lurches off on its journey. Time to myself and an energized erotic nervous system. They’re the keys, I think. Reading or mulling, or merely relaxing, or even at night in bed prior to sleeping, I became aware that the nerve endings in my dick were on fire. Chemicals were flying about like sky rockets on cracker night. Note that never once in all the happenings I am trying to describe, did I have an erection. It was not that sort of erotic charge. (I still had erections and so-called normal sex throughout, but this was at different moments, alternative times, other contexts.) To this day I do not know why, but I began to concentrate on what was happening in my hose. It was as though I could feel individual nerve impulses, chains of electrical movement, perhaps up the inside walls of my urethra, or out to the eye of my glans. I focused on mapping these, locating them on a mental map of the inside and outside of my cock. Sometimes in these sex events I was horny at the outset, and began the whole thing sub-erect. If not, there occurred at about this time in proceedings, a definite shift from flaccid to sub-erect. Later I was to see that was another key, though I do not have the knowledge of physiology to explain why. (I emphasise yet again: never erect – in fact if I ever got an erection, which happened only once that I can recall, that was the end of it. The whole sex event collapsed. The tingles stopped, my intense concentration evaporated, all good feeling ceased, and I just wanted to go root someone.) But sub-erect I was able to explore, to continue, to enjoy something amazingly new and to me, unheard of before from movies, from friends, from lovers, from books or magazines. I had never seen or heard this sort of thing mentioned. It was like – which of course I never believed – I was the only guy on the planet to experience it. Let’s proceed.

Love at first sight (#44) I never did get to go to the toilet with Wine. (Or anywhere else with her either.) So I had to be content with some other toilet stops. I went with a gaggle of girls to eat shellfish at one of Saigon’s big streets for native shellfish eateries in District 5. I cannot recall why. Must have been somebody’s something or other. The place was packed, as they always are. Interestingly you see foreigners in places like this with extreme rarity. I do not know why. The food is unvaryingly excellent, the outdoor footpath dining in that mix of fresh air and traffic fumes makes you feel so much part of the living breathing Saigon. Heinekens all round. I went to the loo. Such a large joint was ill-equipped with only one stall and a two-man piss trough. At the trough I stood beside a guy already commenced. I was very drunk, as I had been partying for several hours already, wasn’t feeling horny, the last thing on my mind probably at that moment being sex. But I happened to glance sideways, as I always do when in company in pissoirs, just to see if I could get a peek at beautiful VNese cock. As an aside, many VNese men are extremely shy about their cocks, and will turn away from you as they stand beside you, giving you cold shoulder, trying to cover up their shaft with hand and trousers. When you get one who stands square shouldered straight, is open and uncaring, you know you’re always a chance to see (and who knows what else?) something nice. This young man, who had a very straight appearance, showed me plenty of his shaft, so I took advantage of that and had a good long look. Then I gave him a flirting squint. As our eyes met, he blew me a kiss. I was absolutely stunned as he did not look like a fellow traveler at all. Our shoulders were about a foot apart, so I was easily able to lean sideways and lock a big smoush right on his smoocher. I shoved my tongue in as far as it would go. He melted under me, showing no resistance whatsoever. As I broke off and took a breath, he stepped back, away from the trough and locked the toilet door. I went down immediately, taking his cock in my gob. He had the thinnest dick I have ever sucked. Not short, but as slim as my thumb. It was so cute. Like sucking a baby carrot that’s been forgotten in your fridge crisper for a month. There were something like a hundred drinkers and eaters in this place, at least half of them male. So my racing brain told me that before too long there would come a thumping at the door as some guy in urgent need of a piss found the place locked up. We had to move fast. As if he knew it too, he began wanking his shaft, me hoping he would quickly explode in my mouth. I took over the wanking. A mistake I realised as soon as I’d done it, for I was, given my usual considerateness, too gentle. I should have left him to it, leaving him go as hard as he needed to. Then the pressure got to us. Sans cum we had to call it off. When we opened the door there were three guys queued up waiting, their faces uncontaminated by friendly expressions. I returned to table amid queries of what took you so long? I mumbled something about there only being one small cubicle for men and I had to wait. Nobody took any notice of my answer anyhow, and they gossiped on.

And secondly, a true story (I kid you not) told by a New Zealand Prime Minister about a decade ago. Asked about the large and continuing NZ migration to Australia, he acknowledged it was a modern historical fact, then added that it had one distinct advantage: It raised the average IQ of both countries.

OK, for all you Aussie baiters out there, here's some ammo (2 posts). (Aren't I a generous lad?) Q: Why do Aussie men cum so quick? A: Because they have to rush down the pub and tell all their mates.

Love at first sight (#43) But ring or no ring, we had already had our wedding (joke) at the dancing club. The disco, or dancing club as they called it, was in District 8 where her family lived. It had a reputation as one of the seedier parts of Saigon. It was a small pokey place in a nondescript suburban street. Amazing how at night these joints, which are bare spare and minimalist really, with a few strobe lights, dark curtains and spotlights, look big and showy. A pokey hole with a dance floor surrounded on one side by stage, one side by bar and the other sides by seating booths each with two vinyl covered forms set each side of a coffee table. The place looked packed with forty people inside. Our booth had a floating population of about eight people: Ruth, me, Wine, and four or five others. Ruth was quickly flirting with every male in sight, on the dance floor, in the adjoining booth, and who knows where else. She would come over to rest, flop down beside me, take a drink, then give me a big slurpy kiss. Then after about five minutes of sitting together she’d be up and at it again. Most of the evening she spent dancing by herself just a metre or so out from our booth, not quite on the dance floor proper. She was performing, always looking around to see who was looking. I was looking. I couldn’t take my eyes off her except when my eyes were on Wine. Wine wore a pair of half heel girl’s sandals, long trousers and a tight top. Her hair was done up nicely and her nails painted in slut silver. She looked good. I yearned tragically for her shaft against my tonsils. When Ruth pouted at me sulkily I thought: Don’t push me too far sonny boy, there’s another girl down the end of the vinyl here who’s looking hot and has got my attention. But of course it was only bravado thinking, for I was hooked like a fish on a line, truly besotted. If I could have had them both, well and good, but Ruth would never, despite the shit way she was treating me, have agreed to that. And I would not risk going behind her back, as I was the one trying to improve her morals, a task not to be achieved by me showing how lackadaisical my own were. So apart from a couple of nods to Wine, as she drew a cancerous future into her lungs from her cigarette, I kept my thoughts to myself. The thoughts I kept to myself included: I want you to go to the toilet with me Wine, where, while this fancy arse is prancing around the place showing off and flirting, I will suck your cock and drink you down. I will lick your perfect fawn glans till it shudders of its own free will and drives you wild with the throbbing. I will muzzle the musty smell of your crotch, that staleness of sweat and dick dribble that makes for the most exhilarating perfumed nuance on the planet. I will nibble the scrotum skin that tastes so sour, then gobble your ball into my gob like a black #8 disappearing down a hole to signal a pool table triumph. Then I will emerge from the toilet insolently wearing your soiled knickers like a bandito’s mask, slung across my lower face from ear to ear. But I said and did nothing. Then Ruth and one or two of the others disappeared. I sipped my drink and got bored with the noise, while being frustrated I could not have Wine, yet was being kept in the dark by a mystery game going on. Then the mystery game and its entourage reappeared. She had changed her gear, into a slinky white pants suit. The jig and the jive continued, punctuated by an occasional slurpy kiss for me. Where you been, I asked, suspecting. Home, she replied, change clothes. Her mother’s house was only a block away. Forty minutes later she disappeared again. I thought, now last time she away fifteen minutes or so, is that enough time for me to seduce Wine and suck her off? No, I replied to my own crazy idea. For one thing this time I do not know she’s gone home to change again. Second, Wine may be a loyal friend, and merely report on me, after turning down my offer, when the mug lair returns. Sure enough the new return brought another change of gear, this time presenting as a boy in T shirt and shorts as I mostly saw him dressed during daytime. He was obviously signaling that this dancing part of the evening was over. Everybody wished the birthday girl happy birthday, I paid the bill and we filed out of the disco. We went on a fleet of motorbikes to an all night eatery in District 5, one of many in an all night street I had been to quite a few times. We ate, I paid. A couple of us drank beers. Then we went home at 4 a.m. or so.

Well, what's the best bar for an Oldbie?

Goodness duke, you tricked me. When I see Gordon's I think only Gin, and I assumed the Great Escape to be some passioned slosh fest related to that elixir. One dimensional Ken.

As a geriatric I don't do activities I would recommend as such. For example I do not do miles and miles of walking. I do not shop. All you younger active physical FMs do things vastly different, and need not heed the ways I spend my days. But for sheer sake of alternative viewpoints it may be worth setting down some thoughts about my days nevertheless. I don't do breakfast, or any early eating. So in the hotel which includes brekkie, I would arrive in the dining area within the final half hour of that luxury, let's say at about 10 a.m. Finished, I would linger about the lobby, reading, when it became free, the Bangkok Post, the only English language rag on the rack. Then I would head off to the internet shop to check emails and other daily demands. Then back to room where I would lay down and read for a while, books I carried with me (I never travel without books). Later in the early afternoon I would head out for lunch. If this meant meeting up with a LB so much the better - or maybe even going with the LB who has spent the night between my sheets. Once again back to the room, more reading plus dozing resting through the heat of the afternoon (I am old). Come 4 p.m. that's beer o'clock. Off to a drinkerie somewhere. Then the night's begun, and the remainder is as you all know it to be. No more itinerary needed. One caveat related to this general program: when I am down, things not going so well, as I was and they were in Pattaya last time (see my TR). Then it's off to a boozer (last time it was a joint on Beach Rd or one on Second Rd) and into the chilled white wine after hotel brekkie. On those days I had to force myself to call for the bill, head back to the room, or there was a distinct danger the entire day would disappear in a blur of Gulf of Thailand views and Beach Rd freelancer offers & knockbacks, my addled brain getting slowly enjoyably smashed.

Love at first sight (#42) Father no can, he said. Father no live here. Have two wives. Not live with mother. OK, so I was willing to meet mother. What you give mother, the boy queried on the way to mother’s house. I don’t know, I replied, maybe some fruit. You give money, said he, fruit no good. Not nice. Money. OK, I’ll give your mother this, I said, showing the boy a note. No. More. That not do. More. This, I asked, showing another. OK. Boy, they don’t come cheap, I thought to myself. But then, I reassured myself, it is forbidden fruit after all, and that must cost. Mother looked like a snarling cat that had its jaws wired together into a grimacing smile just for my visit. I envisaged her scratching my eyes out (then pawing over the wounded blinded Samson searching for my wallet). When I handed over the loot he demanded I give her, she at least had the grace to say thank you (in VNese of course). There we were in the parlour of their small house, Bee, me, his mother, his young sister and the perpetual two or three sidekicks. Local kids gathered outside the front door to ogle the foreigner. I was not invited to drink tea or eat. Someone brought me a glass of room temperature water which I feigned to sip then ignored. They nattered in language with lots of immature giggling and teasing. Every so often Bee would ask me in VNese: do you love me? Or: who do you love? My straightforward answers brought more giggles and guffaws. Eventually after about half an hour of this, sick of being the monkey in the zoo cage, being poked and prodded, I said let’s go. There was obviously never going to be an adult conversation with his mother about us, the future, nice treatment or anything else. It did cost. For the next however many months every time I had free time I met the boy, and gave and gave and gave. This only amounted to two days every week or so, but because all the happiness and angst and willingness and grumpiness inside me were moving so fast, time slowed down and I seemed to have been involved forever. Every time we met, it was give give give. The demands were incessant. I’m so sad. My mother no have. Yet I could not help myself. Hapless as iron filings, I was caught up in a magnetic field. From the outset, bonded at the hip. Rusted on. I bought the boy an expensive gold ring, showed him which finger to wear it on, left, three, and announced that I wanted the boy to think of himself as my wife, and me as his husband – as he had been calling me from the outset. It was an unsubtle attempt on my part to embarrass him into a form of monogamy. That wearing such an expensive item how could he not feel bad offering his cock to others? I also wanted to emphasise that I was contemptuous of his foolish make-believe wedding fronting for the birthday party at the disco. This happened, with the boy announcing once again to friends, and even to his mother, that the Uc dai loi was now his husband. Then within a week, wife sold the husband’s expensive ring. When I inquired as to its whereabouts, why Ruth wasn’t wearing it: mother very poor, have no money, mother sell. La dame deregle sans merci.

A few years ago (sorry I've lost the link) a scion of a wealthy Taiwanese family married a quite famous (in TW) post-op LB. (She was a singer or film star, I forget) It's one serious relationship of bloke with LB I've heard of. My life's been a relationship disaster, but I often daydream about how it might be to have been with a beautiful LB with magnificent cock for 20, 30, 40, whatever, years. Straight guys do it. The great Monty Python Michael Palin met his girl when she was 16 (not told how old he was) and they are still together 50+ years later. The also great South American novelist Gabriel Garcia Marquez met his wife when she was 13, he 21, and now at 80 odd, she 70 odd, they are still together. I am envious of such tales. So, my question for this thread: does anyone know of any relationship of bloke with LB that has lasted, living together as man and wife, for long term?

One brave soldier took aim at a cat On a new thread that caused quite a spat The shooter stood proud The opponents spoke loud LB judges judged it twat versus prat

Love at first sight (#41) We go dancing club, the boy announced. For wedding party. Whose wedding, I asked. You me, was the answer. We get married. She took me to meet her friends, the gayboy sidekicks and some other ladyboys, then we all went to this disco. There was one girl, a GG, who introduced herself as the boygirl’s friend, five years older than him. About ten people in all. Ruth announced to the bartenders that she and the foreigner have wedding. Some broken English for my benefit, and some Vietnamese. One of our number arrived with a big iced sponge cake with candles. On it a cake icer had squeezed out of her icing tube: Ruth ♥ Ken. Only later did I notice (was allowed to notice when it was turned around) there was a second wish on the cake: Happy Birthday (friend’s name). Ruth ordered a bottle of brandy and half a dozen cans of coke, drinks all round, in handle glasses with ice. Some fruit and nibbles. They danced and drank. In conversation with this five years older friend, I was informed by this innocent thing that it was her birthday. Yes, she said, Bee had organised it all for her. How nice. And of course, one person was picking up the tab: the Aussie sucker who supposedly have wedding. How nice indeed. Later. How could you do that to me, I demanded angrily incredulously. I knew of course that such a nonsensical affair could never be anything like a real wedding, but I had wanted to play along to see what was going down. Well, a friend’s birthday was going down. You just lied to me, deceived me into paying for your friend’s birthday party, I growled. Calling it a wedding. What bullshit. You’re just full of shit. The boygirl scattered her clothes all over the guesthouse room, preened around naked. She liked to be looked at. Took toilet with the door open. Seeing the bra there, I thought about putting it on, to see how it felt, how it looked in the mirror. But I decided against it, feeling that it was rather a silly idea. Much more was I attracted to the idea of seeing someone else put it on, watching him transform from boy to girl. It drove me to tingling wildness. I waited for him to finish in the toilet, then sat on the bed and drooled as he himmed to her. Then jellyfished one last lingering slushyslurp on those voluptuous beestungs. My mother no have money, very poor, give me money. I gave generously. Tell your mother, I said, and your father too, that if you treat me nice, I’ll give you money forever. I’ll look after you. (My anger had melted away upon seeing him dress.) In the hotel room she picked my pocket, relieving me of my small change. Light Fingers. This disappointed me, and I admonished her. I give you so much money, I said, upset, so much, and then you sneak off with my small change. The boy threw it down on the bed. Sulked. I’m so poor, he repeated, my mother no have money. I give you heaps for your mother. Don’t treat me bad. Don’t steal. I hoped a message had been got across. Next time in the hotel The Dip. Fail, Ken. I hoped the boy could learn, adopt some decency, some morals, so that he appreciated what I was doing for him and his family, and to be true and nice, not to steal. Give me money, was the mantra. Giving was my folly. I want to meet your mother and father, I said, and tell them about us, and how if you treat me nice, I’ll take you with me forever, to Thailand, to Australia even. The boy took me to meet his mother.

Love at first sight (#40) Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder’s cock. It is therefore seen to be a subjective phenomenon. What is beautiful for you, may not be for me, Handsome Reader. What is beautiful for me, may not be for you. Which prompts the next question: can there be objective beauty? Where we have to define objective I suppose in some kind of populist fashion. I can’t think of any other way to do it. Let me try to explain Learned Reader, with what may seem a complicated comparison. This gets a bit technical for a couple of paragraphs, sorry. Normally in philosophy and science we think of objective as simply meaning real, that which is, that which exists. For example, we know the moon is there. Yes in the old days of different cultural attempts to explain natural phenomena, we (I mean the global we: all sorts of cultures in all sorts of places in all sorts of time periods) concocted all sorts of stories about the moon (and other things like the moon) and why it was there (they were there), why it rose and set, etcetera, moon set o’er dere. However, Enlightenment discoveries and scholarship have shown what the moon is, where it is, how it travels, why it is locked to us here on Earth, why it sets and rises. The moon just is. It exists. The moon’s objectivity is not defined in some populist fashion. It’s objective status as an Earth satellite does not depend upon how many people believe in it, nor does its behaviour depend on how many of us know or have heard of Newton’s laws. Even if every FM on this site was to rise up and say bullshit! Ken is talking crap! I don’t believe in this science nonsense! That would not change the moon’s objective status as a well known and well defined space object whose shape we know, whose geography we know, whose weight we know, whose speed and path of travel we know, one iota. When it comes to beauty however, we have no such hard and fast measures to guide us. If I say Elle Macpherson is drop dead gorgeous, every FM here might rightfully disagree with me. And that’s fair enough. Unlike Cynthia and her silver shine, Elle’s status as a beauty alters with every opinion. It is not objective, it is not given by real hard evidence, it just does not exist out there independent of us. Elle as my claim for drop dead gorgeous Only one of Newton’s laws applies to her, the third one: to every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. (Examples: Elle takes her shirt off, I put mine back on. Elle lies down, my cock jumps up.) However, philosophers sometimes in fraught situations like this are forced to take the populist idea of objectivity. If, let’s say, out of any given 400 FMs, 300 said Elle is beautiful. Then such a populist stance would say, OK that’s cool, Elle can be considered objectively beautiful. I do not have pix of the boy. I cannot show you his sexy mug on a magazine cover. I cannot upload an image of Ruth as a Tiffany’s pinup. So I cannot put her up for such a populist straw poll. But I know one thing. As I said much earlier, the night she first dressed up as a girl for me was nothing short of a revelation. The most beautiful sight I have ever seen on Earth, or could imagine anywhere else. I would bet money – which I would have to borrow – that she would win the populist objective status, in the same manner as some of the girls on deepthroat’s Top 20 Thai gals thread were universally acclaimed. Objective beauty of sorts. Enough. This is meant to be erotica not a lecture. Next time back to the boy who was glans and shoulders above the rest.

as ugly as a hatful of arseholes (this is a straight snarl - not one for lovers of our type who think arseholes adorable) and forget me head if it wasn't screwed on

Love at first sight (#39) The week or so after Walter won the VN navy deal for his host company I had to go up to Hanoi on some business. I told him, whereupon he said that coincidentally he would be in the capital then too. Let’s catch up, he offered. On such&such an evening I am meeting up with a bunch of Aussies from RMIT University (in Melbourne) at the Sofitel Metropole Hotel, in their front bar dining room. In those days prior to the advent of the Hanoi Hilton – ha, the hospitable one - this was the swankiest joint in Hanoi, a four star old colonial setup. Be there. I went. There he was with these four heavy bureaucrats from Australia. Introductions. Mr Ken is an academic by trade too. Actually none of them were academics anyhow. They were project managers, site engineers, planning officers and the like. They went on to say that their institution was submitting an application to be the first foreign university allowed to open doors in VN. Mr Walter was to be their go-between consultant, walking the bid through the various stages of application and levels of government. They knew Walter Charles Hagen’s credentials. His reputation charged ahead of him, like the lead tanks of a Panzer division. To cut a long story short Tiring Reader, as I write, RMIT University Vietnam was the first and is still the only foreign owned university operating in VN. It opened its doors around the turn of the millennium, and continues to do good business selling TAFE type courses in IT, Business and things like that. Mr Walter got them the licence. Another year or so of negotiations. As we drank on, eventually heading to another bar they wanted to see, one of their number pulled me aside and told me quietly: your friend Walter is a most impressive man. I felt like replying: tell me something I don’t know, but remained silent. This afternoon, he continued, we had an appointment with the Vice-Minister for Education. Here we are, all done up in our Sunday best suits, briefcases with papers and plans, gifts in hand, waiting in the ante room, when these rich old mahogany doors open and a young secretary announces that the Vice-Minister will see you now. All five of us troop in, Walter at our rear. Hands get shaken and smiles exchanged, as the team leader names each of us in turn, his colleagues. Then, he said, pausing to draw breath, he came to Walter. Mr Walter, the Vice-Minister smiled, taking WCH by the hand, my friend, how are you? Mr Walter my very good friend, the V-M told us, he is very best business friend of Vietnam. This guy, I’m told one of the most powerful honchos around the Hanoi scene, stands there for the next fifteen minutes, arm in arm with Walter like they were long lost brothers, one of them just back from the Front, telling us in his quite good English, what great comrades they were. Then we were shown to chairs, the interpreters and other staff took their seats and the meeting went ahead. I think it looks good for us. I merely nodded, and wished them good luck. I never saw those guys again, though one did ring me up one time, back in Oz, to tell me Mr WCH sends me his best. But as I said above, Mr Walter got them a done deal. I know this man, I said to my LB Ruth – we were openly speaking in Vietnamese by this time, me having long declared my language ability – who will know people who can make you famous like Elle Macpherson. Do it, he replied in VNese. (Gratitude he did not know; bullying he did.) I will do it when and if you start to be nice to me, I told him.