Vietnam LBs

[KenW]

I live in Vietnam.

My cynical subtitle to this thread implies that the scene here is not that good. But when I joined the site I was asked could I write something about VN. I can, but there aint that much positive to report.

Anyhow I will kickoff a thread, and perhaps visitors in the future will be able to know and add far more than I can, for now I am a relatively reluctant reclusive participant.

Let me open by saying that in the far past, my early days here, LBs were everywhere. Street pickups, in bars, in more discreet venues, etcetera, so set it were.

Then came the government & police crackdowns of the fin de siecle when all manner of places were shut down, street soliciting was largely (not totally) eliminated, and other depressing action taken as fun modes were prohibited.

I recall vividly my very first sex event in VN (this dates to 1994) which was with 3 LBs. I'll say more about that anon, but in this opening post I will merely say that such a happening in my view just does not occur anymore.

Nowadays most LBs I encounter are performance artists. They sing and play music (is it music?) at funerals, weddings, and other parties. They will go with you for sex, but the reality is - for most of them - who would want to? Old, fat, ugly (pardon me for my subjective judgments, for I am also old, fat & ugly; but I'm not asking you for money).

Enough for a first post. I will say more below, and hope to hear positive info from young, active, handsome visitors to the place.

[KenW]

To get out of the bollocks (whew, I almost typed an ugly sporting metaphor there) I will relate one example from the world of LBs as performance artists.

About 15 months ago I was at a funeral, drinking through the night as you do. Godawful music and entertainment (questions marks hover above both those descriptors) being provided by a LB troupe: 6 or 7 LBs - I forget now - and a couple of roadies/stagehands. All LBs were unattractive to me in a physical sense, given they were not young, not pretty, not nicely built, not nicely dressed, lacking vivacious personalities.

However, dog that I am, I made approaches. After flirting with several I was still keen to see what might transpire as the wee hours wend on. On one of my strolls into the dark alley which functioned as a pissoir for the death party, I was joined by one of these LBs. About 5'5" tall (155cm?), about 5'5" wide, girth at waist about 10', skin paler than a whiter shade, face like the full moon covered in toothpaste with a hard red slit where I gathered the mouth was. We urinated in tandem.

I asked politely in Vietnamese: would you like me to suck your cock?

She replied in English (hand held out palm upwards): give money.

Securing my cock inside my fly I laughed and muttered some derisive comment I cannot recall. I rejoined my drinking group. I made no further approaches that night. Nor did they, even though through gossip the troupe now knew I was up for it.

[DownLoLarry]

I asked politely in Vietnamese: would you like me to suck your cock?

Always good to know the important phrases in any language Ken! :D

Thanks for your report as we are trying to cover as many countries as possible.

I suppose our specialty is ASEAN countries and now we have some info re 8 of the 10. I'm sure at some point soon we'll have a Malaysia thread as I know a few guys have been to KL. However, I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for a Brunei thread.

Interesting how cultures develop and how Vietnam's lb scene is virtually non-existant while Cambodia has possibilties. And Laos even imports ladyboys to Thailand!

[KenW]

Peter Jackson (History, Australian National University) has written over the past two decades or so about the shift in non-hetero expression in Thailand from kathoey to gay. Yes, the former still have high profile (what we recognise as LBs), but the latter, according to his studies have emerged and are growing in numbers and confidence.

Another site I was on for a while (and yes, got kicked off) tackled the Sunnee Plaza Pattaya end of the spectrum by the designation femboys, while still listing them under the classificatory umbrella of LBs. Fair enough.

Jackson's finding holds for Vietnam as well as Thailand. Nowadays lots of such desired creatures encountered are what some might term femboys. I don't know yet the attitudes of BMs FMs here, but elsewhere these are duly accorded LB status.

If you go to VN (advice: don't) on a LB quest expect to meet up with mostly femboys. For some FMs and BMs who don't want to know this, many will be merely gayboys too, not even more than a few mannerisms and maybe a bracelet consoling you - as you brush them aside - about their non hetero status.

[KenW]

I live in a somewhat complex situation with a VNese grandma and grandpa occupying the lowest level of my house (metaphorically as well as physically). It has redeeming features however, for when I go to play, there is always someone to look after the place.

At Lunar New Year, just over a month ago, grandma wanted to do the usual thing and make cung as they call it, a tribute of fruit, sweets, candles, sticks, and paper money to their gods/ancestors, and unbenownst to me invited this femboy friend of one of her faggot grandsons over to help out. Lunar New Year eve. Knowing I would be bored by all their shit (and I'm into culture, believe it or not), I was planning an early night. I was just finished drying down after an early shower heading for an early pillow (I never shower with the bathroom door closed) when this femboy - much to my surprise - swans by.

I follow him to the altar where I ask who he is, what he's doing here in my house. He gropes my genitals (by now hidden by a pair of shorts I quickly donned). I grab him and give him a huge kiss, then drop to my haunches unzipping his fly. The suckoff is quick, and he gushes voluminous but bland (maybe I am too drunk) down my throat.

He hastens to re-meet the grandma, but not before I invite him to return.

He does.

Two days later I head down from my roofdeck to the pissoir only to encounter him emerging from my bedroom. What's this, I wonder. But first things first. I quickly suck him off again. Then like a rat up a drainpipe he scuttles. I ponder the 500,000 VN dong I have left in my clothes cupboard, not locked away, in red envelopes ready to hand out to folks I know as LNY gifts. It's only about 25 bucks, but to poor VNese that's a windfall. You guessed it: the lot is gone. The little cunt has had his blow job and headed off enriched to boot.

This is the kind of scumbag you can expect if/when you encounter VNese femboys. Be warned.

Two days later I had the opportunity to give him one hefty kick in the kidneys as he slept at grandma's son's house. But apart from grimacing in pain he didn't even wake. Wake up cunt, I said, so you can see me stomp on your cunt face and throat. But he didn't. The family abused him, but I didn't get my dough back. Lessons learned about the VNese LB/FB scene.

[DownLoLarry]

Cool story Ken!

Even though I like girls, I usually don't feel that I must have her that very minute I see her, but with the femboys the desire is to kiss and drop to my knees mmediately.

You would think that he wouldn't steal from you being that you are connected to his friends family.

[KenW]

You espouse our logic Larry. Yes, you would think that. I mean, someone thinking like we do might reason: if I do good by this old foreigner, he might be good for me over the long haul.

No. They do not think like that. They think only short term. VNese culture is characterised by short term gain thinking. Steal cheat lie rob swindle when you can, even if you only get the one chance. Go for it. I think they think: you might not get another chance, so grab it.

That by doing so you lose out long term - in relationships, money, help, etc. - is never at the forefront of their thinking.

[KenW]

Somewhere around the millennium, 2000 or 2001 it must have been, I had cause to be part of a Ministerial delegation coming from Australia to try to set up business links with Vietnam. The Minister, his wife, several bureaucrats, then a dozen or so businessmen. It was a very straight trip (only four nights) of intense meetings, negotiation, wheeling & dealing. Early till late every day. The party hit the hay when business finished, to be ready for another trying day on the morrow.

One night we stayed at the 5 star Caravelle Hotel in downtown Saigon, where I live - VN's largest city and commercial metropolis. As the crowd trooped off to saunas, massages and bed in the 5 star, a diplomat who was accompanying the party asked quietly if I would like to go for a walk. I knew this guy, a nice enough chap, early 40s, extremely straight, married with kids. Had been posted in several countries and was not unfamiliar with cross cultural situations. But wanted to see - albeit briefly - some street VN. I suggested a walk around a big city block which would give him a feel for the CBD at night (it was about 10 p.m.). He agreed.

I mapped a simple route, to take about 40 minutes of leisurely stroll. First three parts of the rectangle of streets negotiated without drama. Then on final leg, about 50 metres from the hotel, we come across a LB soliciting on the footpath. Tall, attractive, but obvious. However, I do not know to this day if this guy twigged to what she was.

Methinks: o shit.

I made to keep walking, trying to pretend I was not taking any notice. But she grabs him, and waffles: hello daaaarling.

Hand on his shoulder, holding his other hand in hers. I stop about 2 metres away.

Then she does what all such LBs did at that time: went straight for his wallet. As I called his name, he grabbed at his hip pocket and luckily beat her there. She backed off.

As we walked on his face was steaming red, his fists clenched. He cursed and cursed (without swearing), but said nothing more to me. Upon attaining the foyer he went straight up to bed, and never ever mentioned the incident to me again. I guess I was guide non grata.

[DownLoLarry]

Seems the bottom line is don't go to Vietnam looking for ladyboys. :diablo:

[KenW]

For those having any thoughts about travelling to Vietnam in quest of a good and rewarding LB experience, my advice is as follows:

Go online and book a fare to Manila; then when the next chance crops up: Rio; after that go to Phnom Penh.

[KenW]

More snippets from the dark side:

A decade ago I was doing another consultancy for another visiting Australian professional group. On a night off after dinner I ended up for reasons I have long forgotten with two blokes (both 40s, married hetero) looking for beers. We were walking through the downtown area of Saigon, on one of the big drags where at that time there was a quite interesting gay & LB bar. (Millennium crackdowns have seen the end of bars like this one.)

O, here's a bar, says one of our lads. (It was up a flight of stairs so no-one could tell what kind of bar it was from street level.)

Ah, I replied, knowing how they'd react, I think there's some good drinkeries just up ahead a bit.

Nah, says my new pal, less go in.

One ordered 3 beers, but before they could even be set upon the bar towel, he snarls to his mate: thisuz a fucking poofter bar. (It was wall to wall gay boys and LBs, some smiling at us, one winking at one of these guys.)

We had to bolt our beers and hastily make a retreat. (I could imagine them both thinking: whew, lucky to get out of there alive!) They could not take it.

The straight world can be so humorous at times.

* * *

A mate of mine had a job to do in Hanoi, the capital (also about a decade ago). One night he met up with a soliciting LB who said she'd go with him for USD10. OK, he reckons.

She takes him to a sleazy little bar, where there's nobody else except some large VNese lads who want USD 50 to let him anywhere near her. He objects and the long & the short of their haggles is that an hour later, during which time the only hint of physical contact much less sex was what might befall him if he chose not to pay, he escapes from the bar with his life after handing over USD 200.

* * *

I return to my hotel after a social evening concerned with yet another professional trip. This is circa 1996 or so. I am with a female colleague. We are in the same hotel, but single rooms, all very professional and straight. As we arrive back at the hotel there is a kerfuffle with a small crowd gathered round to witness the shouting match. A continental European chap and a LB going at it. He is waving his wallet around - I gather it's empty. She is pointing to a big rip in her dress.

I hear snippets and garner from crowd members, he has brought her (not so much her) back to the hotel, taken her (not her) up to his room, gone to have sex and found that in her (not her) panties she (not she) has something extra he hadn't counted on. Amid the rejections and protests she has gone for his wallet and he has torn her outfit.

As it calms a little I offer the LB a turn in my room, but she is seething still and merely interested in getting a xichlo (pedicab) and getting out of there.

[bubba]

Cool story Ken!

Even though I like girls, I usually don't feel that I must have her that very minute I see her, but with the femboys the desire is to kiss and drop to my knees mmediately.

You would think that he wouldn't steal from you being that you are connected to his friends family.

He was even connected to Ken for a short and pleasurable time on two occasions as well.

Some people have no class!

:rolleyes:

[KenW]

Time I told you about a foursome I had in VN. My very first sex event in the country.

1994. I had been in Saigon two or three days, I forget.

Timeline of importance.

1975 the war is won and lost. The communists control the country.

For the next decade they Stalinise it, collectivise it and generally fuck it up totally.

People in the south are kicked out of their houses, their jobs, many put in prison (re-education camps).

The takeovers trashed everything they could make money from and everything they couldn't.

It was carpetbaggers unlimited.

The place becomes a basket case.

1985 they realise they have to do something drastic. They can't feed their own people.

1986 they start a program called doi moi (renovation)

which basically means opening it up to market economies, allowing private enterprise, private re-ownership of farms, etcetera, more sense it were.

And allowing foreigners in.

1994 Ken begins his first big stint in country.

Now, in these first days the place was crawling with prostitutes and pickpockets, beggars and thieves. It was the Wild West. (or in Eurocentric terms is that The Wild Far East?).

I stayed at a great place they had trashed: the Dong Khoi Hotel in the main drag, Dong Khoi St.

This was an old French architecture place, with unbelievable huge suites, that had paint peeling, all fittings beyond the bare necessities like bare globes in the light sockets had been pilfered, there was no glass in any window, but amazingly there was hot water and the doors were lockable.

My room on the second floor had a parlour cum lounge the size of two normal hotel rooms (but bare apart from a couple of chairs and a table), which gave via a short hallway which had on one side the bathroom toilet and on the other a walkin clothes cupboard, to a bedroom, large and roomy with a genuine four poster bed (amazingly hadn't been lifted by the pilferers), and a huge open window to the drag that let bats in (they roosted in my bedroom). Ten USD per night. (Now, as i write, long refurbished and known as The Grand, these rooms rent for about 300 USD).

So here I am.

I spot LBs.

In those days whores were everywhere. I recall trying to walk - albeit drunk - from a bar across the road to my hotel, 11 o'clock at night, and taking something like 15 minutes to push through the crowd of hookers and possible clients milling on the footpath. Sir, you want girl? Sir, you go with me? (They all knew the necessary minimal English). Watch your pockets.

So next evening after dinner I left in my room all valuables, even my watch. I put 3 X 10 USD notes in one pocket of my trousers, and ten or so condoms in the other. I went down to the street and waited. A security guy sat and watched from the front door of the hotel (no doubt it's the second entry on the thick and burgeoning file they have on me).

Two women pull up on a putt putting motorbike. Older lady and young gorgeous thing. Do I want girl? No.

Two boys pull up. Do I want boy? No.

A LB pulls up. Yes. How much. Ten dollar.

We cruise around familiar streets, then unfamiliar ones. She is suddenly shouting and I see parallel to us another cycle with 2 more LBs aboard. We head into unknown territory and I wonder if I'll make it out alive. We end up at a godforsaken place, dark (power not a big priority in SG of those days), diminutive steps up several flights, bumping my head, tripping over small steps, till we come to an ill-lit room set out with tables each with two chairs at them. I make out through the gloom, ten or so couples, men and girls, at tables, drinking, possibly eating, canoodling. The LBs go beserk, back and forth, yelling, making such a scene, people pay bills, get up and leave. After 10 minutes during which I am mortified, we have the place to ourselves. I am told to sit.

One LB goes straight for my fly and begins to suck my cock. The second says I have to give each LB ten dollar. (Lucky fate told me to bring 3 x 10 buck notes). She is in my pocket. I take out the 30 bucks and laughing say, see, here's the 10 dollar for each of you. Then she's in my left, and takes out the condoms, looking vastly disappointed. I laugh again, and say, you can have all of them.

The third LB slaps my thighs and shouts in a voice they could have heard in Chinatown: you alright? You alright? You alright?

I blow and the sucker rushes to the wall and spits my cum on the floor. I am offended.

When she returns I take her cock out of her pants (she resists strongly, but I win out). I give it a suck, and then because I don't know what the other two are doing, I quit and suggest we go. I don't know who paid the bill, if anyone, because I had no more money. Again I wonder will I be found battered and bleeding in some gutter tomorrow morning.

Amazingly, the one who first picked me up - who yelled at me while patting my thigh - takes me back to the hotel, right there, and drops me off.

A foursome of sorts, but more like the 3 Stooges + 1 (sorry Larry), or maybe Groucho, Harpo, Chico & Gaspatcho, than any porno moresome you have seen on vid or can imagine. My first VNese sex experience.

[SiamSam]

You're a brave, brave man Mr. Ken, a brave man indeed. Must give you a +1, not so much for the story, but for surviving the event. :)

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#1)

It was love at first sight.

To begin: a wink. Can I go with you?

It was 2007, and my mate bubba was passing through Saigon to embark on a train trip north to meet up with a friend from Australia and go touring. I went into town to meet him, whereupon we went to drink some beers, after which he suggested an eatery opposite his hotel that served imitation (ie Vietnamese) Italian. Surprisingly nosh was OK. We had an early night as he had a train to catch.

As we left the eatery and shook hands, me giving him a bottle of gin to ease the tedium of a long train journey, amid the footpath throng of passing humanity, motorbikes and vendors, the most beautiful sight I have yet seen on the planet winked at me.

I winked back.

The sight spoke. It said: Can I go with you?

Those wild wild eyes, so deep, so alive, living chocolate, window to the soul, sparkle, laughing, welcoming, warm. The eyes hath arrows. A returned wink. The smile was laughing on lips so big, swollen, fleshy, voluptuous, bee stung. So dark they were blood red purple black, the colour of a good red wine under evening light. Hair spikey, and collar length. Face and neck the hue of fine cut tobacco.

My mate bubba gone across the road to his kip, I moved face on, looked squarely into both eyes, seeing all the way down into the soul, like looking down a coalmine, where there was located a thick seam of rich reflection, warmth, intelligence, goodness. Melville says you cannot hide the soul. He has Ishmael comment of Queequeg:

"I thought I saw the traces of a simple honest heart; and in his large, deep eyes, fiery black and bold, there seemed tokens of a spirit that would dare a thousand devils."

Such was it with this boy. His soul was there, exposed, and it revealed something. At that moment I could not quite express what, but something that was as attractive as autumn sunshine, clear, bright, warming. Daring a thousand devils.

You are so beautiful, I raptured, and as if to make sure I was being understood clearly, repeated it twice: You are so beautiful. You are so beautiful, stamping emphasis upon the so as a sentry’s boot heel would be stamped on gravel.

This all produced an even bigger smile, one well pleased with itself. Beauty likes nothing better than being told of its beauty.

Little did I know I had begun an adventure with a Vietnamese LB that was to unfold as quite a story.

[williethepimp]

great stuff Ken,ive just read this thread from start to finish...im looking forward to the next installment....plusses to you

[duke007]

great stuff Ken,ive just read this thread from start to finish...im looking forward to the next installment....plusses to you

Same Same, thanx for posting Ken

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#2)

I knew immediately that these were the most beautiful face eyes lips neck hair that had ever come into my purview. The boy had the head of a keen young fawn, alert, attentive, aware, and the highdomed skull of sapient intelligence. Here was a star awaiting discovery. I had never in the entire galaxy of my life gazed upon enchanted beauty such as this. Cho hay la giong huu tinh.

You are sooo beautiful, I enthused one more time. Then thought to ask: how old are you?

The other turned to a male friend standing by, another gay boy, slightly older, and asked in Vietnamese: how do you say nineteen in English? The reply came in English: nineteen.

The boy dutifully told me: nineteen. Then he queried once more: can I go with you?

You can go with me Sunshine. You can go with me now and forever.

It was love at first sight. ("Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?")

Rockets launched. Supernovae exploding. Sunspots erupting. The most beautiful creature I had ever encountered had turned out to be a boy with the Face of a girl, wicked winking soulful eyes of a girl, lips of a girl, soft dark skin of a girl, hair of a girl. Boy. Nineteen. Forbidden fruit.

That’s how it began.

Much later there would be private revelations of body beauty, the most perfect feminine hands I could imagine, with long groomed fingernails, well shaped legs, unhairy, yet calves covered with a faint down, almost blonde, that could only be detected by looking from kissing distance, well structured muscled toned feet, with 10 out of 10 toes, a pair of buttocks like small rounded melons (about the size of some Pattaya LBs’ implant tits), and a wonderful circular nut coloured youknowwhere.

O and a cock any bull would die for.

But that was all for later. For now I had to deal with the immediate question: could he go with me?

As we exchanged phone numbers I said – which was true – I had to go meet somebody, but I’d call him tomorrow.

Knowing bubba would need an early night, I had agreed to this meeting a couple of days previous. My appointment was with a supposed brother of a gayboy I had been having a fling with for the past 6 months or so. He had texted me out of the blue, or maybe out of the red.

It was not at all clear whether this supposed brother wanted to a) usurp his brother’s cock in my mouth, getting the action for himself; or demand to know on behalf of the family, my intentions; or c) to simply have the large lads he’d arrive with extort money from and/or then bash me; or d) all of the above; or e) none of the above.

I tingled in anticipation as I ordered a beer in the bar we had agreed to meet in. I had suggested the place, a joint I drank in occasionally, because I knew it was tiny, pokey, populated by almost no custom, and whose owners knew me as a regular customer. That way I figured any large strangers would be easily spottable and definable as potential threats. It was also a place amenable to easy escape, as like at Sally’s in Jomtien, it was mostly outdoor tables.

It amazes me as I write this now, four years later, how even as an old fart the unknown, the forbidden, sets my nervous system on fire, producing what I call a toey-ness, a kind of productive nervousness that I only ever experienced as a youngster before going out to bat when I played our Aussie game of cricket.

Half an hour later a text message: sorry, I’m have to help my mother tonite.

What a fizzer. What a way to end such a build up. And, on top of the no-show, I could have gone with my newfound LB. When I went back to the place I had encountered the Face, he had gone. Of course.

Tomorrow, I told myself as I hailed a cab. Remain calm. Tomorrow.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#3)

I’m told there must be fifty ways to lose your lover.

Hide in the den, Ken.

Hold up a sign NO MEN, then…

I had not seen the gay boy for some weeks and was, frankly, trying to drop him. I suspected the original text message wanting to meet me as well as the apology cancellation had come from himself, rather than some fake brother. But I wasn’t to know.

He was a nice boy who had never hassled me for money, but like the LB First from Pattaya would four years later, he made the mistake of falling in love with me when it was not reciprocated. He was a big lad, some 76 or 80 kilos, not tall, but thick set, with a quite ordinary face – some might even say ugly – and very camp. Yet in contradiction, he was an obligate and demanding top, who was only ever interested in having his cock – and a lovely thick cock it was too – in my arsehole or my mouth.

I had met him some six months previous, and we kind of hit it off straightaway.

At that time I was doing a job for a Singapore company out of a premises in District 3, which is the business district immediately north of the CBD in Saigon. There are many companies with offices there, hence lots of eateries around to cater to the workers who file out of offices at lunchtime and after the day’s toil concludes.

I used to eat in these every working day. Usually when I went out with other staff we would head for a place very close by, but on days when I ate by myself I liked to amble further afield and see what else was on offer. You never know your luck in the big city.

In a street some 10 minutes walk from my office I was intrigued by this place that was sign boarded as a restaurant, but squat on the ground like an old house in a yard with a forecourt where two or three tables were set out and half a dozen motorbikes parked. I decided to give it a try. Too hot to sit outside at midday, I opened the door to be welcomed by two waitboys, wearing white shirt and black trousers uniform, into the air conditioned interior. One was the lad in question.

It was an extremely peaceful place, gloomy, other customers talking quietly among themselves. I sat at table, ate a very enjoyable meal, and was fussed over by this overtly and somewhat pushily camp boy. I enjoy a bit of camp, especially when it’s got a dress and stilettos on, but I have to say I found this boy a bit over the top, a little embarrassing even. I mean, everything in its place, but at lunch I was dressed in the full clobber, long sleeve shirt, tie, shiny laceup shoes, the lot. What if someone who knew me from the professional scene walked in, and I’ve got this gushy camp boy palavering over me? There goes another contract.

I paid the bill, but not before this boy, who I’ll call Tung, had introduced himself and forced me to give him my phone number and take his as well.

So addicted am I to The Holy Member that I will make myself available to owners of them even if I’m not all that attracted to their other features. In the grip of the Pope – the Holy Pole.

(To get the joke you have to give me a bit of leeway, for it’s actually the previous Pope.)

I went back for lunch there the next day.

O Hiiii, I was greeted, hand flopping campily towards me. Everything proceeded as previous, a few other customers about, similarly good meal, hovering waitboy.

But as I drew near to the final few nibbles, he leaned over towards me and whispered in my ear: when finish, go toilet.

Pretty clear instruction. Finishing, I rose, asked the girl behind the cashier’s counter where the loo was, and headed off to whatever destiny awaited me.

[KenW]

Thanx willie, thanx duke, more to come.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#4)

Mention of that Singapore company I was working for in Saigon reminds me, Fondest Reader, of the silliest sex event I have never taken part in. For it was actually a non-sex event.

Around small lanes and alleys in Little India, Singapore, such as Hindoo St, there are brothels (or were anyhow, not sure if they’re still legit as of 2011) populated by LBs (I met a gorgeous one from Malaysia) and by subcontinental hijras (the ones Professor Serena Nanda called “neither man nor woman” in her book of the same title).

My first hitup at one of these was simply an unmarked doorway, plain wooden door open, behind which there was a steep staircase. The action took place upstairs, and I thought well, I wonder what might befall me up there? Stairway to Heaven? I doubt it, especially if one of those 40 year old hijras gets you in a deathlock.

In the doorway lounged two hijras, old, ugly, fat (same as me) with this gorgeous 22 year old Malaysian LB standing a metre apart from them, on the footpath. I chatted and flirted a bit, but it being so early, I told them I needed to eat and have some strong drink, after which I would return.

I hoped my wink to the Malaysian would be interpreted as something like: wait for me.

I walked a couple of blocks to an Indian eatery I wanted to sample, had a superb meal, with a couple of carafes of red, after which I was ready to go wandering again.

In one of the lanes near Hindoo St – a rabbit warren of door to door brothels, ground floor, all open, whores lounging like buxom bunnies on divans and settees, but as far as I could tell, only populated by GG types, many of whom were old hags, literally, like some of those you find in the beer bars on Second Rd, Pattaya, the white roots of their bottle dyed hair showing through at the parting – I bumped into a chap, when I was too busy, like a Jabiru exploring a marsh pond, craning my stickybeaking neck at all these sights. Though he didn’t look all that much like a fellow traveler, it was immediately obvious from his body language he was, and hoping I was, he sent out several unspoken signals, following which I nodded.

He took off, walking quite fast up the alley, looking back over his shoulder, like a scoutmaster with a trailing troop of initiates, presumably leading me to a site for satisfaction. In fact before we got to the end of the alley he had to stop and wait for me to catch up. When I got to within about three metres of him he took off again.

When I reached the footpath of the big drag Serangoon Rd I drew breath. There he was again, pretending to look over the goods of a street vendor. He looked up, making eye contact with me. As soon as I got to within touching distance, he off once more, plunging into the traffic as if determined to die right there and then.

A shaggy dog slipped onto the roadway as though shadowing the scoutmaster.

If I wanted to be part of this I had to do likewise. Perhaps a red light would part the rollercoaster of cars trucks and vans like Moses parted the Red Sea. It didn’t. I held my breath and stepped off the kerb into six lanes of terrifying Formula 1 lunatics going a thousand miles an hour.

I lived. (Vietnam has some redeeming features: at least it’s taught me to cope with serious mayhem on the roads.)

This scoutmaster’s trek went on for several blocks on the other side of Serangoon, down alleys, up alleys, round corners, there he would be waiting me. Then taking off. I kept checking over my shoulder for his accomplices. Be prepared. But there were none in sight.

In each dark spot I stared hard at the small groups of men staring hard at me from behind the glowing tips of cigarettes, their eyes bulging white like Murali about to deliver his doosra.

He had me going for fully 45 minutes this guy, after which I was in a lather of sweat, getting impatient, wondering why he had not led me to any open doors, to any mini hotels, to any house, to the glans of his cock. Then the next leg of following had me suddenly in this crowd of about two thousand subcontinentals all baying and braying, as they sought instructions for, directions about, bus departures. It was like being outside Eden Gardens; I waited for some tout to try to sell me a ticket. This was a huge open block from where long distance buses came and went, a terminal of sorts. Were we bound for Bangladesh?

My sex partner had disappeared. I wandered the parking lot between buses, through throngs, hoping he would find me even if I couldn’t find him. But like an unobserved quantum object he had completely vanished.

I wandered back down Serangoon.

What had that been all about?

It was certainly not about sex. Was he just setting me up for robbery? If so, he had ample chance in various dark alleys we walked. Among the various groups of men hanging about could have been his henchmen. No-one bothered me.

Did he genuinely lose me? I doubt it. He had waited for me at every corner and turn, or when in thick crowds I lagged behind. For most of the time I had the only white skin in sight, so hard to lose.

Was he just taking the piss out of the dumb Caucasian? Being a prick teaser in the real sense of those words. Probably. Silly me. I headed back down to Hindoo singing Ah caint get no.

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#5)

Toilets are places of dirt. Of filth and bad smells, of piss and shit.

So why is it that I like, very like as the Vietnamese say, having sex in toilets? What is so deviant about me that such a thing looms large, like Nancy’s equine erection, in its attractions for me?

Here we are back six months before I met my perfect looking LB and fell in love at first sight, the night bubba headed off on his train journey, the night my mysterious SMS sender had failed to show, and we are now where this faggot waiter has instructed me to go to the toilet in the restaurant upon finishing eating. I had only used up just over half my lunch break so had plenty of time before I had to be back in the Singapore company’s offices.

He instructed. Liking sex in toilets I had no hesitation whatsoever in following.

Why though is sex in toilets considered odd, deviant, bad, unclean? Mary Douglas in her book Purity & Danger talks a lot about dirt, and that may give us a clue.

Dirt, she says, is stuff out of place. It is when the systematic order into which we place things gets out of kilter. Something’s rotten Johnny in the state. For example there is nothing intrinsically dirty about shoes, yet we frown if they are placed on the dining table. There is nothing intrinsically dirty about food, but to leave food or food scraps in the bedroom, especially in the bed, is an issue of general disapproval.

So it is with toilets. They are places where we shit and piss or change our tampons, even vomit. They are not typically thought of or approved of as places in which to eat, or, and this is where my present case is at, to conduct romance.

Douglas lists the discovery of the bacterial transmission of disease as one of the great findings of the nineteenth century. This links us directly to toilets. It tells us that toilets are locations where we might just, should we not be careful, pick up some dreaded scourge that will do us harm. And she wasn’t meaning STIs.

So the anti-toilet phobia has become a hygiene thing, at least for us in the so-called developed world. For most of human history toilet was taken in some private place in the bush, or down the gully, in the fields. In much of rural Vietnam people who still live in thatched huts have a ladder and squat board set up over a nearby paddy field. They shit and piss in the water, adding fertilizer as well as keeping the house and its adjacent area clean.

In modern contexts, especially in towns and cities, almost all cultures have developed this arrangement whereby a special room is designated for our fouling. Even in the pueblo of the southwest of the USA pre-European Indians had toilet rooms.

Sex on the other hand, also once practiced in private places in the shrubbery, is now largely allocated to set spots too. Bedrooms obviously, but office desks, kitchen benches, lounge room carpets and settees, back lawns, back seats of cars, in Vietnam motorbike seats, etecetra, if sex ya after.

But hang on, I know plenty of folks who’ve had sex on the throne. I’ve seen stacks of pix of LBs perched on the ceramic with cum dribbling. It’s not just me.

So maybe I’m not so deviant after all.

Especially if we move on beyond Douglas and her hygiene to the need for privacy. My gay waitboy could hardly say let’s get down under the table, could he? Or meet in the forecourt among the motorbikes. He couldn’t invite me into the restaurant kitchen (at least while staff were working). So it was the toilet.

Yes, it is privacy, but it’s more. I go back to my idea of forbidden fruit. When that WC door closes and locks you’re in there with someone and whatever is in their undies. And for me anyhow, the tingles that sets forth is such a high. A real buzz. It’s about not being sprung, set in a context of fear that you might be. It’s about nobody knowing as they continue blissfully to piss and shit right nearby, juxtaposed with a likelihood that you might be heard and discovered. In a city like Singapore it is the possibility that your would-be sex partner turns out to be an undercover policeman and you’re on your way to the slammer.

So there go I, liking my sex in toilets as places of the forbidden, of fear, where ordinary life goes on right nearby, where the probability of exposure, humiliation, punishment is ever present and lurking.

Customers were quietly clinking cutlery throughout the restaurant as I walked to the rear.

Where were these next ten minutes taking me?

[DownLoLarry]

Love At First Sight Rocks!

Thanks for sharing with us Ken! :D

[KenW]

Love at first sight (#6)

Upon locking the cubicle door he grabbed me in a bear hug and gave me a five minute tongue kiss, my back pressed against the wall, his full weight hard up against me. Then with his left duke (he turned out to be sinister handed) he pushed down so hard on my collarbone I was still sore the next day.

He drove me down while opening his fly with his right mitt, as he kept kissing. Out came the cock and I gave, from squat position, a good long suck. It was a thick pugnacious snake the hue of dark Hershey chocolate. You could almost hear it hiss. Tasted good too.

Then he broke off and before he could cum dashed back to his duty station.

I sat down in the closed dunny, lid of the Doulton down, getting my breath and waiting for my head to stop spinning. I looked at my watch. Have to go. Then I flushed, in case there was anyone at the piss trough (there wasn’t), washed my hands and returned to my table. As I paid the bill he gave me a big smiling bye bye.

For the ensuing six months I found excuses to eat alone at least two days a week. The time following that first encounter he would not let me sit at the front parlour table. He ushered me instead through to the back of the restaurant. I had noted, that first time I went to the toilet, the space was indeed that of an old house, all sorts of nooks, crannies and side rooms (no doors) opening off what would have once been a large lounge room. In a deeply intriguing sense these gave an amount of privacy, especially amid the gloomy dim lit pot planted ambience.

Couples, mostly in their forties or late thirties, dressed like office workers, took advantage of this sequestered privacy for what I fantasised were secret trysts.

Tung led me to a table in the very back nook, a space slightly bigger than the table set for two at which he told me to sit. There was wall directly behind me, about a metre wide. The space gave to another, also containing one table, which in turn joined the large lounge room. Very efficient. I could sit so no-one going through to the toilet or emerging from the kitchen could see me. Yes, they could see a set table, but not who was seated there.

This became our kissing hugging cock sucking space.

For the next six months, twice a week or on rare occasions three times, I would sit at this table, eat my meal, then the gratis watermelon slices they provided, following which I would sample for dessert one thick dark sausage. There was rarely time for him to cum, but he did a few times. Sausage with cream.

Mostly we were interrupted by calls from the cashier’s desk, for him to take meals, brought to said desk by a kitchen hand, to waiting tables. Customers sorted, he would return to tableside, return his sword to its sheath my gob.

Brazen bliss between boy and ol buggerlugs.

[bubba]

Sooo. It was Tung down the throat in the toot, then?

A variation of the ole Frenchified kissin', boy.

Honi soit qui mal y penis?