The God is in the Details

This is one of those times I start to think my life is so filled with sensual excess that nothing is particularly exciting anymore. I enjoy it all, in a number of different ways, but I think it would take something like an offer for getting whipped senseless in an isolated villa set-up for an SM orgy to make me go, ‘that’s impossible’. Mostly because I simply won’t do it; the SM bit is fine, the orgy isn’t.

For some reason, there had been a series of coincidences Friday night to have made me think the event was something that was just wrong. Setting spiritual beliefs and social conventions aside, there was very bad weather, and no way to get a cab from the Esplanade to any of the whore places, regardless of whether we called or not. He had wanted to go to Geylang just for a look-see but it wasn’t possible now, and we actually had to walk under the rain from the train station to get to the Four Floors of Whores (sound like a cheesy movie title, eh).

We went into this club that Vic had told me, explicitly, was where the transvestites hung out. I was a little too intrigued by the situation I had been in to recall that piece of advice, and at any rate, when I think about it now, he was probably wrong. The same establishment runs two different clubs, and the one for the lady-boys was probably in the less prominent location.

The girls at the club we went into were mostly very hot actually, and half of them probably had plastic surgery. Mr. Big though there was one particular girl who was the hottest, but she said she couldn’t do me. Then there came along that Laotian girl with a Carmen Electra figure, she looked cool and a lot more liberalized then the rest, and was –to me- probably one of the hottest. And anyway, she was so sexy I would have been happy just to have seen her dance naked. There was some boring negotiation done, where I agreed on $250 ($200 for me, $50 for the Farang, or whatever it is they call white guys in Laos). It was only later on when we were in the elevator to his apartment that she told us she’d wanted to leave at 2:30 to meet her boyfriend at Zouk. I figured she wasn’t lying, because I don’t think there’s a lot of soliciting going on at Zouk, although I can’t really make a definitive judgment since I find it to be one of the most boring clubs in Singapore and have only been there once.

I was quite drunk by the time we got seated around on his couch, and threw off my dress. Mr. Big went to use the bathroom and the whore asked me then to fix her a drink. It was the only time she was alone and possibly when she stole my dress. Now that I think of it, it does seem like she planned it all along. Am still anal about it.

She had taken off her dress after I had done so, and I had been coming on to her when she curled up and tucked her knees under her chin and said one word from her limited vocabulary, ‘Money.’ Oddly, you’d think something like that would ruin the mood, but I was just too fascinated by the way she had asked for it, especially how she managed to do it, and look endearing at the same time. Part of the reason could possibly be because it wasn’t coming out of my wallet.

Much of me touching her and sucking her tits are all gone now in a sort of haze, but I did remember putting a condom onto my dildo and fucking her with it, then changing it and using it on myself. I felt her up at one point in time and thought she had HPV (that’s genital warts, for the ignorant, 3 in 4 people have some form of it by the time they’re 50, unless you’re talking about two virgins that had never had any sexual contact with anyone else, ever.) She closed her legs when I tried to feel her up again; to me, it’s all very strange. Because plastic surgery is so cheap in Bangkok, it wouldn’t have been a problem to have had the wart removed.

By this time I was impossibly drunk, and surprisingly, without being pukish. The best thing about everything was when I sat on the chair facing Mr. Big and her, and jilled off as she got finger-fucked. For all the sinfulness of the whole situation, I thought it was one of the most pretty things I had ever seen. The moonlight had cast a sort of silver glow onto her body, and she looked completely surreal.

Much of what else happened is all quite a blur to me now, but I did recall them trying to count how many orgasm I had had.

He sent her off, I felt like eating a biscuit and a granola bar, and did, and promptly went to sleep thereafter.

We had some pretty mediocre sex in the morning –I don’t lubricate well right after I wake up, and the bottle of Astroglide was in the living room-, and talked about it all, and prostitutes, and things.

I still find it absolutely fascinating that he had paid a whore for sex in the past just because he had wanted to have sex. I suppose that’s why people would pay for whores in the first place, otherwise they’d be called escorts, and even then. But most of the other guys I have known who have slept with prostitutes – the G-Spot and Ethan in particular- did it for something else other then. I know Ethan was just being a bastard and wanted to see if he could persuade her into giving him a free fuck, but it wasn’t in Asia, and I told him she could have had asked him for money not because she was a full-time whore, but because she’d wanted to make a quick buck. I think it was something like 50 Euros, which I don’t think is very much, considering the standard of living there.

I remember telling B oral sex could result in getting AIDS actually, although it is not very likely, and from this discussion of a fucked up bastard who decided to knowingly infect a bunch of kids with HIV, apparently the chances of a man infecting a woman is 1 in 100. Although I am still wondering if this is with or without a condom. Nonetheless, he’d admitted that when some men get horny, they don’t seem to think very much at all; but he’s gotten tested a few times since then, and we’re really all allright.

It was Sunday yesterday, so I went to church, but didn’t feel particularly repentant, although it did make me feel better. And not just slightly. I am insanely spiritual, especially when the sermon is capable of appealing to my logic… Text B to wish him a blessed Sabbath, and told him I had gone back to that ‘hell hole’ (Orchard Towers) to try and get back my shopping. He didn’t quite agree with me that it was a hell hole, ‘just an ancient form of commerce thriving on the lusting of men’. I don’t want to sound moralistic, but I have been there three times in the past week, and each time, I had gotten a feeling of unnatural repression while I was there. There was just something wrong about it, and it wasn’t my conscience, because it doesn’t work any more when it comes to sex. More then anything, I think it was the idea that every single girl there was out to make a quick buck, and didn’t give a shit about anyone they were going to sleep with. And more then anything, it was the way the men looked at me.

Saturday night was just terrible. The club was even more crowded out, and there were all these old bastards that shoved past me, with the most impatient of ‘excuse me!’s. And as they’d walk past, I could feel them checking me out. Not in the way I get checked out at Cayote; you could feel them evaluating every cent that you’re worth, and them thinking their fucking cash is just so great. They stank of obnoxiousness, after all, for once, there were all these hot women clamoring for their affections.

The Pakistani fetish photographer I had gone there with had told me he was sure a lot of the girls hated nearly all the men they slept with. It makes sense to me; they’re being reduced to the status of an object each time, and they know it (a lot of girls are, and don’t; remember, ignorance is bliss) and to me, nothing would anger me more. It is, after all, one of the most blatant insults that could ever be had, You’re not human, period. The attitude with which we’d approached the whole situation in the first really proves the fact. Like I had said, we thought that it would be easy to get a girl for our experiment, just because we were paying.

On my part, it was also because I had never had a problem sleeping with another girl, it’s completely natural to me, so I can’t understand it when other girls wouldn’t think so. I grew up in an all-girl environment where the teachings on how all boys would rape you and get you pregnant were so extreme (don’t you know, they puncture condoms to increase their chances of impregnating you, then you’d be theirs forever! Hahaha!) it actually felt ‘less sinful’ –if such a thing is actually theologically feasible- to sleep with a girl then with a boy.

I don’t know what to think anymore. How does it feel like to be a shadow in the lives of so many men? I think I might just have a semblance of that feeling, and it does make a girl feel used. I know it’s more social convention then anything else, but we are all social creatures, and the crap that we were brought up with, rubbish though it may be in reality, actually does matter. Sometimes.

Whatever. I’m going to bed. It was an immensely unhealthy experience, although I won’t say I’m sorry to have done it. I’ll always be extremely Wilde–ian in my beliefs on the pursuit of ever new experiences, but I know up to what costs I am willing to pay for them, and I know what I won’t do.

No more emails on AIDS, please.

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