‘What?’ I turned to look at him, my mouth open.
‘Forget about it, everybody knows about her,’ said Robert.
‘They do?’
Robert nodded. ‘Everybody knows, but nobody says anything. It’s up to him, right? You make your own bed and you lie in it.’
I nodded, but my mind was whirling. How the hell did everyone know what had happened at the Sandy Spring Hotel? ‘I guess so,’ I said.
‘Beautiful. Sexy as hell.’
‘Thai,’ I said. ‘Thai-Chinese, probably.’
‘All the best ones are,’ he said, and I frowned, not understanding what he meant. He didn’t notice my confusion and carried on talking as he looked her up and down. ‘She used to work at Casanova’s, the bar in Nana Plaza,’he said. ‘One of the star turns, apparently.’
I almost choked. I knew the Casanova Bar. Knew of it, but had never been outside. The aggressive ladyboys with too much make-up and enormous silicon breasts meant that I tended to hurry by with my eyes averted. I’d never been a fan of ladyboys.
‘Bill met her about ten years ago, before she’d had anything done.
Basically, she was a guy with long hair back then.’ Robert chuckled and looked around to make sure that no one else could hear him. ‘He paid for the lot. Hormones for the skin, new breasts, plastic surgery on the face, collagen in the lips, and then finally …’ He made a snipping gesture with his right hand. ‘She had the chop. Or he had the chop. Had it done in Switzerland by one of the top surgeons in the world. Apparently it’s as good as the real thing, except for the old-lubrication problem.’
Lubrication? That’s right; that would explain the KY Jelly by the bed.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Robert, gripping my shoulder. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Anyway, there’s no leverage there. Everybody knows. It’s the secret that everyone knows and no one mentions. You make your own choices in life, don’t you?’
I nodded. Yes, that’s absolutely what we do. We make choices and we live with them.
‘She’s fit though, isn’t she?’ I nodded. Yes, she was fit.
‘I’m not sure I could ever give her one, though,’ said Robert, slapping me on the back. ‘Not knowing that she used to be a guy. What about you?
Could you give her one?’
‘Nah,’ I said.‘Never happen.’
‘There are those that say no one screws like a ladyboy,’ said Robert, gripping my shoulder. ‘They say no one knows what a guy wants better than another guy. What do you think? Think that’s true?’
‘Nah, I like girls,’ I said, but I was finding it difficult to speak. My mouth had gone bone dry. I drained my glass, but my throat was still dry.
‘Don’t we all?’ said Robert. ‘Still, each to his own. If Bill’s happy, that’s all that matters. Whatever rocks your boat, right?’
‘Right.’ And with that, Robert slapped me on the back again and went over to talk to Bill and his wife.
So, that was that. Any thoughts of using the memory card as leverage against Bill went straight out of the window. I was confused, though. Damn confused. The only thing that I could think about just then was that the most intense sexual experience of my life had been in a room with eight other men.
And here’s the thing, the thing that worries me most: I didn’t care. I really didn’t care. The fact that Bill’s wife was a transsexual didn’t worry me one little bit. I still watched and rewatched the video. I still visited the Craigslist website hoping that Bill would arrange a rematch. I still relived that night in the Sandy Spring Hotel-every moment, every position, every orgasm.
I spent so much time daydreaming that my work went downhill and Robert had me in for a chat to say that unless things turned around, he’d have to let me go. I didn’t give him the chance. I applied for a job with a broker in Bangkok and got it. It was half the salary and no accommodation allowance, but that didn’t matter. I just wanted to be in Bangkok, just in case Bill’s wife ever wanted to relive the experience.
And that’s why I’m here, sitting in Business Class and drinking this very reasonable champagne, heading back to the Land Of Smiles. I’m sure that one day, sooner or later, Bill’s wife is going to want to do it again, and when she does, I want to be there. And if she doesn’t …well, maybe I’ll swing by Casanova’s and see what’s on offer there.
Expeditions in the Twilight Zone
Years ago, I occasionally made trekking expeditions to Sabah in East Malaysia, a more intriguing state than those on the peninsula itself. These expeditions involved a few days’ walk in a wilderness, usually with a mountain to scramble up. At the end of such a trip, I found myself in Kota Kinabalu, staying in a more elaborate hotel than I normally bothered with.
Down in the basement, near the car-park area in the nethermost region of this grand establishment, was what was euphemistically termed a “health centre”.
I had not patronised such an establishment before and was not quite sure what to expect. The room was poorly lit, the effect intended obviously being a sombre tranquillity or, perhaps, seductive gloom. It contained a mattress and a washbasin and not much else. I undressed, except for my underpants, then lay down, as only seemed sensible. Eventually a smallish woman appeared; because of the dark, I couldn’t make out anything about her looks other than her size. In due course, as I grew more accustomed to the dim lighting and as we grew acquainted with each other, I came to discover she was a Filipina, working overseas like so many others.
This masseuse was a woman of around thirty with longish hair. It was difficult to judge her features because of the sombre ambiance, but her manner appeared stern, perhaps the consequence of reserve or shyness. Nonetheless, she gave my near-naked body a good hard look, especially the middle zone, and indicated that I should remove my underpants, which she presumably found more offensive than my genitalia. She then abruptly offered me coffee or tea. Thereafter, reluctantly emitting a few gruff pleasantries, she began to massage me, working a little indifferently with oil over most of my torso and limbs. Conversation was limited, partly because of mutual miscommunication and partly because the manner of this particular Filipina (her name, she reluctantly conceded, was Concepcion) was initially very serious, as if she were a doctor confronted with a terminal case. She did not seem very sure of either me or herself. Her voice sounded low, almost gravelly. I could hardly see her, even when I looked back over my shoulders, lying as I was in the typical massage position, face down on the mattress.
Concepcion set to work in a perfunctory manner, as if she were none too keen to touch human flesh. She avoided my shoulders, which happened to be sore and blistering from sunburn; not, as she told me afterwards, out of consideration for any pain I might have felt, but because she thought they might be infected. We talked a little about her life and family. She was divorced; divorced, moreover, with two youngish children who required a maid to look after them while she was at work. “Hundreds and hundreds a month,” she griped. Twisting my head over my shoulder, I could see her grimace. Concepcion leant forwards to judge my reaction to this disclosure.
Now I could see that she bore a slight scar at the corner of her mouth, as if she had been slashed by a knife. Perhaps reflecting on the injustices of the world, she lapsed into silence. Uncertain as to how matters would develop, I myself slipped into a doze.
I woke to feel a finger tracing a circle or two round my anus. A small, oily hand then moved forward a little to brush my testicles. Meeting with no opposition from me, the small hand began to knead them and then, increasingly emboldened, pushed further still to work on my male member, squeezing it more and more confidently as it responded and I lifted my body a little to accommodate this pleasant procedure. Suddenly it was clear to me that a new chapter was about to open in my sexual life, which had never proceeded in a smooth, unfolding manner but in fits and starts, like events in the quantum world, lurching randomly into sudden life and equally sudden annihilation.