With that, he grabbed hold of Stan’s hand and began to lead the way.
Chris, Tim and Shun stood up promptly and followed the two men. I held back momentarily, as the effects of the wine hit me. Shun looked back at me cursorily with a baleful frown. I got to my feet unsteadily and joined the group, my head pounding with spikes of brightness.
The bedroom was on the second floor of the house, at the further end. It was dimly lit with the warm orangish hues given off by two aluminum-cast table lamps. Stepping into the tepid room, I felt a rush of claustrophobia, as if the space had suddenly shrunk and was pressing in on all sides, pushing all of us together into this confining place. I drew in several inaudible breaths and oriented myself, trying to get a stable bearing. Ben and Stan had already stripped off their tops and were sandwiching Shun in their embrace, nudging him to take off his T-shirt, assisting him gently. Shun allowed them to strip him without any resistance. Meanwhile, Tim and Chris had surrounded me and were doing likewise, tugging at my shirt, undressing me as they moved their hungry hands over my body, as if appraising something they had just bought.
While they were undressing me, I looked over at the menage a trois of Shun, Ben and Stan. By now, all of them were naked. With Shun between them, Ben and Stan were pressing their erections against his slender, muscular body, as they kissed his face and shoulders voraciously, like hunters savouring their prey. Shun seemed to luxuriate in their passion, perhaps even enjoying himself; I couldn’t tell. As Shun kissed Ben full on his lips, he looked over at me piercingly. And with that look, I knew instinctively what he had been trying to convey for so long. He belonged to no one, not even me with my attraction and attachment. He refused to be claimed by anyone; no one should own him in any way. He chose to be free and his freedom created a wide chasm, uncrossable and unbridgeable.
A new wave of pain inundated me, numbing all my faculties and rendering them temporarily inoperative. I was devastated and dazed. But I had no time to think right then, with the hands of Chris and Tim all over me, caressing eagerly. I shut down my mind and gave myself over to them.
I sought out Chris’s mouth from the tangle of our bodies and kissed him hungrily. I did not hold back this time.
Less Than a Day
Just because I’m going to Bangkok, doesn’t mean I’ll …
Since he was talking to himself Fred didn’t need to complete the sentence. His internal dialogue consisted mostly of such snippets: loath the exploitation of women … anyway have a relationship … whatever that means
… at least think I do … giving it an effin good try anyway.
He was in a business lounge at Heathrow. To prove his point to himself, he fished out his mobile and dialled a number he knew by heart, but had not yet assigned to autodial. It rang until her voice began reciting her automatic reply. She had gone out of her way to be charming to callers both known and anonymous: do, do, try me again later, I’m in a meeting just now … Except she wasn’t in a meeting. It was quite early Sunday morning. Fred had to leave the UK on his day off in order to start work on his assignment Monday night, in order to get back to the UK, the office and her before the end of the week.
He knew it would be quite a squeeze, but no reason why he couldn’t manage. It was a straightforward story with a nice dark theme: middle-aged Englishman falls for Thai bargirl, buys a house in the country and a car for them, both of which he puts in her name: a magnificent two story Spanish-Asian fusion job with double car port and a Toyota 4x4. Then she dumps him.
Legally both house and car are hers: he no longer has the right to live in his own home. It turns out she had a boyfriend her own age just down the road in her village. Then, if that were not tragic enough, the poor guy-his name was James Conway, aged fifty-five-gets shot in the head when walking home from the local bar one night.
Cruelty and murder were like porn: readers were automatically hooked.
And there were enough middle-aged Englishmen living with ex-bargirls, both in the UK and overseas-perhaps a little paranoid about their relationships-
for the story to improve subscription numbers.
That’s why Fred’s editor wanted him to chase it. Fred was heterosexual and under thirty, which pretty much made him the obvious choice. More: Fred had spent a year in Paris, so he was cosmopolitan; it had to be him. Of course, the big-time media had broken the story already, for about a nanosecond. As far as Fred’s editor knew, no one was doing it in depth though. Except Fred, who would end up spending a whole week of his life on it, if you took the travel time into account.
‘While you’re there, see if you can dig up a few more yarns, the kind we can store for a while … You know the sort of thing.’
Of course, Fred didn’t know the sort of thing, and neither did his editor, but any old dark stories would do. Everybody said what a lucky chap he was, whilst secretly relieved they didn’t have to go themselves: such a long trip, no friends out there, not as if he was going to a beach or anything truly exotic, the murder happened in deep country, a place called Isaan. And, let’s face it, Thailand, for all its charm, was Third World, even though it wasn’t PC to say so.
The fact that she-her name was Penny, but since he could not claim a romantic connection with any other woman, she appeared in his inner life as simply she or her-was not answering her phone caused a mild panic, a fluttering somewhere in his stomach. She knew he was at the airport, waiting for a plane that would take him away for a week right at the beginning of their
… whatever it was. He sent a text message with a much jollier tone than he felt: Off to the wild East in about an hour, missing you already.
He hesitated before pressing Send. On an emotional level the message expressed a deeper commitment than either had agreed to so far. All they’d done was get drunk and stoned and have sex, but the sex had been so good-
they’d discussed it in real time over their mobiles the next day-that a re-run was certainly on the cards. Apart from that, their budding romance was conducted electronically: texts for short Hi theres, emails for longer, more structured sentences: God your tits are just, well, out of this world, I don’t just mean size, I mean everything, shape, firmness, proportion … I was thinking of them at five o’clock this morning … Sorry if this is too, you know …
Don’t worry, Sugarplum, I think we both had the bang of our lives, didn’t we? I know I did. I never would have guessed you were so big … I woke up thinking about your bits too …
Love? Hardly, whatever that was, but a beginning of something that had a chance of survival? Maybe. He was just sick and tired of the endless chase for emotional stability, but you couldn’t fess up to that, especially not at the beginning. Nobody could afford to be someone else’s crutch amp; crotch for life, not if you wanted to stay in the race, keep upwardly mobile, pay off the mortgage on your studio flat, think about buying a decent car-
finally. He pressed Send, anyway, wondering if he was being uncool. To be honest, he hoped for a reply within the minute. She took forty and, to his own astonishment, the wait caused him to come out in a cold sweat and an inner voice started saying nasty, vengeful things about her, until his phone whooshed-it was his main life style decision that he preferred whooshes to bleeps: Have a great trip, see you when you get back, you lucky dog.