Riding up to the eighth floor, I took my mask out of my pocket. The first mask I’d bought was a rubber Bin Laden from a stall on Sukhumvit Road, not far from Nana Plaza, but it was bloody uncomfortable and I could hardly see out of it. I ended up buying a cowboy set from the toy department of the Emporium department store that included a small black mask to be worn when robbing stagecoaches. It was small and I had to loosen the elastic, but I figured that so long as it covered my eyes and nose it’d be fine. I slipped on the mask as I walked down the corridor and knocked on the door of Room 807.
The door was opened by a big man wearing a dark blue robe and a stocking over his head. I tried not to laugh as he offered me his hand and introduced himself. It was Bill. I shook his hand and he closed the door behind me. He was holding a clipboard and he ticked off my name. He had a huge beer gut, the pasty white flesh flecked with blue veins like a ripe Stilton, and knobbly knees that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an elderly elephant. The fact that the stocking was squashing his features made it difficult to work out how old he was, but I guess he’d be in his fifties, early sixties maybe.
‘Am I the first?’ I asked, looking around. There was a sofa and a table and a large television but no other guests.
‘You’re the fifth; the others are in the bedroom,’ he said, nodding at a door. ‘This is where I meet and greet, and check that you’re who you say you are. I have to be careful,’ he said, in his plummy voice that made me think of afternoon cream teas and croquet on the lawn. ‘I wouldn’t want the wrong sort of person turning up.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, though frankly I wasn’t sure who the wrong sort of person would be when one was talking about gang-banging one’s nearest and dearest.
He opened a door and took me through to the bedroom, where four men were standing around a cupboard laden with drinks. There was a short, stocky guy in a fake Lacoste shirt and baggy blue jeans wearing a black ski mask; a tall thin guy in a Chang Beer T-shirt and shorts wearing a rubber wolfman mask; a youngish guy in a tracksuit wearing a cardboard mask with a dog’s face; and a guy in a Spiderman mask who had taken off his shirt to reveal the hairiest chest I’d ever seen. He looked like an ape, and his bow legs and close-cropped hair added to the effect. They all nodded at me.
They moved aside and Wolfman waved at the bottles of booze. ‘Free drinks,’ he said, nodding at Bill. ‘Courtesy of our host.’ I picked up a bottle of Tiger beer. Next to the booze there was a bowl filled with blue Viagra tablets, another filled with small white tablets that I guessed were Ecstasy, and several smaller bowls which could only have been cocaine. By the bed was a large bowl of condoms and two tubes of KY Jelly.
‘We’re waiting for one more, but I think we can get started,’ said Bill, looking at his clipboard. ‘Why don’t you guys get ready.’
The guy in the ski mask took off his shirt and jeans. He wasn’t wearing underwear and he already had a huge erection, which I figured was probably chemically-induced. The Hairy Guy took off his trousers to reveal legs that were just as hairy as his chest.
‘I don’t see your wife,’ I said, popping the cap off my bottle of beer.
‘She’s in the bathroom,’ he said.
‘She bloody well better be,’ said the guy in the ski mask. He had a Scottish accent. Glasgow maybe. As he turned to look at the bathroom door, I saw that he had a blue and white cross of St Andrew tattooed on his arse.
There was a knock on the door and Bill went through to the other room with his clipboard. I took off my shirt and trousers and hung them up in the wardrobe. I was wearing my Union Jack underwear, flying the flag. The Scotsman grinned and raised his beer bottle in salute. ‘Nice,’ he said. I hoped that he was talking about my boxer shorts and not my growing erection. I sipped my beer and tried to look as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be in a hotel bedroom with four naked men.
Bill returned with a short man in a linen suit and a pink shirt, his face hidden behind a fancy black mask that was studded with fake diamonds.
‘Bon soir, so sorry I am late,’ he said. He had a French accent and a large square chin with a dimple in the centre.
‘Aye, better late than never,’ growled the Scotsman, scratching his backside. ‘Can we get started? Let the dogs see the rabbit?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Bill, putting his clipboard onto the cupboard. ‘Just to recap the rules, gentlemen. Basically, everything goes unless my wife objects. Her word is final. If she wants to stop, you stop. If she doesn’t want to do anything, you don’t do it. She has a safe word. Two words, actually.
High Heels. If she says “High Heels”, then you know she’s serious. I hope that’s clear. If she says “Stop!” or “No”, then you can ignore it, but if she follows it with “High Heels”, then you have to stop. Are we all clear on that?’
He picked up a small video recorder. It was a Sony, an HD version that stored its video on memory cards.
We all nodded. The Frenchman took off his clothes and then helped himself to a glass of wine. He was overweight and his skin was peppered with small brown moles, but he seemed totally at ease. I couldn’t help but compare dicks. I’d have to say that I was about average, and that Dog Mask was the biggest by far. His member would have looked more at home on a medium-sized Shetland pony. The Scotsman’s was the smallest, about the size, shape and colour of a small carrot. Not that size is important, right? I’m joking. Of course, size is important, and any girl who tells you different is lying.
Bill pointed at the bowl of condoms by the bed. ‘I got all your medical certificates and I can assure you that my wife is clean, so it’s up to you whether or not you use condoms.’
‘Hate the things,’ growled the Scotsman.
‘Right,’ said Bill, ‘let’s get the show on the road.’ He went over to the bathroom, knocked on the door and opened it. ‘We’re ready for you now, honey,’ he said.
She walked out of the bathroom. I’d been worried that perhaps the photographs I’d seen had been Photoshopped, but if anything she was even sexier than in the pictures. She was tall for a Thai, but the stiletto heels made her look taller, with very white skin and long black hair that could have been used in a shampoo commercial, made even blacker by the contrast of the white towel robe she was wearing.
She had amazing cheekbones and as she slid off the robe I could see that her skin was totally unblemished, smooth and soft and white with absolutely no stretch marks or tramp stamps. She’d definitely never had kids, but I suspected that she’d had a bit of work on her face because her nose was bigger than you find on a Thai, even a Thai-Chinese, which she obviously was. She smiled at us and then bowed her head and waied us, putting her hands together as if in prayer. God, that was sexy, seeing as how she was totally naked, except for the shoes.
Her breasts were magnificent, large and full and proud and her stomach was as flat as a washboard. Bill hadn’t lied about his wife regularly visiting the gym-you didn’t get a body like that by accident.
She lay down on the bed, a sly smile on her face. The Scotsman made a whooping noise and jumped onto bed and thrust his groin at her face. She opened her mouth and took him straight away, clawing at his chest with her long nails, her eyes wide open. I swear her eyes were sparkling with pleasure as she worked on him, moaning softly.
The Frenchman growled like a dog and threw himself on the bed and pawed at her breasts. Bill had his video camera on and was filming away. I moved forward but the Hairy Guy stepped forward at the same time and we banged into each other. We both laughed nervously, I guess neither of us were used to touching another naked man.