The Greatest Lie

by Alexandra Rios

 

Volume 2

Chapter 10

Beyond Bangkok

 

Don’t you hate commercial air travel? No matter how many drugs I take, when they wear off, I’m disoriented, my legs are twitchy, and there are still three hours (or whatever) to go. Not enough time to take the last of the Sonata I had borrowed from Mom’s medicine cabinet before touchdown (and customs), but a long time to deal with boredom and discomfort. I got up to pee and stretch, but stepping back to my seat over my comatose friend Tran, I kicked and roused her. Her eyes rolled open, and her lips curled into a lascivious smile. "Next stops, Bangkok and Phuket. My favorite phrases," she mused. She giggled, and I joined her in a conspiratorial joke. You see, Tran and I are transsexuals, traveling to Thailand for sex reassignment surgery. But we haven’t let anatomy delay or deter us. Our bodies are playing catch-up with our hearts and our lives, and for the last year or so, my life has been moving fast.

We cleared customs and stopped by Dr. Sanguan’s clinic. His surgical coordinator told us that we were the next two openings on the waiting list for surgery, and that Dr. Sanguan would examine us assess suitability for his procedures after we had filled out our paper work. I mentally calculated our extra cash for living expenses and the remaining days until I was due back at the University of Minnesota, and said "We’re in a hurry. I thought we had our surgical dates set."

"Dr. Sanguan’s waiting list is three months long, and you wrote us only one month ago. You must wait your turns on his waiting list. But don’t worry, we get a lot of cancellations. We have two girls on Monday and I think they’re not coming. Call me tomorrow. In the meantime, have fun in Thailand."

I struggled to calculate the day of the week. We had left LA on Tuesday night, so it must be…

Pim interrupted my jet-lagged reverie. "It’s Friday. So go shopping, get some party clothes, and some Thai noodles, and then…."

"Where do we go to party?" Tran inquired.

"Phuket is not so good for transsexuals, just a couple of so-so clubs, like Andaman Go-Go and Koh Joy. Some of our girls enjoy a side trip to Koh Samui, to the famous katoey cabarets, like Christies, or the Green Mango. Koh Samui is not too far. Just a one-hour plane flight, or twelve hours by bus. The cabarets are the District called Chaweng. By the 7-11 and the Burger King, near the beach. Closes at 3:00." I groaned at the prospect of more travel, but as long as we had to kill a weekend in Thailand, why not.

Dr. Sanguan approved our surgeries, delayed primary colon segment vaginaplasties, with the warning that this was the most invasive and difficult of his procedures. "Really, it’s two major operations, first stage to form the base of the vagina using penile inversion and perform sensate pedicle glans penis clitoroplasty. Then, a final stage to attach the colon segment to provide adequate vaginal length. In between I perform a minor procedure to graft scrotal skin to form exterior and labia. I will perform the first stage and the skin graft, and my colleague Dr. Toreanid the final stage. If all goes well, you will be discharged about a week after the final stage. The completed vagina will be made of two materials: penile skin at the base, attached to a colon segment. These are difficult operations, difficult healing, and very difficult after-care. You must dilate very diligently! And no vaginal sex until you have reached comfortable dilation with the large stent, at least eight weeks from discharge. It is very difficult to dilate this type of vagina adequately. In many cases, ring of scar tissue forms, requiring a further operation. And you want breast augmentation too? You will be very sore, all over."

Almost three weeks in bed, followed by eight weeks of chastity, and maybe no sex until after a further operation. I groaned. Our hockey stick friends, Rick and Randy, would go nuts, if Tran and I didn’t first. "What about, you know, other sex?" I stammered shyly.

"Oral sex, whenever you feel well enough. If you must have anal sex, four weeks, but it is never advisable, especially after a colon segment removal."

"And now?"

"No restrictions until after surgery. But no alcohol, drugs, and no hormones until afterwards." Yeah, right, like I was going sober in Thailand. Like god during the creation, we’d rest on Sunday. Until then, we’d bang cock and fuck it. We rushed to the airport, and caught the last flight to Koh Samui.

I was impressed by Dr. Sanguan’s straightforwardness and candor, but the length of sexual abstinence was upsetting. I commiserated with Tran as we endured yet another plane flight, but she was upbeat, as usual. "Rick and Randy were patient for you after your last surgery, weren’t they? At least until Randy met me." Tran smiled coquettishly, and I gave her a friendly, girlish swat for stealing one of my two boyfriends.

"I think it’s going to be different this time. Just when we finally become complete women, we have to live like nuns. And they’re not exactly a couple of priests."

"You mean they are like a couple of priests: like Boston priests." Tran cracked up at her sacrilegious joke.

My friend Tran is smart, but current events is not her strong suit. I probed a little. "The Boston priests I read about prefer little boys, not girls like us".

"Remember, I used to be a little boy. So did you! You never seduced a priest from confession?"

"Tran, I haven’t been to confession since I was 13. But I have to admit, it’s not a bad idea."

"Me neither. Gone to confession since I was 13, I mean." I was surprised. Vietnamese Catholics are famously devout.

"You mean you actually seduced a priest from confession?"

"My priest was from Boston. After I told him I wanted to be a girl, he said that God would help me, then he helped himself to me every chance he got. I told my mom, and at first she didn’t believe me. But when Father Tom kept on doing it, she figured it out, and then we stopped going to his Church. But I still wanted to be a girl, and I prayed to God every day to make me a girl, but it didn’t work, of course, so I dressed up in my sister’s clothes, and cried all the time. She saw something on Oprah about transsexuals, and then she gave me her birth control pills, told me that god had made a mistake, and had made me boy on outside and girl on inside, that it was not my fault. She said that the pills could make me a girl and fix god’s mistake. But my dad said it was all my fault, that I was a homo and had made the priest turn homo. Then he left me and my mom. He was so ashamed of me. Now I am a girl, no more church, no more god, no more dad, and no more Father Tom.

"Tran, have you or your mom ever told anyone else about this?"

"No, I always try to forget, my mom and I can’t talk about it, it’s embarrassing."

"Tran, you are going to have to talk to my law school friend, Mark about this. I think you are going to be pretty rich some day thanks to Father Tom."

"What do you mean?"

"You’ll sue the Church and get a big settlement. My law school friends will help you."

"Now that I’m TS, people won’t think it’s my fault?"

"Not after my friend Mark and Professor Epstein get done with the case." Visions of another easy independent study class, with possible grant money, filled my head.

"Allie, you’re the best friend. First, you show me how to become woman, now how to become rich bitch."

"We’re not either one yet, but we will be. I know it."

In the meantime, we felt pretty rich. We were in Thailand’s rainy season, so hotel rooms in Koh Samui were cheap and available. Everything is pretty reasonable in Thailand, so we were soon well equipped with skimpy tropical dresses, high-heeled sandals, and had been manicured, pedicured and had our hair blown out. We even scored some crystal meth to chase away the jet lag, and soon we were buzzing with anticipation of our debut as katoeys at Christies. "Tran, it’s not fair. You at least look the part. I’m going to look like a tourist or a spy. The local girls will probably have me arrested or deported for poaching on their turf."

"Are you kidding? They’ll spot me as Vietnamese right away. The Thais think we Vietnamese are all a bunch of losers or Reds. They’ll like you better than me. Thais think white is good, Vietnamese is bad."

"Look, we’re just a couple of girls like them. Let’s make some friends and figure out the rules of the game before we start fishing their pond. We’re going to be fine. But let’s not mention our appointment with Dr. Sanguan."

Of course, the first girl we met at Christies figured what Tran and I were in about in a nanosecond. As soon as we had introduced ourselves as visitors from America, Nancee commented tartly "Oh, passing some time waiting for Dr. Sanguan. He made my breasts for me. She opened her halter and bared her lovely, conical C-cups. "You going to get some like these?" she asked. I nodded enthusiastically. "You want to feel?" She grabbed my wrists and pressed them against the firm but yielding flesh. "Nice and soft, silicone. More natural than hers", she said, pointing to Trans’ chest. "Saline’s not as good." Nancee was dazzling: her long smooth hair framed a beautiful, high-cheekboned, heart shaped face, which featured almond, liquid eyes and soft, pouty lips. Asians make the most beautiful transsexuals, I thought as I looked at Tran and Nancee. Nancee returned my gaze, and said "You very beautiful for white katoey. But you’re little like a Thai. You need bigger boobs." She gently fondled my natural, almost B-cups. "But they feel very nice. What are they?"

"Just me and my hormones." Nancee clucked appreciatively. "Bigger is even nicer."

Nancee prepped us on etiquette at Christies. No sex in the bar, nudity OK, no hands on flesh below the waist. Other than that, anything goes. It made the Town House look like Sunday school. If a girl left the premises with a guy, the guy paid a "bar fine", a fee for taking one of the attractions off-premises, of 125 baht. Off site fees were negotiable, but 500 to 1,500 baht (ridiculously cheap, since the official exchange rate is about 40 baht to the buck) was customary, depending on what was on the menu. Anything higher would be considered greedy. God, no wonder these girls are all hookers or do porno. At Third World prices, even Dr. Sanguan’s reasonable prices were a stretch. I started running Nancee through my Transsexual Sex Worker Survey. "Thai society tolerate katoey, but will let us be women. She pulled out her government ID, showing her in the male gender. "If I want female name in passport, I must go to Sweden."

"Or America. The guys in LA will love you."

"America is impossible. No visas for Thai Katoeys."

I pondered the paradox as Christies filled up. Thailand accommodates its transsexuals, but ghettoizes and channels them into the sex industry. Minnesota, like most of the US, oppresses its transsexuals, unless they can pass, and then it lets them assume most of the attributes of women. I scribbled my school address and handed it to Nancee. "Send me a note in a couple of weeks. Maybe I can help."

She thanked me with a wave as a drunken Aussie wheeled her onto the dance floor.

I sat at the bar for a few minutes, nursing a ginger ale, and soon noticed I was fixed in the laser-like gaze of a handsome, well-muscled Thai. I acknowledge him with a bat of my lashes, and he took a seat next to me. From the dance floor, Nancee gave me thumbs up. Oh well, I decided, time to sample a little of the local cooking.

"I’m Eddie, and this is my bar stool. Who is sitting in it?"

"Goldilocks, and this seat is not too hard, not too soft. It’s just right."

Mother Goose had apparently not reached Thailand in time for Eddie’s childhood, so he looked at me quizzically. "It’s a children’s story. The little girl ends up in the bear’s bed. Everyone knows it in America."

"You American? What are you doing at Christies?"

"I heard it’s the right place for a girl like me."

"Whose bed are you going to tonight?"

"Don’t know, have you any ideas?"

"Yeah, mine is not too soft." He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his cock. I stroked it through his pants. "It feels just right," I whispered in his ear.

"Let’s go," he said.

"Wait a minute, I haven’t paid for this." I took a dainty sip of ginger ale. "What did you have in mind?"

"I want to fuck your pink little ass."

"Mmm, sound good. How does 1000 baht sound."

"You look like you’re worth it." He handed the bar tender the bar fine and walked out of Christies. I checked my watch and smiled. I had been at the bar for exactly 15 minutes.

He led me to a tiny Suzuki motor cycle, hopped on, and gestured for me to get on. I hiked my dress up to my waist and threw my high heeled leg over, and he steadied my just as I was about to topple over the other side. He kick started, yelled "Hold on tight" over the roar of the engine, and jolted off with reckless abandon through twisting, crowded streets. I held his trim, firm chest as we bounced over potholes and skidded through turns. It was frightening, but it was obvious that Eddie was thoroughly in control. He screeched to a halt in front of a small, vine covered villa on the road to Lamai. I heard surf murmuring in the background, but had no idea where I was.

He beckoned me through the door and flipped on the lights. I stood in the entryway of a lovely, middle class home, with carved furniture, elegant rugs and a big screen TV.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, leaving me alone to study the paintings, sculptures and other objects that crammed the hall. It was like an art gallery. "Who is the collector?" I called out. Eddie replied nonchalantly "I run an export import business." Some of this stuff is inventory, some of it is awaiting payment, and some of it I just like and kept."

"Where is it from?"

"Myanmar, mostly." I gave him a startled look. "Americans call it Burma. My family has interests there." Great, I thought bleakly, I am about to go to bed with a warlord’s son. "I thought you were a Thai."

"I am," he said, offering no further explanation. Instead, he ordered me to undress and recline on the luxurious, silk covered couch. He traced the curve of my calves and thighs with a light touch, like a blind man reading an unfamiliar Braille text. He stroked my round, firm buttocks, my slim waist, my dainty upturned breasts, and then back to my soft, nearly hairless cock, which he cradled in his hands. "Tiny, almost like a Thai katoey’s. He traced the smile-like scar on my tummy. "What’s this?"

"I had an operation. " He stroked my empty scotum, and looked at me questioningly. "They had to remove them, through my tummy. I was sick, but I’m fine now."

"Are you here for another operation?"

"Maybe, I’m getting checked out for it."

"You’ll be perfect. Let me see you again afterwards."

"You’ll still want me?"

"Even more. I love post ops."

Eddie slipped off his silk boxers and sat astride me as I sprawled on the soft cushions and pillows. I squeezed my breasts around his cock, which hardened in their embrace. As he gently fucked my breasts, I took the tip of his uncut cock in my mouth. I prefer circumcised cocks, but his was lovely anyhow. It had a saffron aroma and a nice bulbous top.

He was bigger than I expected: not long, but thick and hard. Soon, he had risen to his knees, grabbed my hair in his hands and was thrusting violently into my mouth. But I wanted to take him deeper, so I slid my back to the seat of the couch and took him from above. I arched my head back and took him deep into my throat, which was soon coated with a tasty film of pre-cum. He didn’t want to suck me, but his fingers found and fondled my hole, which quivered and puckered beneath his expert touch. His massage and the gentle entry of his fingers brought moans of pleasure from my full mouth. I pushed his cock from my lips and gasped, "Eddie, please fuck me," then swallowed his cock again, a slave to insatiable passion.

He pulled his cock from my still suctioning face and turned me over. I stretched my ass into the air, and heard the crinkle: the tearing of a condom package. "Cup your hand," as he poured lubricant, which I slathered onto his sheathed cock, and smeared the remains onto my ass. Then, he entered me. "Not so fast," I gasped, as the first three inches seared into me, rekindling embers of recent passion. He retreated, and I pressed back against him, and he pried me open another inch, then another to the hilt. I bit my lips against the inner turmoil, which subsided as he retreated and then renewed with his next lunge. But with each cycle, the pain, the desire to expel the intruder, was displaced by the sensation of warmth, fullness and completeness that only a man inside me can bring.

He lunged and plunged with a controlled energy of a Zen master. He was never rough without a purpose, or out of control. He guided me through all of the classic positions: from behind on my knees, and then on my stomach; on my back, with my legs on his shoulders; in an embrace, with me in his lap; and with me on top, first facing him, and then away. Then, he rose up behind me, pressed my back down, and began thrusting with renewed vigor and mastery, a hundred powerful strokes that culminated in a rush of energy that pulverized my flesh, which seemed to melt into his as his paroxysm subsided.

I must have drifted off to sleep, because he woke me with a gentle nudge. "I’ve called a taxi for you. I am afraid you must leave soon. I looked at my watch. Two hours had passed since I had left Christies. I dressed hurriedly, and slunk off to the entry, humiliated to be dismissed so peremptorily after such exquisite sex. Eddie pressed two thousand baht into my palm and gave me a hug. "You are fabulous, and I must see you again. Until then, here is something to remember me by." He draped a necklace of Burmese emeralds around my neck, and as he fixed the clasp at the nape of my neck, he kissed my lips gently. The taxi honked outside the villa.

"Now go into the night, my angel. But return to me." I said I would, and left, hoping that I would.

The taxi driver gave me a disapproving look when I asked to be taken to Christies, and I made a note to ask for the 7-11 next time. I went straight to the ladies’ room, to repair my disheveled state. Nancee had spotted me and dropped her latest conquest, a balding Italian, to interrogate me. "Don’t worry, he’ll wait for me. I think he’s in love. Now show me what Eddie give you. No, not the money, the jewels." I opened my purse and took out the emeralds. Nancee eyes popped and her face flushed. Eeeeh, Eddie loves you more than me. Go back to America, whore. You ruining everything for Nancee."

Naturally, I took this as a compliment. "What’s Eddie’s story. He pushed me out of there like stale fish, and then he gives me this. Is it valuable?"

"A hundred thousand baht in Bangkok, but it’s a toy for Eddie."

"He’s so rich?"

"No, but his father in law is one of the Burmese generals. He owns half of Burma, and takes what he wants. Eddie is married to his daughter and is the junta’s fence in Thailand. My guess, he was expecting Mrs. Eddie."

"So that explains the fast exit?"

"He was doing you a favor. If you get caught in bed with Eddie, you’re dead. The general has many friends here."

"He was great, and said he wants to see me again."

"It’s your life, spend it wisely," Nancee said. "My advice, don’t let him fall in love with you. There are plenty of other guys in Koh Samui."

She was right. I didn’t need to be entangled with Burmese warlords and mobsters, and their angry wives. I was a tourist, and would take home a valuable bauble and a happy memory. Now, it was time to make more memories. I brushed my tousled hair and smoothed my disheveled clothes. As I applied a fresh coat of makeup, Tran rushed in and blurted out "Alexandra, where have you been, you bad girl? She noticed my necklace, and said "I see you have been mining for jewels, in low places no doubt."

"You’re just jealous. All you got is a purse stuffed with baht."

"I’ve got a house stuffed with horny Japanese business who are taking special sex pills, and want your body."

Nancee overheard and complained "I knew you farang Katoey were going to steal our good clients."

"Come along, there plenty for all of us. They are taking a new drug from America that makes them stay hard all night, and there are eight of them. Maybe nine. I’m not sure. Hurry up, our driver is waiting for us outside."

"Driver?" Nancee asked, astonished. "What’s the story?"

"I met a guy in the bar, he is junior director of Japanese sex tour. He says he’s got clients that want to meet Katoey, but are too shy and embarrassed to be seen chasing us in Christies. So it’s his job to arrange Katoey to go to meet the tourists. That’s us. He gave me $1,000 up front for the night, more later if the tourists are happy."

Nancee had never made that much in a week. She was delighted to be included in our enterprise. "I am already missing you girls when you leave Christies," she joked as she stepped into the waiting Land Cruiser. "Come visit us in America, and you’ll be showing us new games in a week."

As he looked admiringly at his cargo, Mr. Watanabe, the sex-tour director, smiled at us approvingly. He had arranged a spectacular katoey smorgasbord for his reticent charges, and expected that he, and we, would be well rewarded. "My guests are very important businessmen. They are accustomed to be served by the finest geisha. You know about geisha?"

I’d read a book about it, and had the general idea. "Will we be serving tea?" I asked innocently.

"No. Tea ceremony is reserved for the most senior geisha. You are novices, and will be serving your bodies, silently and submissively. Do you understand?" His voice had taken on a harsh tone in reaction to my jibe. "You mean we are to be like the ‘comfort women’ that the Imperial Army employed in the War?"

"Oh, a student of lies and slanders against our late Emperor. Very well then, if you choose to believe these myths, yes, exactly. You serve as you are ordered." He explained the basic Japanese slang for various sex acts. He explained that his tour had supplied its guests with a new American wonder drug that made even the most broken down old man into a sexual athlete, "So you may wish to energize yourselves with this." He passed around a mirror with neatly cut lines of white powder. "It’s a mixture of crystal meth and Burmese heroin." My eyes watered as the bitter, acrid crystals blasted my sinuses, but in a few moments I felt a buzz of warm energy permeating my tired body, and felt ready for anything.

We arrived at a pagoda-spired, golf course hideaway, done in the garish Japanese neo-Imperial style. In the darkened interior, we were greeted with the sounds of boisterous karaoke singing and the smells of sushi, tobacco, Sun Tory and sweat. A soft core porn video accompanied a melancholy Japanese ballad, and three of our clients swayed as they massacred the tune and lyrics, to the hilarity of their companions in the audience. We were unnoticed at first, spectators to this strange male bonding spectacle of these blue-suited salary man on stage. They emoted with inebriated, heartfelt conviction, and their eyes moistened as they sang of loved ones far away. Their audience clapped uproariously as they finished with a flourish of tuneless yelps of anguish and the screen images dissolved to soft focus cherry blossoms. Mr. Watanabe flickered the lights to announce our presence, and all eyes turned to us as Mr. Watanabe introduced us in short, staccato bursts of Japanese. At the end of his introduction, we were treated to a polite round of applause, and then Mr. Watanabe ushered us each to a bedroom. He instructed me to shower and put on a kimono, which lay on the bed

Mr. Watanabe returned after a few minutes, and confided "Mr. Mori, the most senior of our members, has done you the honor of selecting you. He speaks very little English, so you must follow his gestures intently. He will want you to suck him, then he will want to mount you from behind. Do exactly as he demands, as he is accustomed to obedience."

As I sat in the luxurious room, I mused, these men, maybe all men, follow the same patterns. They travel in packs, select dominant leaders, and enact rituals of subjugation and humiliation of the beautiful and feminine, much like Seth and Jack followed Miguel’s lead on Prom Night, or like the trail of atrocities from Nanking to Manila. I was glad to be leaving the gender that conceives of such atrocities, and joining the community of the victims: of such crimes, it is better for the soul to be the victim than the perpetrator.

Mr. Mori interrupted my reverie as he abruptly opened, and slammed the door behind him.

"Iyae kimono." I froze, uncomprehendingly. "Iyae kimono," he repeated, then advanced menacingly and grabbing me by the shoulders. "Iyae kimono," he shouted as he ripped the kimono from my shoulders. I figured out that blue eyed Gai-jin transsexual in a kimono offended to his cultural senses. Thanks a lot for the fashion tip, Watanabe.

Mori got friendlier now that I was in a satin bra and panties, and he motioned me to sit on the bed. He stripped from his blue suit and folded them neatly on a chair. His boxers were stretched with the head of his modest, but rock hard erection. I beckoned him to come to me. I slid down his boxers and took his uncut cock in his mouth. It was small enough that I could mouth its length without reaching the gag reflex, and his pubic hair was so straight and thin that it never even tickled my nose. It was almost like sucking Tran, except for the roll of belly fat that flopped against my head with every plunge. He grunted and groaned and let me do all of the work, even holding him upright with my hands clasped around his skinny, yet flaccid butt.

I was getting tired when I heard a guttural, but incomprehensible command that took to mean that he was ready to fuck me. I grabbed a condom from the bed stand, and popped it between my lips, to show him a trick that I figured he hadn’t seen on this tour. I expertly rolled the condom onto his cock from between my lips, and he gave an appreciative and admiring grunt of praise. I lubed his cock and rolled onto my hands and knees.

After Eddie’s strong but sensitive touch, Mr. Mori’s small cock should have been a mere tickle, but he rammed me so abruptly and insensitively that I yelped in pain, and this stirred old Mori to even greater chemical charged exertions, as he dug his diminutive but stiff prick into my inner sanctum, which was swollen and tight from Eddie. I tried to put an imaginary Eddie in Mr. Mori’s place, but the slap of his corpulent, corrupt flesh against mine dispelled that fantasy. I was trapped, a white slave to an army of fat, pathetic, petite bourgeoisie Japanese deviants. Why did they even want me, if they were ashamed to be seen courting Katoey. Were they fascinated by transsexuals, like so many others, or were they just jaded with the other attractions of Thailand?

Mr. Mori announce his orgasm with a refrain of Japanese expletives and a paroxysm that seemed close to heart failure, and I responded with staged moans of ecstasy and fulfillment. He lay atop me, gasping for breath, and I tried to remember that CPR class I had had junior year, but he seemed to come out of it and pulled out of me. He scuttled to the bathroom, grabbing his neatly piled clothes on the way. I heard the rattle of pee and a flush, and he emerged, in full salary man finery. He bowed, handed me a pile of yen notes, and rejoined the Karaoke party. Moments later, I heard his hoarse voice join the chorus of "New Yok, New Yok," and Mr. Watanabe poked his head in to order me to shower and get ready for Mr. Kawabe, who, he assured me, liked kimonos.

Mr. Kawabe was followed by Mr. Nakase, Mr. Furimoto, Mr. Ogawa, and Mr. Nakamura, and between each, Mr. Watanabe haranguing me to shower and get ready for my next samurai. Each one slightly younger and less dissolute than the last, and with a slightly more modest stack of yen after he was finished with me. The salary men sorted themselves in hierarchical order to determine their order, much like Miguel and his set. Mr. Watanabe refreshed my drug buzz with a couple of lines of coke at around two, the karaoke stopped at around four, and then the visits stopped. I took a final shower and lay naked in the wrinkled, sweaty sheets, my head pounding with meth, unable to sleep. I heard the door creak open, and felt a body squeeze against mine. Whiskey infused breath suffocated me: it was Mr. Mori. I resisted his embrace, and he scattered a pile of yen notes around me, and pressed my face to his groin. Science had triumphed over body, and he was hard again. My now exhausted lips circled his cock and sucked it with desperation. I needed this night to end. It was hopeless. He was hard, but even smaller than before, and completely dry. I slid on another condom, the last in my box, and lifted my sore and bruised ass to his pelvis, and he slammed himself in. He bucked and rode me as if he were possessed by demons, yanking at my hair and pinching my flesh as though he, and I, were mere objects. His voice was hoarse and his breathing wheezy, and increasingly labored. Suddenly, he spasmed, uttered a guttural cry, grabbed his head and toppled forward atop me. He was absolutely still, a dead weight on top of me. I tried to move out from beneath him, but his weight was unyielding, and unresponsive. Good god, had Mr. Mori passed out? His cock was still stiff inside me, but when I listened for his breath, I heard nothing. A growing sense of panic took hold of me. I tried to roll him over, but couldn’t move. I called out "Help, I think Mr. Mori is sick." I heard in response the mumbles of hung-over indifference. "Help, Mr. Mori needs your care immediately." Mr. Watanabe entered, grumbling hoarsely. "What’s the matter, whore?"

"Please check on Mr. Mori." Mr. Watanabe grabbed Mr. Mori’s wrist, and uttered an expletive. He tried to lift Mr. Mori, but the unyielding body was too heavy for him. He ran from the room and returned with Mr. Kawabe, and with a mighty heave, and an assist from me, rolled him with a thud off of me, and onto the floor next to the bed. Mr. Watanabe began massaging Mr. Mori’s chest and blowing air down his throat, but it was soon obvious: Mr. Mori was dead.

Tran, Nancee and the salary men all crowded around, drawn by the commotion. Mr. Watanabe gave up his ineffectual CPR and turned on me angrily. "You killed him, whore."

Tran pointed to his still erect penis, and said "It looks like that killed him." Now, panic took hold of Mr. Watanabe. "Get out of here you whores. Get out, go now." He pushed me from the room, as I grabbed my clothes, scattered yen notes and purse stuffed with cash. We threw on our clothes and ran out the door. In the quiet residential neighborhood, three young ladies emerging walking down the street with tousled hair, high-heel sandals and party dresses drew accusatory stares, even from the tolerant Thais. But we didn’t give a damn, we were so freaked out by this disturbing turn of events. Only after we began to compare notes did our theory and plan crystallize.

"He was really the most disgusting of all," I commented.

"Which one, they were all repulsive," Tran rejoined.

"Mr. Mori, the dead one, my first and last," I said.

"I agree," said Nancee.

"I thought Mr. Ito was even worse than Mori," Tran said.

In an instant, we all did the math. "You mean the dead guy was with all of us, in one night?" I exclaimed.

"No wonder he died. He was coming back for fourths. Fat fifty year old smokers should know better," Tran commented.

"So he OD-ed on the miracle sex pills. Serves him right," said Nancee.

"Wait a minute. Who was handing out the drugs last night? Watanabe, right?" I inquired.

"Yeah, he was practically forcing the nose candy up my nostrils," Tran recalled. Nancee nodded in agreement.

"Remember what Watanabe said about a bonus if they were happy? Well, Mori looked like he died happy. I think we should get our bonus, say, another thousand each. That way we don’t tell the police. That way, poor Mr. Mori gets to die in bed and rest in peace, no scandal for his family, no trouble for Watanabe’s tour business."

"That sounds like blackmail. Could be dangerous," I said.

"Let me handle it," Nancee said. You got his cell number still, Tran?"

"Here, but as long as you’re doing it, ask for two thousand each."

"Good idea."

We got a taxi and left Nancee at her home, a tawdry shack in an alley off Sui Green Mango. God, no wonder she’s so desperate for money, I thought. This Third World lifestyle was horrible, and yet Nancee seemed bright and ambitious, to the point of recklessness. Tran and I went to our hotel where jet lag and sexual fatigue caught up with a vengeance. I was still asleep when Nancee called from the lobby. "Tell them to let me come up, I have a surprise." She had dinner, Thai coffee, and three envelopes stuffed with cash, 20,000 yen each. "He bitched and threatened, but Mr. Watanabe agreed that everyone had to be happy. Beside, with Mori dead, his expenses will be less. He probably made money on the deal."

"I hope you’re right, he looked like Yakusa to me," I said.

"In Thailand, all the guys are Yakusa, even your Eddie. Watanabe won’t mess with us, he’s not in Japan now."

We smoked some pot, ate Thai food and gossiped about our adventures, past and future. Nancee envied our surgical date. Thanks to Watanabe’s generosity, she had almost enough money (Sanguan gives Thai girls discounted fees) and told us she would accompany us Monday to schedule a date, and pay her deposit. In the meantime, she regaled me with tales of Eddie. His wife and children live in Rangoon, where his father ran his "trading company", and Eddie represented the family’s interests. This consisted of selling smuggled goods, contraband, and laundering money from the general’s Burmese fiefdom. Burmese "freedom fighters" played a constant game of cat and mouse with Eddie, and their struggles contributed heavily to the body count in Koh Samui, Phuket, Pattaya and Bangkok. Eddie didn’t care if his katoey of the moment sold herself on the side; he liked his katoey to be the most popular, and expensive, in Christies or Green Mango: but no other boyfriends.

"God, he sounds like the perfect boyfriend. Too bad I don’t live here," I joked.

"You have to come back. I’ll miss you too much." Nancee hugged us and then said "Let’s go to Christies. Saturday night, should be hot there. The Sydney plane came this morning. Nice new Aussies for us. Much better than Japanese. In fact, they’re the best, but unfortunately, not the richest.

"Not me," said Tran. "I’ve got some numbers to call from last night." She waved us goodbye. Nancee and I felt like splurging, and it was still early, so we walked among the street vendors and shops of Green Mango Street. It was like street party, as merchants tugged at our arms and beckoned down ramshackle alleys. Even in December, the nights were long and the air warm and muggy, and the streets were mobbed.

Suddenly, Nancee stopped me. "That’s one of Eddie’s father in law’s shops. Look, Burmese emeralds, just like yours." We brushed aside the bamboo entry curtain and entered. The shopkeeper noticed my new necklace immediately, and fingered its familiar stones appreciatively. I asked if she had another, wanting to price it. She turned to open a cabinet, and I heard the roar of a motorcycle, followed by a popping noise and a blast of heat. The shopkeeper’s head exploded in a crimson cloud of blood as Nancee and I sprawled on the floor of the shop in a shower of shards of glass. We cowered, expecting another fusillade, and when none came we lifted our heads and peered at the now silent street outside. The gunman was gone. Suddenly, the street came back to life and surged into the shop, to loot it. We milled through the crowd to the exit. "What was that, one of Eddie’s freedom fighter friends."

"No," said Nancee. "I think that was a postcard from Mr. Watanabe. He must have decided that 20,000 yen wasn’t enough to keep us silent. For a tenth that, he can get you killed. But he shouldn’t have killed Mama Thong, Eddie’s favorite shopkeeper, and he shouldn’t have missed us, since we are Eddie’s two favorite katoey. Quick, let’s get to Christie’s and find him."

Eddie was on his cell phone at the bar and waved us over. "Did you hear what happened at my shop near the Regent Hotel?"

"Are you kidding, we were there, we were the targets. I am so sorry about Mama Thong and the shop," Nancee said.

"You OK?" Both of our faces were freckled with poor Mama Thongs blood and brains, but we were not hurt. Eddie hugged us and muttered "That bastard Jimmy Liang. One of his boys did the job. I am going to fuck him up bad."

"What about the Jap bastard that hired him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Watanabe, he runs a Japanese sex tour that’s here now. We had a problem with him last night."

"You bad girls," Eddie grinned. "Couldn’t get enough?" He spanked my bottom playfully.

"No, I’m serious," Nancee said. "I think he arranged this. Get rid of him."

I was astonished by Nancee’s ruthlessness. The Thais seemed so friendly and accommodating. Yet the arranged contract killings with the same lack of seriousness as their sexual assignations.

"Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him too." Eddie got back on his cell phone. I hoped he got the right Watanabe, at least.

"OK, gotta go," Eddie said. "Take care of yourselves."

"What did he mean by that," I asked, "I mean there are assassins looking for us and Tran…Oh my god, where is she, I mean, she doesn’t even know what’s happening, and who knows where she is."

"She said she was going to call some guys she met at Christies last night."

"Yeah, maybe more clients of Watanabe. "

"That would be bad for her."

"We need to find her."

"A lot of hotel rooms in Koh Samui."

"Let’s start with ours."

"We walked through the thronged streets, ever expecting to encounter one of Jimmy Liang’s killers. Our suite was empty, but Tran’s loopy handwriting covered sheets of hotel stationery. I looked at the top sheet of the pad for the impression of her last note. It was useless, a trick that only works in Bogart films. Then the phone rang, and I answered it with mixed feelings of hope and dread. I could hear nothing over the cacophony of noise. "I can’t hear a thing. Call back." The phone rang again, and it was Tran. "Are you OK?" I screamed with joy.

"Hell no, I have got the Italian soccer team here, and they’re getting ready to take penalty shots on my goal. Help!"

"Stay where you are, we’ll come to you."

"And soon. Write down this address."

"OK, got it, but we need to change."

"Already?"

"It’s a long story, but here’s the short version." I told her about the ambush at the shop near the Regent, and she let out a low whistle. "And I thought I was having an exciting night!" she exclaimed.

"Never mind," I replied, just stay where you are!"

"OK, but hurry up."

I hung up and asked "Nancee, how many guys on a soccer team?"

"I dunno, how many?"

"Get changed, because we’re gonna find out. Tran’s taking on an Italian soccer team. We have to help her defend goal."

"Oh, goody. Soccer players are the most handsome."

"Not in the U.S., hockey’s the best there."

"Never heard of it, but I’ll trust your opinion."

I had practically no clothes left, and we had to change, so we ended up wearing workout clothes. Short shorts, sneakers, and tight camisoles. It actually seemed appropriate, although it was a little late on a Saturday night for a couple of babes like Nancee and me to be going to a gym. But we were certainly going to have a workout.

The Italians were staying at the best hotel in Koh Samui, the manager actually directed us to the floor where the gym was, although he informed us we would have to pay for a membership. We told him we needed to meet some friends at their room, and we took the elevator to the floor. The Italians had the whole floor, and it was a non-stop party: it was thronged with G-girl hookers and soccer players and fans, and music pulsated from several rooms. "Where’s the soccer team?" I asked a harried looking waiter. He pointed all over.

Then, over the bedlam, I heard Tran’s comic voice, and I ducked into the room where she was holding court, standing on a table and telling an erotic story as she stood, high heeled but naked to her panties, on a table, surrounded by a guffawing clutch of soccer studs. Tran declaim "and then my friend Alexandra said "Hey, this guy fucked me 'til he died, and he still wanted more. Look, he’s still hard!" They convulsed with hilarity, and then she saw us and announced "And here she is now, fresh from the gym, and ready to fuck the rest of you to death. Alexandra, the killer katoey!" I burst into laughter, and curtsied to my new fans. Tran could make anything funny.

I doubt if any of the Italians believed Trans story, if they even understood it, and I wasn’t even sure if I believed it anymore either. Koh Samui had been so unreal. We had gone from tourists, to principals in a murderous gang war, without having had a real night of sleep. Melodrama, to tragedy, to bedroom farce. Ronaldo, the team’s center, proclaimed his undying love for me. When I responded in my schoolgirl Italian, he nearly burst into tears of joy. He gathered me in his arms and carried me off, as I waved goodbye to Tran and Nancee, who smiled approving. I heard Tran complain to Nancee, "She’s sweet, but she always gets the best looking one." I had barely noticed, and looked up at Ronaldo. He was a square jawed, rough-hewn jock, but with the sensitive soul of a soul who loved to love.

Ronaldo must have taken the workout clothes at face value, because he began by taking off my shoes and sock and massaging my feet. Fortunately, they looked great, and his powerful hands sent surges of ecstasy from my soles to my earlobes. God, those high-heeled sandals I had been wearing since I arrived are murder on the soles, especially when you are running through the streets in fear of your life. Then, he proceeded to my slender calves, still knotted from the long air flight, but which now melted into putty in his hands. Then, my thighs and buttocks, first through the rayon shorts, but then, as I wriggled out of them, through my panties. Then, my back, shoulders and arms. The knots of tension that fear had built in me were torn down and scattered in Ronaldo’s strong hands. Then, ever so gently, he massaged my scalp, forehead and cheeks, which had been so cruelly used the night before. The memories faded as my muscles melted. God, I was so ready for this man.

I said, "My turn, and guided him onto his back. I glided my hands over his rippling, marble like flesh. His legs were like the pillars of a massive cathedral, his stomach was like a chiseled bed of granite, his arms were like the coils of taught springs. He was a rock. I made my head comfortable on his stomach, curled my ass toward his arms to give him whatever access to me he desired, and began sucking his cock. It was a lovely, manly, meaty mouthful, and I was rewarded instantly with a lubricating mist of precum. Its minty flavor suffused my senses, and brought a grateful moan to my lips. He pumped my face carefully, his hand on my head was a caress rather than a push, and his thrusts brought pleasure to my yielding lips and throat. He was a balm for the rough treatment that I had received the night before, and each stroke brought healing and relief to my injuries.

I could barely wait to have his therapy in my tummy, but he was still building energy, so I sucked and licked and flicked until he could take no more, and said he wanted to fuck me. "I’m ready," I replied, sliding a condom onto his glorious, 7 inch cock, with my famous lip roll. "Just a minute," I said, grabbing a tube of lubricant from my bag, and he waited patiently as I oiled his cock and my ass. "Now fuck me, gently at first, then as hard as you want." He hoisted his athletic frame behind me, and my ass tingled with anticipation, but would it be pain or pleasure? He was an expert, entering me gently, for an inch until my body winced, and then withdrawing momentarily, and re-entering, deeper this time, at the perfect moment, and then again withdrawing, until he was in me completely, without ever crossing the threshold were pain becomes more than an antidote to desire. "You’re so tight," he said. "You’re so big, and wonderful," I responded. "Do whatever you want." And he did.

I had never really appreciated soccer. My dad had dragged me to a few games as a teen, as he was a "futball" aficionado from his boyhood in Chile, but I hated the game, almost as much as we had hated one another. To me, it’s like watching grass grow, but then I hate all sports, except basketball, and of course, hockey. I had always been impressed with the athleticism of soccer players, but how stupid it is that they can’t use their hands, the appendage that sets us apart from the lower primates. In Ronaldo, I became a fan. His stamina, fueled by a hundred downfield charges in every game, was incredible, and his hands: well, unbound by the rules of his sport, they were extraordinary. When I watch a soccer match now, I am overcome with Proustian memories of endless energy suffusing me within, while adept and energetic hand gently squeezed me from without, until my body and his were united into a single, explosion of energy within me, as he came in a torrent of energy, praise, and endearment. The last words I heard were "Te amore", and I nodded in sleepy agreement. When I awoke, sharp spikes of dawn were piercing the half-opened curtains of his room, and I rose silently to shower and dress. I heard Tran and Nancee chattering outside in the hallway, and poked my head out. "Less talk and more sleep," I complained.

"Time to move on, Madame Butterfly," Nancee retorted. "Our work here is done."

"Just a minute," and I returned to Ronaldo to kiss him goodbye. He was awake, his sleep interrupted by my absence. "Don’t go yet," he said pulling me back into bead. I was tempted, but resisted girlishly. "I must go, and so must you." I remembered Nancee’s words about Eddie’s jealousy fearfully, and did not want to be so conspicuous while Watanabe’s killers might be on the loose. He scribbled an address on a piece of paper, and made me promise to write him at his home. "You must visit me in Roma," he begged. "I’ll try. Come see me in America," I replied. "I will," he promised. And with a lingering kiss, we exchanged "arrivedercis."

As Tran, Nancee and I squeezed into the back seat of a waiting taxi I remembered practicalities. "Not that I didn’t enjoy myself last night, but did anyone pay us?" "Of course, I handled everything with the team manager, not that you deserve anything for spending the whole night with the cutest guy."

"Yeah, you Anglos are such a bunch of romantics. No business sense." I blushed and said I was sorry. "That’s OK, you more than held up your end the night before," Tran consoled me jokingly. "If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have had our Mori bonus."

"Yeah, and Mama Thong wouldn’t be dead," I replied glumly.

"Oh, who knows why she got shot. Maybe Eddie’s enemies were aiming for her, not us," Nancee chirped.

"You mean you’re not sure. Nancee, we’ve touched of a street war, and you’re not even sure?"

"You never know for sure in Thailand."

I fretted the rest of the day over the misfortunes that my rashness had spread over this town, until Nancee got the report. The tragedy had ended as a comic opera. True, Liang’s gunman had been blown away, but then Liang and Eddie talked and worked things out. Liang was outraged that Watanabe had contracted for our killings after he had agreed to "silence money" with us, and apologized to Eddie profusely. He offered to compensate Eddie for the damage to the shop and for the loss of the indispensable Mama Thong, and Eddie accepted. Of course, Liang in turn demanded compensation from Watanabe for his expenses, losses and embarrassment. Mr. Mori’s death was official ruled from natural causes, and Watanabe escaped with intact face, although now he had had to pay much more to Liang and Eddie for the same promise of silence that Nancee had made the day before. But now it was an agreement between Yakusa: between men, and was more valuable to Watanabe than the word of a Katoey whore, even one as beautiful, clever and well connected as we were.

We showered and rested at our suite until the beach began to fill, and then we lolled on the hot, white sands in skimpy bikinis, drawing the appreciative stares of the local boys. I was too tired to even think about any more sex. I let the tropical sun heal my tired flesh. After our brains fried, we showered again, and Nancee took us shopping. The deals were irresistible, and Nancee was a ruthless, foul mouthed bargainer, who never left one baht extra on the table. Our arms were filled with sexy Thai sundresses, knock offs of Versace and Dolce and Gabbana tops, and even silk scarves for our moms and dragon shirts for Rick and Randy. We returned to the hotel, and could barely fit the loot into our bags. At the front desk was welcome news from Dr. Sanguan’s: both of the Doctor’s procedures for Monday had cancelled, and we were to report to his clinic immediately for preoperative procedures. We squealed with delight and sped off to the airport, just in time for the last flight to Phuket. Nancee said goodbye and promised to visit as soon as she was allowed.

I will spare you the details of my procedure. If you are really curious about Dr. Sanguan’s unique approach to SRS, I suggest you visit his website (http://www.phuket-plasticsurgery.com), or Anne Lawrence’s (http://www.annelawrence.com/srsindex.html), who features both Dr. Sanguan and many other Thai and Western doctors. You can even view pictures of the operation itself, in progress and in its aftermath, although, I can assure none of the graphics depict Tran or me.

For me, the surprise was that, although everything hurt, my boob job hurt the worst. And in the immediate aftermath, you can’t see any results: just gauze, and a lot of tubes. At least they put Tran and me in a room together, so that we could bitch to each other instead of suffering in the company of a stranger. They didn’t let Nancee visit until the day before we left for home. I still hadn’t seen anything, and my morale was in the pits. She brought me a jade ring from Eddie, and presented me and Tran with two wrapped boxes. We still had IV’s in our wrists and couldn’t open the boxes, so she tore off the tissue and held up cotton panties. Across the bottom was emblazoned the warning: "Sorry, Closed for Repairs." We laughed until we hurt, and laughed again every time we thought about them.

The boredom and suffering were worth it, though, after the pumps, the tubes, the catheters, and the dressings were removed. The surgical sites were bruised and lurid, and shiny orange with Betadine, but through the cantilevered arch of my shapely new breasts I beheld the most beautiful, strange and delightful sight I had ever seen: an empty, open space between my thighs. Disbelieving my eyes, I touched the gap between my legs. It was no mirage. I was a woman.

The day after Nancee’s arrival, with my semester looming in the immediate future, we got travel clearance from a reluctant Dr. Sanguan and his wonderful staff. Nancee took us to the airport, and we cried as we left. "I know I’m coming back soon, and I know I can get you a visa to visit the U.S." She smiled, her face a pained mixture of hope and doubt. She had her date for her operation, and needed only a little more cash to pay for it. She was leaving Koh Samui to return to her home city of Chiang Mai, where living was cheaper, and living as a katoey was less hazardous. They even encouraged katoey to go to the University, and she planned to take some classes while she waited her turn for Dr. Sanguan. "English Thai translation," I recommended. "I have a job in mind, but I have to write a grant for it." She nodded agreement. But who knew what would happen to this poor girl in this strange land, where katoey live freely and without social hatred, but in isolation from the rest of Thai society, in a sexual netherworld they share with their admirers.

My mom met us at the airport, her eyes still blackened from her own procedure. After expressing delight that her two girls were back home at last, she drove us straight to her plastic surgeon to have him evaluate us. Dr. Leibovitz expressed admiration for Dr. Sanguan’s work. "Amazing what he does with that scrotal skin. My practice has been to discard it. I may need to reconsider. Perhaps I should pay his clinic a visit and observe." We hit him up for a load of estrogen and painkillers, and though I was happy with his opinion, I was again reminded of my mother’s unbelievable selfishness. She had let me travel to the Third World, to get a surgery that I could have gotten two miles from her front door without going over her Visa limit. What a bitch! I’ll never be like her, I swore. But in a way I was happy. You may not agree with all of our methods (I’m not sure I do), but Tran and I had achieved what we had set out to. We had truly remade ourselves, by ourselves. And we had done it without help from anyone but one another.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Alexandra Rios. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.