That Place

by Jay J Carr

  The Mama-san saunters over and loudly says, “Strong man. Fuck you good.” She then inserts her finger in her thumb mimicking a penis being inserted into a hole.

  “Are they all top?” He doesn’t know if he wants to be the bottom tonight.

  “All man.”

  “Man? Is that what you call older ‘boy’?” This is a good thing.

  “No,” she says, looking at him with surprise. “Man, is not gay.”

  Rather than ask what this means because he still doesn’t understand, he looks at her.

  “You understand?” She asks.

  “Not really.”

  “Man fuck women.”

  “Oh,” he responds, with disappointment. Makes sense. He thought these bars were only gay but there must be women who also look for sex. “So, these are for women who want sex.”

  “Yes, but you choose too. Man fuck you.”

  “Straight man fucks me. How can they?”

  “Blue pill and cock ring?”

  He is intrigued. Not sure about this, he doesn’t ask any more questions.

  “Man, good. Strong. Big cock.” She is called over to another table where two German men are fondling one ‘man’ simultaneously, each touching one of his nipples.

  It would be nice to have one of those next to him he thinks, so that he could feel the muscles as well as whatever else he could touch. There is a ‘man’, a really good looking and muscular ‘man’ looking at him and smiling. After a wink from the stage he can’t anymore and calls the Mama-san over.

  “Number 83.”

  The ‘man’ leaps off the stage and quickly walks over. In no time, there is a drink in his hand and they clink their glasses together.

  “My name, Aek.”

  “Hello, Aek.”

  “Nice to meet you.” It has become a routine.

  “And you.”

  He attempts to ask more questions but Aek does not speak any more English than that.

  Aek takes his hand in his and slowly starts to massage it. The sensation heightens his desire to have sex with him. This ‘man’ knows what to do to make him horny. How can a straight man be so gifted? He feels his hand slowly being taken down and rubs over muscles and finally the penis below. The bulge is big.

  The Mama-san has been watching and hovers nearby. “You want take ‘boy’?

  “I thought he was a ‘man’?

  “Still ‘boy’?

  “Yes, I want to take him.” Desire over reason.

  The bar is situated near his hotel on the gay Soi. They shower together once inside the room. His un-erect cock is huge, thick and long. It is smooth to the touch. He is soaped and while he is turned around he feels those fingers gently enter his arse prodding gently on his anus hole. Trembling, he is trembling. Never before has he experienced something as erotic as this - no gay man has succeeded. He is slowly dried.

  On the bed he is gently massaged. The hands prodding each muscle on his back. There is oil trickled onto his back and something touching it but not hands. Gently he feels movement and realises Aek’s body is doing the massaging. The muscular chest is slid up and down on his back and the pressure is increased. The cock slides over his arse every now and then and he moans in delight.

  He can’t control himself anymore. “Fuck me.” This is not what he had planned but he can’t stop himself.

  There is the sound of a condom opening. When he looks at the erect cock, he doesn’t know if he will be able to take it inside him. His anus is gently massaged with lubrication while Aek puts his cock in a little bit each time, before repeating the massage. It is not as painful as he was expecting. This man was a professional.

  The sex is gentle to begin with and then he thrusts harder and harder. It is his body that is on fire as he feels the sensation inside him. He is panting and moaning. The motions continue and he comes without having his penis touched at all. He yells out aloud in pleasure. Slowly the thrusting slows down and then stops.

  There is no rush as the ‘come’ is cleaned up with tissues, the condom taken off and he is moved onto the pillows above. It is not over. The hands continue to touch him. To slowly move around his arms, stomach and legs. More shudders. A smile.

  They have not spoken since leaving the bar.

  New Jersey-

  7.

  One more time they are sitting in a car. Not his. It is Susan’s idea; he doesn’t want to do it.

  “I can’t face it,” he says to her.

  “You have no choice.”

  “Please …” he urges.

  “Think about it, there is so much noise about you. The best way to handle this is to simply show you are not fazed by the allegations.”

  “So it is going to be in a neutral space, right?”

  “Yes, it’s going to be at that hotel next to the downtown park.”

  “And you are coming with …”

  “Yes.”

  They do not talk as Susan drives to the hotel.

  For anyone watching the pre-interview they would have noticed the typical setup of an interviewer framing their subject with the usual formalities and niceties expected of such an engagement. The interviewer is the most senior journalist on the cable network, whose voice had been described as ‘merlot with a hint of pine.’ Her demeanor and frame are petite but her intellect oozes out of her and radiates on the screen. He has watched her show many times as she has grilled politicians, interviewed victims and celebrated those that have achieved.

  He sits looking anything but relaxed; he fidgets and repeatedly massages his right index finger with the thumb and index finger of his left hand. The fact that he notices the detail of his action reflects his attempt to focus elsewhere. He tries to look relaxed. If he can at least project a façade, but the screen magnifies terror and what plays out is apparent as it reflects to the audience at home that this is a sickly nervous subject about to be interviewed by a veteran who always gets the outcome she wants.

  It starts all too quickly.

  “Good evening and welcome to this special interview with Dr Barry Cunningham, this year’s winner of the prestigious Peace Prize. Dr Cunningham welcome to the show.” Others have called him Professor but here he is just Doctor because of the Ph.D. he had actually earned.

  She barely glances at him while she does the introduction.

  “Thank you,” he responds mechanically.

  “So Dr Cunningham, how does it feel to be awarded the prize?” Awful, awful, awful.

  “It is something that one does not expect. As mentioned previously, I am humbled by the recognition of the Institute and staff that are its backbone.”

  “Talking about the Institute, you started it yourself some time back? What were the reasons for doing this?” Well I needed to do something with the Ph.D. and as I couldn’t get a full-time job, I saved face by starting something.

  “No place existed then where students could learn about peace studies in a formal environment. Other educational institutions were only offering certificate programmes and so I thought what about a private university that could formally recognize the contribution that young people can make to their communities.”

  “Interesting.” So she can see through it too.

  “How many graduates does the Institute have?”

  “Well over the years we have had hundreds.”

  “I see.” What is she getting at?

  “What would you say is your biggest achievement besides the obvious Peace Prize?” In other words show the world what a piece of shit you really are.

  “I … um … I have tried to be a humble promoter of peace in this country. I have seen myself as a vehicle for others to use the skills taught to them to make a difference. I believe that I have lived the hope that peace studies offers and hopefully been the agent to inspire others.”

  “On that, you self-published your first book. Some would say that self-publishing in academia is not really publishing a book as it has not been peer-reviewed. What do you say about that? You are
a fake, just own up to it.

  “Well, you are right. When one self-publishes one does take that risk. I felt differently though. I felt it was something I was passionate about and if others wanted to read it, they could decide if it was worthy or not. The readers could be the ones that peer-reviewed it.” Take that and stick it!

  “Yes, I see your point. It has got quite a following and is referred to in many journals and amongst scholars of peace studies. What about your second work?” Oh, now you want to save face, bitch.

  “The second book looks at dignity and what the power is of maintaining it in every part of our lives. It was a utopian dream of mine, and I am glad that it was picked up by our government and shared as part of transforming the countries image around the rest of the world.”

  “Well it’s interesting you say that as it links to my next set of questions. Let’s get straight to the point and ask the questions that everyone around the world wants to know- are the allegations true about your use of male prostitutes? Do you think you should turn down the prize?” You fucking bitch, what the fuck!

  He looks confused and takes in a short breath. Later on he would describe to Susan that it had felt as if he had been shot and could not breathe. He was expecting a more civil line of questioning, one which would slowly lead towards this point. Instead he had been assaulted upfront, framing the boundaries of the discussions, which were clearly not around his academic work and winning the prize.

  “Um …” he hesitates, then swallows loudly. “Um …” He looks down to collect his thoughts. The question comes again, re-structured and re-phrased and softer as if to coax him to speak.

  “Let me ask you this,” she says glancing over her glasses towards him, “there have been some rumors from the British Press that you have, in the past, had relations with other men and have paid for it. How do you wish to respond to this?” I wish to respond that I did and it is no ones fucking business who I have fucked.

  She takes off her glasses and gently points them at him, “Is there any substantiation to these allegations?” Fuck off, fuck right off.

  He looks at the glasses which had been extended towards him and not at her, and sighs deeply. “I think the issue is not as simple as your question.”

  “What do you mean by that?” She throws back. “Are you saying the allegations are true?” I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. Do I stand up and walk away?

  “No, I am not saying that. How you choose to explain a story will ultimately allow others to make choices about you.” He says this more confidently as if to show he is not scared, even though he is at the lowest low he has experienced this far.

  “Of course, every story has two points of view but what I am getting at is what is your side of the story? What do you want to share about the various and rather serious allegations made against you?” Nothing, I want to share nothing. I want my life back.

  “By now it is no secret about my sexuality, although it was something I never hid or chose to hide. I have disclosed my sexuality to anyone who has asked about it.”

  “I don’t believe that anyone thinks otherwise. What is the relevance of this to my initial question?” So know you say gay rights for all. Woo hoo the fucking Supreme Court. Fuck off.

  “I am getting there,” he responds, more composed and looking down at his index finger. “The construction of my sexuality or the way I choose to spend my time behind closed doors is really my business.”

  She had been waiting for this, as she picks up a piece of paper and responds in seconds. “On the 10 November you mentioned to Le Monde that you were in an open-relationship and this was a matter between your partner and yourself.” There was no question only the statement. What did she want him to say?

  “Well you seem to know this much better than me,” he responds, looking directly in her eyes for the first time.

  She chooses to ignore the sarcasm and carries on. “Let me ask you this, do you think you deserve the peace prize?” She is basically saying, you fag fucking whore, do you think you should be the one to have been placed alongside religious and discerning people.

  Again he looks her straight in the eyes and says, “If I say yes, I sound arrogant, and it is reported that I am trying to justify my acceptance of it. If I say no, then it is reported that I am admitting guilt. This is a question for the Peace Prize Committee to answer.” He opens his mouth as if to say something more then closes it just as quickly.

  Bangkok-

  8.

  The next few days Tod couldn’t recollect all that had taken place. The other news media did not have their scoop and Hurtle and the network had made a killing selling the rights to the story and footage.

  Soon the streets of Bangkok were swarming with camera crews setting up bases to share the story that they broke. However, in this game the winner was the first to break the story. Hurtle basked in glory as he arrogantly marched around the hotel deciding who to speak to and under what circumstances.

  The onslaught of media had not been good for business in the Soi, which made its money through anonymity and in the end the Commissioner of Police was quick to ban the live broadcasts ‘from the scene’ and instructed an overall ban within a 500 meter limit.

  Hurtle was already working on the next scoop but again he was lucky, as he had sources looking for the ‘boy’ who was hired by Cunningham. One source specifically had located the ‘boy' in the province of Isaan, where he was from, and was trying to talk him into doing an interview.

  Hurtle was clucking around, frantic to keep a can on the possible interview and he would have the sources on speaker phone, with an interpreter shouting orders and getting mad because it was taking so long. He was worried that with time the other networks would beat him to it. Tod knew what really worried him though was that the sources would defect to the other side and offer the rights of the story to the highest bidder. For this reason, he had sent the local Thai producer with to ensure that there were no nasty surprises.

  Six days after the story broke and chaos ensued - they had a breakthrough.

  Tod was sitting with Hurtle discussing one of the less frequent updates, when the phone rang and Hurtle put in straight onto speaker.

  “He’s agreed to the interview,” the voice said.

  “Fucking brilliant!” You could see the glee in his eyes.

  “But, not so easy. It comes with a condition.”

  “Fuck! I knew the little Fucker was going to do this. So what the fuck does he want? A fucking suite at the Ritz and a million dollars?” The glee had quickly turned to exasperation.

  There was silence on the other side of the phone.

  “Yes, I am fucking waiting! What does the wanker want?”

  Again a silence ensued followed by the sound of a deep breath being let out.

  The voice was calm, “Please write this down.”

  “Well, just tell us for fuck’s sake.”

  Tod motioned to Hurtle, showing the pen in his hand and the open notebook.

  “He is worried about his family finding out that he used to do this kind of work. So we must guarantee that we will not show his face either on camera or take any photos of him.”

  “Fine. That one’s fucking easy.”

  “He also want to do the interview in Bangkok and not here.”

  “We can have him on a plane in an hour.” Hurtle was already pulling his laptop closer.

  “He wants to do the interview with no people in the room.”

  “What does that mean?” Hurtle spat.

  “No people in the interview. Only him.”

  Again Hurtle visibly showing his annoyance banged the table and said, “That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Obviously there has to be multiple people involved in interviewing him. Tod, the cameraman and me.”

  “No! He will only agree to the interviewer and himself.”

  “Okay, whatever!” For Tod’s benefit, Hurtle made the sign for being crazy by lifting his finger to his head and spinning it around w
ildly.

  “And afterwards, he can leave without any questions.”

  “Does he mean that he won’t be on a fucking panel interview with all the rentboys, or on a fucking dance show, or …?”

  Another sigh, “No, just no other ‘boys’ or his Mama-san from that time.”

  “Deal. So I am working on the tickets as we speak. I need his name for the booking.”

  “Another problem. He insists that I book his ticket at an internet café in front of him sending the confirmation mail to his e-mail.”

  “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

  Tod again signed to Hurtle a thumbs up and mouthed “Agree.” On the pad he had written:

  He immediately pays with the network’s credit card and the ‘boy’ gets the booking to his e-mail. That way we will never know what his real name is.

  Another thump on the table and Hurtle then screamed, “Just fucking do it. When will you be here?”

  “There is a flight out later this afternoon. Where we are is quite remote and will still need to drive to the airport.”

  “Get here and fast! With that he hangs up.

  This is Hurtle at his worst. “I am going to get another hotel room somewhere else for the interview. We need to be fucking discreet. Those fucking hyenas from the other networks can’t sniff this out. They have been spying on us ever since we broke the story.”

  That Place-

  9.

  The fatigue of the flight catches up on him. He sinks into a chair at the back of the bar. Tonight, he is one of two customers. It is a Monday with few staff and a small number of ‘boys’ dancing on the stage, without any energy or enthusiasm making small talk which each other.

  To his right is the Mama-san who recognizes his face and does a victory performance every time she sees him. It is a strategy but it is also an affirmation for him and something, which strangely makes him feel welcome. The ritual drink is ordered and the Mama-san yells as loudly as she can across the expanse of the bar, “BBBEEERRRRRR.”