It turned out that option two was closest to the truth. Her name was Devika and she was on vacation at the Cove with her mother and father, who was the Indian ambassador to Japan. She had swiped one of the skiffs, headed into town last night, and gotten epically hammered. When she was heading back to the Cove she decided to do some last-minute tequila shots while jamming out to the radio. She passed out and ended up floating underneath my bungalow.
She was also very cute—at least she was the cutest girl who ever washed up under my porch before. She was a bit on the plump side, with smooth brown skin, long black hair tied up in a braid, and a body so delightfully curvaceous that upon glancing at it, you immediately wanted to ride it like a roller coaster. At least I did.
Once she regained consciousness, she wouldn’t stop talking. She was eager to tell me all about herself and her fascinating life in Japan where she spent most of her time shopping, playing pachinko for money, and drinking copious amounts of sake.
She seemed to have absolutely no interest in who I was or why I was at the Cove. And I must admit that there was something appealing about this lack of curiosity. For some reason she seemed to enjoy my company and instantly made plans for us to go snorkeling and then have lunch. I could not come up with a single reason to say no, so I said yes and threw on a bathing suit. Forty-five minutes later we were checking out clown fish and conger eels and spiny lobsters. An hour later we were eating pad thai and sautéed monk fish on my patio. We were also doing many shots of Thai scorpion vodka.
Thai scorpion vodka turns out to be vodka with a scorpion in it. Yup. A scorpion. Legend has it that the scorpion has aphrodisiacal qualities. All I know is that the vodka has drunk qualities. Maybe I thought I was in better “drinking shape” after my time in Ireland, but those shots out on the patio in the brilliant tropical sun demolished me. Devika also seemed well on her way to a repeat performance of her previous evening’s escapades.
Around five minutes after the vodka ran out, Devika and I had somehow staggered to my bedroom, managed to clamber onto the bed, and—even more surprisingly—figured out a way to stay conscious long enough to have sex.
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Vodka is an extremely powerful liquid. Scorpions are lethally venomous insects. It stands to reason that when you combine the two, craziness is sure to ensue. And ensue it did. I was plastered enough to not really remember all the details of that first intertwining with a great deal of accuracy. But I wasn’t so plastered that I couldn’t handle my business. After an extended hiatus from the horizontal mambo, I was a little bit rusty but eager to show off my floor moves. And Devika was an ideal dance partner.
Okay, the dance analogy is getting a little clunky but I’m just not comfortable sharing the intimate details of my sex life without buffering them with metaphor. Let’s just say that what I remember of that intial encounter was pretty awesome. Devika was eager, sexy, and limber as hell. And if I didn’t exactly set her world on fire, I’m pretty sure that I acquitted myself respectably. Why she had picked me was a mystery that I had no interest in solving. We fit together well and were having fun. Only a total fool would mess with that kind of serendipity. And, fortunately, I’m not a total fool.
For the next few weeks, I developed an extremely pleasant routine at the Cove. I’d wake up early with the sun, the squawking macaws, and the jabbering monkeys. Usually I’d be slightly hungover. Usually Devika would be sound asleep on, next to, or beneath my bed. Her parents had taken an extended side trip to Cambodia, so their presence wasn’t an issue (thank God). I’m not sure I would have had the stones to keep sleeping with the daughter if, in between trysts, I’d had to engage the father in lengthy discussions about cricket and the thorny problems in Kashmir.
After I woke up, I’d throw on a bathing suit, jump off the porch into the bay, and swim along the shoreline toward the main building. Then I’d scarf down a sensible breakfast of fresh-cut papaya and a large glass of mango juice. Then I’d jog back along the beach to my bungalow.
A quick aside about food in Thailand. First of all, it is, in my opinion, delicious. I love the combination of sweet and savory—things like chicken stewed in coconut milk and shrimp sautéed alongside pineapple. Their breakfasts, however, are a cause for concern. Seeing as how I was in Thailand to reconnect with raw, basic physical pleasures, I stuck with the fresh fruit. But most Thais breakfast on a variety of thick porridges filled with rice, egg, and pork. Another popular breakfast dish features pig heart, liver, kidneys, and intestines (plus some leafy green vegetables thrown in for good measure). I have tasted many of these traditional dishes and they’re actually not bad. I just couldn’t start the day with them. I’m a child of Frosted Flakes and OJ—not salted fish and pig blood.
What with the swimming and the jogging, the morning section of my Thai routine was getting me in pretty decent shape. Around noon, when Devika woke up, she’d invariably want to start the day with a bang, as it were—and that just added to the workout. So until midafternoon I was the picture of healthy living.
At around four or five, however, Devika would magically produce a bottle of some kind of new and perverse Asian alcohol and the aforementioned craziness would ensue anew. That girl could drink! I told her on several occasions that she should visit Dublin. I knew of a variety of bars that would probably sponsor her trip and even pay for her hotel room, the way Vegas casinos do with high-stakes gamblers. She claimed that this was the way everyone in India drank but that can’t possibly be true or how would they ever have been able to complete the Taj Mahal?
Devika usually picked out a destination for the evening’s debauchery. Sometimes it was a bar in town. Sometimes it was a party in a nearby village. Sometimes it was an all-night rave at an abandoned train station. The key to every one of these activities was early and consistently maintained inebriation. Devika and I really didn’t talk much. We would drink, have sex, drink some more, hang out with other people who were drinking while incredibly loud music was playing, then go back to my bungalow for a nightcap and some more sex.
I can’t honestly say that I missed the opportunity to talk with her. One morning I woke up after having a weird dream. I was very hazy about what exactly had happened in it, but it was about my ex-wife and it left me feeling really unsettled. I woke Devika up from her fermented mare’s milk–induced stupor and tried to tell her about it. But she was completely disinterested and fell back asleep almost immediately.
I remember feeling disappointed. I wasn’t disappointed in Devika—after all, I could hardly expect this vivacious young wild woman to want to get bogged down in a morbid discussion about my failed marriage. It was more a diffuse sense of disappointment in myself. It wasn’t a big deal, though, because a moment later the sheets slipped off Devika’s sleeping body revealing one beautiful brown butt cheek and all thoughts of my ex-wife instantly vanished in a happy haze of horniness.
So we didn’t talk. Who cares? Trust me, I’m not complaining. I had a young, exotic, sexy sex machine from the subcontinent enthusiastically coupling with me at every opportunity while I luxuriated in a magical oceanfront resort. If you complain about that, you deserve to get punched in the neck. I was cognizant of the fact that I had fallen into one of the great routines of all time and I had no interest in rocking the boat.
30
The boat got rocked for me, both literally and figuratively, about halfway through my stay in Thailand. I got a text message from Peter, my newly acquired LA writer friend who was staying in Phuket. He knew that I was in Krabi and was heading down that way on a private yacht. He wanted to know if I wanted to get together shipboard for some drinks and a quick cruise. It seemed like an amusing change of scenery. When I mentioned the idea to Devika she was interested. When I named the sitcoms that Peter created, she practically went insane. They’re the kinds of shows that are always, at every second of every day, playing in syndication on some remote channel somewhere around the world. Apparently they had been huge hits in India. Sari-wearing Punjabis
named their children after the main characters. She was thrilled and it was a done deal.
While there was no explicit rule against it, everyone at the Cove knew better than to reveal its location to outsiders. So I agreed to meet Peter at the port in Laem Kruat where the ferries shuttle tourists back and forth from the islands. Chula took Devika and me to Laem Kruat and waited around to make sure that we actually met up with our friend and were not abducted by slavers, pirates, or Mormon missionaries. He nudged me frequently and winked lasciviously in reference to Devika. Chula was particularly pleased to see that I was engaged in an amorous adventure or, as he so quaintly put it, “making tok-tok.” Seeing as how I happened to know that Chula had a doctorate in linguistics from the University of Sydney, I assumed that he was only speaking like that to make my Thai experience feel more authentic. And I appreciated it. There’s nothing more satisfying than developing a warm relationship with an uneducated but streetwise native with a heart of gold—even if he is secretly a genius and is just perpetuating a stereotype to promote tourism.
Peter’s yacht cruised into view. It was unmistakable. First off—it was the largest, glossiest, and snazziest-looking boat in the harbor. Granted, this was not a difficult feat to accomplish considering that most of the other boats were either wooden fishing vessels or rusty old ferries. But Peter’s boat would have stood out in the harbors of Monaco, South Beach, or Newport, Rhode Island. Adnan Kashoggi would have been jealous of it. It had a helicopter pad on it—with an actual helicopter. As far as I’m concerned, you should either go yachting or go helicoptering. To do both simultaneously is just tacky.
And, speaking of tacky, another reason that Peter’s boat stood out in the harbor is that the deck was filled with curvaceous young lovelies—only some of whom bothered wearing their skimpy bikinis. Chula and the native Thai fishermen setting their nets before heading out to sea stared at the arriving depravity with looks that spoke volumes. I don’t know how to say, “I wish I was that guy” in Thai, but I now know exactly what that sentiment looks like.
Chula took off after a few more nudges and winks. Peter’s boat tied up at harbor and Devika and I climbed aboard. The level of luxury on this ship was preposterous. It was an explosion of highly polished wood, more highly polished crystal, and hyperpolished gold. There was a crew member whose full-time job was to carve sexually suggestive ice sculptures. I should point out that all of the crew were female—and scantily clad in appropriately white-and-blue-striped nautical bikinis.
Every liquor known to man—and a few that might previously have been known only to apes and extraterrestrials—were on tap at any one of the seven—seven!—bars on board. The women were as artfully carved and as sexually suggestive as the ice sculptures. They also seemed to really enjoy the taste of coconut lip gloss because they were all constantly making out with each other.
To her credit, Devika fit right in. She was slamming Sangsom shots and triple-kissing Hooters girls faster than you can say Girls Gone Wild. The whole scene was wall-to-wall women at accelerated levels of undress and inebriation. Peter and I were clearly the only men on the boat. And Peter knew just what to do with his alpha-male status. He was busy licking salt off of the stomach of a bevy of hotties and then slurping little pools of tequila out of their belly buttons. The atmosphere was positively pornographic—and I actually mean that in a good way. Devika was grinding in between two half-naked models and beckoning me to join them with a seductively cocked—if you’ll pardon the expression—finger.
So there I stood on deck of a truly phantasmagorical yacht watching as my nubile young lady friend invited me to engage in what would be—at a bare minimum—a threesome. I had never previously engaged in a threesome, nor had I seriously considered the possibility of one ever arising in my life. The closest I figured I’d ever get to a threesome would be if I pleasured myself using both hands. But here it was—not just a possibility but an inevitability. I was smack dab in the middle of Bonerville, ladies and gentlemen, and I was loving it.
As I shambled forward like a mental patient in search of mood stabilizers, I remember thinking to myself that this was it. This was the culmination of my yearlong voyage into the dark, secret heart of fun. I was about to become one of “those guys.” You know who “those guys” are. They’re the ones who party like rock stars and screw like porn stars. The guys who don’t give a damn about anything more than keeping the good times going. And just one look at guys like that—and guys like I was about to become in a second—and you know that the good times are going to keep on going forever.
And I would have become one of “those guys.” Really, I would have. There is no doubt in my mind that, if I hadn’t glanced back for a second when I noticed that the yacht was finally pulling away from its moorings with a gentle lurch, I would have blindly and blissfully entered into that seething mass of female flesh and lost myself in ecstasy for all eternity.
But I did look back. It was an involuntary reaction. I felt the boat move. I heard one of the female crew members start to pull the gangplank back onto the deck, and I looked back for a moment.
That’s when I spotted Alicia, the documentary filmmaker I met on Ireland’s Whiskey Trail. When I suddenly saw her in the midst of the crowded dock at Laem Kruat, I realized that I’d been thinking about her ever since I’d left her at the Jameson castle in Midleton. And as soon as I saw her, things started getting a little weird.
31
The fact that I even noticed her was somewhat amazing. Between the insanity transpiring on board and the bustle of activity throughout the harbor, my view was a constantly moving blur of female flesh, short Thai men, bobbing boats, and lots of dead fish. But I noticed her right away. She was getting off a ferry along with her documentary crew. I even spotted the long fuzzy microphone thing.
It was definitely surprising that I picked her out of the crowd. I’d only met her that one time in Midleton when we’d walked and talked for a few hours. A few hours—big deal. I have, in the past, been known to fail to recognize old college roommates. And we spent months together. Granted, most of my college memories have transmogrified themselves into a haze of beer, melted butter, and burned popcorn. But, still—that had to mean something, right? I needed to be reintroduced to a guy with whom I spent all of 1991 and yet I instantly remembered a girl whom I only vaguely knew and who was around 150 feet away from me surrounded by tourists, jabbering Asian fishermen, and recording equipment.
What was even more surprising than my noticing Alicia was the feeling that suddenly washed over me the second I saw her. Peter’s boat was just pulling away from the pier and, as the distance to the dock increased, I felt like a massive canyon was opening in front of me that was about to swallow me up. That warmth and camaraderie and connection that I had felt when Alicia and I first met suddenly flashed through me, and it was like I was feeling it for the first time all over again.
I took a step toward the edge of the boat and I heard Peter call out from behind me.
“Watch out, Bobby!”
That snapped me out of my trance for a moment. I turned around to see Peter looking up at me. His chin was nestled on the stomach of an utterly naked redhead whose well-defined abs were marked with steaks of salt and tequila.
“Careful where you step, buddy,” Peter continued. “We wouldn’t want to lose you before the fun got started.”
Behind Peter, Devika was still dancing with the two beautiful women. Her eyes were closed and she was completely lost in the music and the drinking and the party. The beat of whatever they were playing through the yacht’s dozen hidden speakers was pumping. I could feel the bass pounding up into my body through the deck. I looked back at the harbor as it slowly became smaller and I saw that Alicia was looking around for someone. Defying the remotest shred of possibility, I thought that maybe she was looking for me.
I felt like I was being teased by the gods. Behind me was a hedonistic display of orgiastic excess the likes of which I had never known before. I
t’s entirely possible that no one on the planet had ever known of the kind of wildness that was about to go down on Peter’s boat before. The whole scene had the kind of vibe that could only be created if an NBA star, a coked-to-the-gills record executive, the head of a major modeling agency, Larry Flynt, and Errol Flynn somehow chartered a yacht together and threw a naughty shindig. And what are the odds of that ever happening?
My brain knew that the next few hours on this boat would be mind-blowingly amazing. The kind of fun that fun seekers everywhere would whisper about in hushed tones referring to it as the legendary apotheosis of fun that occurred for one brief shining moment in the gulf of Thailand and was never to be repeated (or even approached) again.
But my heart kept making my eyeballs stare at that receding female figure in the harbor. What the hell was my heart thinking, my brain wanted to know. We could always play out this yacht thing for a while and track down Alicia later, right?
But my heart was not in a negotiating mood.
I used to be able to count on my brain rising up and kicking my heart’s ass whenever things got dicey. Back in my old life, my brain ruled the roost. Sure, my heart wanted to watch the final nine holes of the Masters. But my brain knew that there would be hell to pay if we didn’t do what my wife wanted. So my heart backed down and we went to a poetry reading, or someone’s wedding, or I repainted the laundry room. To this day I can’t watch replays of Phil Mickelson’s first win at Augusta without wincing. And it’s not just because that little victory leap he took with the nerdy fist pump was so embarrassing.
I assumed that my brain would kick my heart’s ass this time too. But apparently my heart had been working out during my year of traveling. Or maybe my brain had just gotten really weak with all the drinking, gambling, and screwing. But the next thing I knew, my heart got in touch with my feet and suddenly my feet, my heart, and all the rest of me were running across the yacht’s deck toward the edge. I heard Peter yell, “Bobby! What the fuck?!” And then I was leaping over the edge into the water.
Drink, Play, F@#k Page 13