Bangkok Boy (5 page)

Later on, when my friends made fun of my relationship with Chris, I made light of the situation by claiming that I was uniquely gifted in having the ability to bat for both teams.

Although I enjoyed Chris’s affections, I essentially thought of him as an ATM—something that magically dispensed money whenever I needed it. Additionally, Chris was good company and I enjoyed being seen with a smart-looking
farang
. I fantasised about how much easier life would be if I was genuinely attracted to him. We could easily live happily ever after, and I’d never have to work again.

As our relationship progressed, I began to reciprocate Chris’s affections, and began caressing and touching his body as he did mine. My motives were purely self-serving however, and didn’t stem from genuine passion as Chris would have liked to believe. I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t lose interest in me. I never did anything more than touch and cuddle him though. When he tried to kiss me on the mouth I’d wriggle free of his embrace. I allowed him to caress my face and body but the idea of engaging in full-blown man-on-man acts made me freeze up.

If you’d asked me if I considered myself a prostitute, the answer would have been a resounding ‘No!’ After all, I didn’t dance in a go-go bar or walk the streets. Looking back, I now know what prostitution is regardless of how one solicits the customer.

On the last day of Chris’s stay in Thailand, he gave me his address. He asked me to write and promised to send me a monthly allowance. I felt I’d hit the jackpot, 10,000 to 20,000 baht in exchange for a few letters would be splendid. Unfortunately, as fate, or rather my stupidity, would have it, I lost Chris’s card during an outrageously drunken night on the town. I still kick myself when I think how foolish I was to lose his address. His money would have secured me a good future. I was certainly neither Chris’s first dependent nor would I be his last; experience has taught me that these kinds of relationships never last. It would only have been a matter of time before someone else replaced me in Chris’s heart and I hope, for Chris’s sake, that it was someone who loved him.

Chris was the first gay man who treated me with dignity. I hadn’t a clue about the gay scene even though it was clearly thriving in the place I resided. I had several Pattaya friends who became go-go boys after losing big in gambling houses; I was continuously amazed at the amount of money they had and the ease with which they made it. They could lose huge sums one night only to return the following evening full of zeal and with their fortunes replenished. Unlike today, there were only a few go-go bars in Pattaya at the time. During one of my many periods of unemployment, I befriended several go-go boys who asked me to work a scam by helping them steal money from their clients in hotel rooms. Many of these tricksters were actually straight and would pair up with working girls to operate as a team. The more I hung around with go-go boys and listened to them brag about their wealth, the more I considered becoming one. On the surface, they were the picture of respectability—they dressed well, ate at nice places, and seemed to have bottomless wallets. I’d never been in a male go-go bar and had no understanding of how they operated. Therefore, I had certain reservations about joining their ranks.

I eventually decided to leave Pattaya altogether; I was done with the city. I didn’t make a fortune like my father had hoped, and I wouldn’t be returning home a hero. I rarely sent money to my parents and the total sum of my contribution was mere pittance in comparison with the amount I’d blown. I was still the drunkard gambler I’d always been. The only lesson I’d learned from my stay in Pattaya was that I knew, without doubt, I didn’t want to work long, boring hours, day after day, in order to collect miniscule wages from what I considered to be snooty bosses.

During the long restless bus ride back to Sisaket, I found my thoughts continually returning to the idea of becoming a go-go boy. I already had some experience at sleeping with men for money and I reasoned that such a life could provide me with an escape route to a brighter future. My greed seemed to override any rational or moral consideration. I’d made approximately 1,000 baht a month working as a waiter; a go-go boy could earn at least the same amount in a day. I concluded that the insanity lay in not becoming one. I knew I’d have to participate in some disagreeable activities, just like when I gave my body to my teacher and Chris; but it’d be nothing in comparison to the humiliating and unrewarding work of a waiter or cleaner.

With each passing kilometre on the way to Sisaket, I felt these thoughts beginning to take root in my heart and mind.

CHAPTER 5

Upon arriving home, my parents greeted me with huge smiles. The fact that I’d managed to support myself in Pattaya for the last two years led them to expect the return of a new-and-improved Chai. Of course, they didn’t know about my appalling work ethic, or the fact that I’d been fired from countless jobs; nor the kind of people I regularly associated with, most of them not impartial to gambling, drinking and prostitution. Not that I was innocent of these vices myself.

My parents thanked me for the pitifully infrequent sums of money I’d sent them. This money hadn’t even made a dent in the total debt of hundreds of thousands of baht they owed. I felt dreadful. In their desire to see the good in me, they overrated my achievements, and stubbornly clung to the belief that their formerly dutiful son was still lurking somewhere inside of me.

Our large home was eerily empty for my siblings had been forced to leave Sisaket in search of work in other provinces. The grocery store was equally bare as all our former customers had turned their backs on us.

I slowly began to re-adjust myself to rural life, and sought out childhood friends. I was confident I’d be well received but I was in for a shock. Sirin, my first girlfriend, who’d walked away when my delinquent nature proved too much, still wanted nothing to do with me. I learned from others that she was pursuing her lifelong ambition of becoming a nurse. My male friends, who were in their sophomore year at university, working towards future careers in the civil service, also distanced themselves from me. A gulf divided us; we lived in different worlds—theirs being far superior to mine. A sense of self-pity combined with jealousy clouded my mind, and true to form, I found comfort and escape in alcohol. The more aware I was of what a wasteland my future seemed to be, the more consumed with self-hatred I became. How many other people my age, having their whole lives ahead of them, could so assuredly pronounce that they despised the person they’d become?

I was no longer on a mission to find trouble, yet trouble still managed to find me. It wasn’t as if anyone else would keep me company, so it was hard to shun the sort that were associated with alcohol. In a pre-emptive strike, my parents offered to support me through university. They were already deeply in debt and couldn’t afford this additional expense, but were desperate to save me and preserve the tiny shred of dignity our family had left. In hindsight, I accepted their offer with only a vague intention of reforming. I’d been away from books so long that the prospect of returning to academia seemed surreal. With no other option, I wearily surrendered to my parents’ wishes.

I didn’t study much for the entrance exam for the faculty of humanities at Rajabhat University in Ubon Ratchathani. Considering I’d developed some English skills, it made sense to improve them further academically. My nonchalant attitude didn’t leave me holding very high hopes of passing the exam, but surprisingly, I got the grades and was accepted into the course. However, since my score was unremarkable, I was sent to study at a less prestigious campus in Kampeangphet Province towards the northern region of Thailand. My parents were nonetheless delighted; Pa patted me on the back, joking that some sort of divine intervention must have caused me to pass since my brain surprisingly still functioned despite all the alcohol I’d consumed.

On orientation day, while I was waiting to enter the auditorium for the dean’s welcoming speech, I noticed that female students outnumbered males by a three-to-one ratio. I took note that the female dormitory was located next to the auditorium. Groups of girls, wearing short skirts and tight blouses, were huddled together, nervously chatting away. Maybe university wouldn’t be so bad after all.

I was like a rooster in a henhouse and, in order to attract the resident chicks, I knew that I’d need to stock up on both cigarettes and booze. Once again, the old me was making a hearty comeback. In no time, I drank beer and smoked in deliberate bad-boy style, whilst relishing the disapproving looks I attracted from other students. Such behaviour was forbidden on campus, and their reactions served only to egg me on. Unlike the bright-eyed freshmen, I was not excited at the prospect of pursuing a higher education and I made no secret of this fact. I was certainly entrepreneurial enough to cash in on any opportunities that came my way though—especially ones wrapped in short skirts.

While I continued to theatrically hone my persona, I still managed to absorb some studies, only barely scraping by. But I did make some friends and was reasonably popular.

I bragged to peers about my work experience in Pattaya as a ‘tour guide’. In the presence of other students, I chatted merrily away with the only American teacher in my faculty. I wanted them to think I was brave and intelligent for being able to converse with a Westerner. In reality, many of the students probably knew more vocabulary and had a better understanding of grammar than I did, but were afraid to approach the teacher lest they make a mistake and appear stupid.

I deliberately unbuttoned the collar of my shirt allowing other students to see an expensive necklace I’d bought with some lottery winnings. I regularly purchased such tickets but rarely won; however, a recent windfall ensured that I could afford such an impressive-looking ornament. While the necklace certainly boosted my appeal among the girls, it was also a nest egg that would be sold at a later date if I needed cash.

Due to its size, I had a hard time convincing my friends that it was real. When I offhandedly confided with my parents about my friends’ doubts, my father got angry. He took it personally believing he’d lost face. Pa managed to wrangle another loan from a welfare programme and put a deposit on a pick-up truck for me. This was an expensive way of making a fool out of my classmates for doubting our wealth. In reality, my classmates probably didn’t mean to insult us; they simply teased me good-humouredly as Thais love to do. I should have refused to allow my father to plunge the family further into debt, but once again willpower failed me. While my father was enslaved by his preoccupation with saving face, I was in bondage to my oversized ego. Within a week, I was driving to campus in a white-elephant pick-up truck.

With the benefit of hindsight, I now understand my father’s reasoning. He evaluated his success as a father by his ability to provide for me. He strove to satisfy every need and desire, however misguided, in an attempt to be the best father he could be. Now that I’m a father and rice-winner myself, I understand how difficult it was for Pa. I find it nearly impossible to refuse my son’s requests, no matter how unnecessary they may be. I often find myself over-indulging him to compensate for the trauma I’ve caused him during his young life.

It wasn’t long before I made enemies at university with a gang of male seniors who took offence at my cockiness. I was oblivious to their resentment until a neighbouring student alerted me that they’d come banging on my door while I was out. Trouble was brewing and I knew I had to find some protection quickly.

I set my sights on befriending Den who was one of the most influential young men in the province. He happened to be the eldest son of a well-known village chief and headed a gang of five
luk nongs
, or ‘subordinates’. I met him during a visit to a gambling house and we immediately bonded due to our shared passion of leading destructive lifestyles. My bravery therefore began to increase as a result of this unholy alliance. Although it was fear that initially drove me into Den’s arms, I soon found myself comforted by the gang’s communality; after all, I knew the gangster way of life like the back of my hand.

I decided it was time to settle scores with the seniors so Den, his men and I decided to confront them. On the day of reckoning, hostilities began with a lot of cursing, yelling and threatening; but this would soon escalate into a full-fledged fistfight. There was no contest between the two gangs and we easily emerged as victors. As they lay scattered on the ground, nursing their injuries, I drew my pistol and pointed it at them in order to remind them who was boss. The sight of the pistol terrified them. As we ordered our hostages to huddle together on the ground, they instinctively joined their hands together in the prayer-like
wai
position, stuttering as they begged us to spare them. Their pathetic tears had the effect of calming me down as I realised how ludicrous the situation was—I was frightening them to within an inch of their lives with an unloaded pistol. I walked away while Den called me a chicken for not delivering at least a few more blows.

One day, I staggered drunk and barefoot to the house of a girl I was seeing. Rin was an attractive, naïve, first-year student from another faculty and we were an odd couple. I’d grown my hair long by then to further enhance my ruffian looks. The scruffier I appeared the better—I wore dirty shirts and slacks and went days at a time without a shower; I looked like a derelict.

I was feeling particularly horny and my libido was angrily demanding satisfaction. In my inebriated state I believed Rin would kindly agree to have sex with me. Of course, I failed to consider how my dirty, dishevelled appearance might prevent this from actually happening. I made my way towards her family’s simple rented house near the campus. I approached the front gate and began calling her name at the top of my lungs. When she didn’t come running, I climbed the fence into the yard and gathered up stones to throw at the windows. Although drunk, I still had good aim and the sound of tinkling glass joined my incessant roaring. I don’t remember anything else after that as I then passed out.

When I finally came to, the world was spinning in a blur of varying colours. The merry-go-round gradually slowed and I became acutely aware of a gun hovering in my sideline vision. Someone was pressing it to my right temple; this shocking revelation sobered me up instantly. Thoughts scurried round my head like fervent ants.

A surly police officer, the gun’s owner, gruffly shouted, ‘What’s a drunken burglar like you doing trying to break into the professor’s house?’

I was in a police station. I struggled to respond—gasping for air only to dry-retch. It was imperative, however, that I deny these false accusations.

‘Officer, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was out drinking and enjoying myself. I wasn’t robbing anyone—let alone a professor. Besides, I’m not a burglar; I’m a student at the university where he teaches. I thought it was my girlfriend’s house.’

Given the circumstances and my dishevelled appearance, my claim of innocence fell on deaf ears. The officer grew increasingly irritated and offered not an ounce of sympathy. He began pummelling me with his fists and boots, paying particular attention to my face and ribs. Any lingering trace of drunkenness vanished—although this was the one time being liquored up to my eyeballs would have actually served me well. No matter how guilty I looked, I certainly didn’t deserve this type of treatment. He made horrible threats, assuring me that it was only a matter of time before he made me confess to the crime he knew I’d committed. He had no concrete evidence but was determined to make my case stick.

No wonder the Thai police have a less-than-favourable image where the public are concerned—parents even caution their children against misbehaviour by threatening that the big police bogeyman will get them. There have been countless cases of police brutality in Thailand but only a paltry few have ever made the news. The police are notorious for using torture as a means of persuading people to give information. Personally, I think the most frightening example of this kind of ‘persuasion’ is the police’s use of electrodes, which are hooked up to the scrotum and nipples of the victim while he’s made to stand in a trough of water. I’ve heard horrible stories of people having bottles forced into their rectum during questioning; or of others being made to sit on huge blocks of ice for hours on end. On top of this, they are systematically beaten and/or raped by fellow cellmates, often at the police’s own behest.

A recent scandal involved a gang of 13 border-patrol policemen who allegedly broke into the homes of innocent civilians, kidnapped them, and extorted their money and valuables. After torturing them into a confession they then falsely charged them with possession of narcotics. Such confessions could easily result in a life sentence or worse. After the gang of 13 had been arrested and placed in remand to await trial, numerous prisoners came forward. They claimed they had also been victimised and unfairly incarcerated at the hands of this gang. It makes one wonder how judges can turn a blind eye to cases that are full of glaring inconsistencies and where the police are the only witnesses.

If I compare myself to some victims, I was lucky—all I got was an old-fashioned beating. The incident once more served to intensify my contempt for authority figures. It would be many years before I met good, honest policemen who persuaded me that there are all types of people in every walk of life.

As he continued to bombard me with abusive accusations, I managed to dig deep within myself and find an inner strength I never knew I possessed. I simply refused to confess to the crimes of which I was being accused. Once my accuser tired himself out, he threw me into a cell. He was confident I was a small-time crook until a background check disclosed I was indeed a student. Despite this, he still charged me with attempted burglary.

I was kept in the cell for seven days, during which time I was permitted occasional phone calls to my parents. My first night of incarceration was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. The beating I received began to take its toll on my body for it ballooned and began to change colour rapidly. But this pain was nothing in comparison with the overwhelming feelings of guilt that gnawed at my insides. I had disappointed my parents yet again, and I was terrified that they wouldn’t believe I was innocent. After all, it wasn’t as if I had a clean record.

When they eventually came to visit me, I poured out my version of events. Judging from their reaction, they seemed to believe me. Pa gritted his teeth saying very little; he seemed to be searching for the right response but was coming up blank. Mae was crying uncontrollably and almost fainted a few times from the emotional strain. She kept repeating, ‘What bad karma he must have committed,’ as if hoping that by openly recognising my misdeeds, a higher power might magically remove me from this tangle. I grew angry with my mother’s tears—she was making a fool of me in front of the other cellmates, but worse than this, they were making me immensely sad because I knew I was to blame and I was helpless to do anything about it. Pa realised that Mae was only making a hard situation even more difficult and instructed her to compose herself. Before they left, Pa assured me that he’d do everything in his power to help me.