Extreme Gay Thailand, 1978

[This is chapter one of a completed four-chapter novella that will post within ten days.]

I tend to index specific years in my life in terms of some significant event I was involved in during that year. The year 1978 should bring forth the first movie I had a part of, The Deer Hunter, but, although it’s related, what I think about when 1978 is considered is the night train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai and having three-way sex with a couple of guys, including a forgettable movie actor, who, nevertheless, had a memorable cock. And I think about the motion of a train rumbling along on rough tracks, the train’s motion being an equal partner in the fuck for the movie guy and me. I think about the rhythm of the fuck synchronizing with the rocking of the moving train and grinding of the train’s wheels on the rails.

I forget what the actor’s movie name was. I saw him in nothing else after The Deer Hunter and he was pushing the edge even then, appearing twenty years younger in the movie, more or less my age of twenty-five at the time, primarily though the magic of the manipulatable camera lens and angles. When a guy hits his forties, though, the cock, if he’s used it right, holds firm for longer than the rest of the man’s body, and the man I’ll refer to as Craig Culver was certainly able to hold a nice erection.

I wasn’t a slut in the mid-seventies, but I think all that saved me from being considered that was how hedonist Bangkok, Thailand, was in those days. In New York City I would have been considered promiscuous. In Richmond, Virginia, I would have been considered a whore.

I wasn’t fucked every day, but I didn’t miss many. I’d been innocent, so narcissistic that I was dumb about sex, and repressed before the State Department sent me to Thailand as a cultural affairs officer. But Bangkok was such a freeing cultural experience for me, letting me blossom my interests and talents in the theater, music, art, and writing and opening me up to pleasures I hadn’t been aware of before.

I was what could be described as a pretty boy head turner in my youth and had kept most of that into my twenties, but I was so oblivious to what was being suggested and offered to me before arriving in Bangkok that I wasn’t in the game. Once there, though, Bangkok was a whole different level of the game, and it took me by surprise and by storm. A black major at the American military liaison office, the Joint U.S. Military Assistance Group—JUSMAG—understood what I wanted and needed when I didn’t. He pursued me expertly, cornered me, took me hard, and had me royally fucked and his slave before I fully understood what was happening. He then passed me around at his convenience. Within months of arriving in Bangkok in 1976 at the age of twenty-three, I had acquired a taste for it. I had become a male whore even by Bangkok standards.

In my work, I met a lot of creative and “what the hell; whatever gives you pleasure” people in the arts, and I was able to work in any artistic medium I wished, from acting on the stage, to singing in and producing concerts, to arranging art exhibits, to writing drama reviews for the English-language newspapers. And I partied hard. It was the latter—the drama critic duties—that introduced me into working with movies as well as my embassy job, which was forgiving of my extracurricular activities as long as they increased my cultural skills and experience and I networked in ways that promoted U.S. interests. The Deer Hunter, the first movie I did some work on, was an American production and one that the Thai were quite pleased to be having scenes filmed in Bangkok. The movie was partially set in Vietnam, but that country was inaccessible then, so the film company had come to Bangkok.

When film companies came to Thailand to work, they typically brought only the minimum number of production crew needed to supervise filming and only the principal actors. Their scouts came to people like me, newspaper film critics, to recommend crew and extras to fill out their needs. The Deer Hunter was in the last stages of production and had come to Thailand to film a few scenes. They needed someone to clean up scripts in the evening for the next day of filming after the director had reviewed them and made changes. I wrote movie reviews for the English-language press, so the movie producers came to me for a recommendation of a script editor. They were fine with my showing interest in the job myself.

I convinced my superiors that such work would add to my job skills. I took that position. In that work, I came into contact with the actors, and the Bangkok segment of the movie, which transformed a closed U.S. military commissary on the Klong Toy docks into a military hospital set. The filming lasted long enough that the actors and crew filtered out into Bangkok society, which catered to any interest they would admit to. Being a premier hedonist, “anything goes” city, there was no prurient interest of movie folk that Bangkok couldn’t—and didn’t—cater to. What I could—and did—offer to them was quite tame at that time by Thai standards. As noted, though, it would get me called promiscuous in New York City and a male whore in Richmond, Virginia. Eventually, I reached that status even in Bangkok.

This is what led to the actor, Craig Culver. He was filling a small speaking role in the movie, having had better, beefcake heart-throb roles in his earlier career, and came to discover that I took cock and would happily take his. JUSMAG was dominated by muscular, cut, cocky military men who had gravitated to billets in that office in Bangkok because they preferred partying with men, many of them having a special affinity to young Thai youths, including transvestites. Thanks to the existence of a network of high-ranking gay male officers in the services, there were billets, like JUSMAG in Bangkok, that were protected for gay assignments, and, if assigned there, you either were part of the open gay lifestyle, or you moved on and kept your mouth shut. Good-looking soldiers who supposedly were straight but were deemed to be wavering were assigned there. They invariably left definitely bent. Male prostitution was an accepted and burgeoning institution in Bangkok and JUSMAG parties were a paradise for men seeking other men.

Craig Culver attended one of the Saturday pool parties at the JUSMAG compound and thus, having seen me a couple of times in the production trailers on The Deer Hunter set, caught sight of me naked and on my back on a pool lounge bed, with my major on top of and inside me and pumping away. Culver didn’t say anything to me then, but he stayed nearby to watch for a while and he gave me interested looks before going off to find a playmate of his own—at least for that time.

I recognized him that day, watching me being fucked by the pool within sight of other guys, his tongue and dick hanging out and waving just like the other guys’ did, and I figured my role in The Deer Hunter production staff would probably be taking on a new dimension. I was right.

He had once been a handsome and body-beautiful man. He still was above average in looks, when you squinted when taking his large frame in, but he had thickened, and had a distinctive beer belly. He had acquired crow’s feet around his eyes and all that accompanied that. He wasn’t that bad in build now—unless you’d seen him on screen in his “definitely a hunk” days. I didn’t exactly salivate at the opportunity to hook up with him upon first sight, but he was a movie actor, once a movie star, so the prospect of getting it on with a movie star was there in the mix. Still, the JUSMAG soldiers were in their prime, especially my major, The Major, and I had little reason to look beyond them. They were straightforward and basic, but they knew how to lay a submissive out, panting and cooing.

But the soldiers weren’t there on the late evening when I was finishing up a script cleanup in a production trailer and Culver came, shirtless, into the trailer with a smile, a bottle of bourbon, and two glasses. In the soft lighting of the evening in a small trailer, he looked pretty good. He still had good muscle tone in the upper torso and only a bit of thickening around the waist. His face would still be good for another ten years, maybe fifteen, with further help of a good plastic surgeon. I could tell he’d already had some help there.

He clearly wanted to fuck me; He made this obvious by referring to the day he’d seen me at the JUSMAG pool. He took time to seduce me, he showed me that he was hung, and I let him fuck me. It wasn’t like fucking was a limited resource.

And he’d once been a heart-throb movie star. A unique notch for the bedpost.

He feigned that he wanted to look at what I was doing with the script he’d be following the next day. It was fine with him to just look over my shoulder while I typed and we both drank booze.

“You come here to work after putting in a day with your other job?” he asked. And when I said I did, he said something about how I must really need a massage to stretch out my tired muscles then. I didn’t demure, and he worked on my shoulders while we looked at the script, him looking over my shoulder. I was wearing a sports shirt, but it was hot and stuffy in the trailer and I’d unbuttoned it and let it part open. He was good but not subtle about getting his hands between the material and my flesh to massage my shoulders and to work the shirt off my back so that it cascaded down to the chair seat, leaving me bare-chested.

“I think I saw you at the party at the military compound on Saturday. I’m pretty sure I saw you,” he murmured in my ear. He had a good, sensual voice when he spoke low—and behind me, out of my vision, he aroused me. His seductive voice must have helped him in getting movie roles a couple of decades earlier. And there was that opportunity to put a unique notch on the bedpost.

“I saw you, so I guess you did see me,” I answered. He was establishing that I took cock. When he saw me at the JUSMAG compound, my head was lolled over to the side and my tongue was hanging out from the effect of The Major’s Class A shaft pumping.

“The black guy is a real monster of a man,” he said.

“The Major is a god.”

“Really built and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a man as hung as he is.” The massage had moved to the front, with his hands palming and massaging my pecs. I shimmered at that, but I made no move to stop him. I had already decided I’d let him fuck me if that was where this was going.

“Yeah, he’s a god,” I answered. I knew of a man in Bangkok—Cowboy—who was bigger, both in thickness and length, but that didn’t take much of anything away from The Major.

“I don’t know what it is about small guys liking the big, thick ones . . . I know it’s worked for me. Small guys really like what I can give them.”

He had my nubs between his thumbs and another finger and was filling them out. I probably could hear the low moan that produced. His lips were pressed into the hollow of my throat, and I leaned my head away to let my jugular pop out for his tongue. One of his hands went down to my crotch and traced my engorging dick through the material of my trousers.

Yes, he was going to fuck me.

So, in talking about long and thick cocks he was declaring himself as a top—and a bull. He even was making an allusion to my size. He didn’t seem to be complaining. Why did the big bulls always go for the small-hipped guys, I wondered. But then I knew why—because of the awe both the top and bottom got when the little guy was able to sheath the shaft—the extra feeling of conquering and surrendering they got out of it. There wasn’t anything physical, I didn’t think, about the thrill of splitting narrow hips with a thick cock, but it obviously had a mental thrill to it—and sexual arousal was as much mental as physical, I’d been told. A favorite in sex talk during a fuck was “You’re so tight,” which turned on top and bottom alike, but did that really have any physical meaning? I’d only been in Bangkok two years and I’d already sheathed many a big shaft. Surrendering to it did give me an added emotional high. Admiring my slim hips and telling me I was “so tight” as he stroked inside me added to the high.

He had seen me with The Major—how I had been able to take The Major’s thick cock—how my seemingly small hole had blossomed right open for him.

“Here, I can’t dig in deep through the material of these trousers. Let’s dispense with them,” he said.

I helped him unbuckle and unzip me and get both the trousers and briefs pulled down my legs.

“Be good to me, Daddy,” I murmured.

“I’ll be very good to you, Baby,” he whispered. He was all giving me attention then—taking care of me.

He returned briefly to kissing my throat and massaging my pecs, pinching my nipples between thumbs and forefingers and working them, giving a little groan of his own when he pulled moans out of me.

“So nice and sweet,” he murmured. “So fuckin’ nice.”

I had gone hard and he reached one of his hands down and grasped and slow stroked me. As long as he was behind me, I didn’t have to think of his age and his paunch. He was a movie actor—not exactly a legend anymore, but he’d had his innings. A one-time movie star was working my nipples and stroking my cock. I was going to be fucked by a movie star—or, at least, a guy who had been a movie star.

“Nope, no guy has ever complained about what I’ve got . . . I’m hung too, you know. Not like that soldier who was fucking you but good enough—more than good enough.”

“Are you?” I said, arching my head back, thrusting my chest out into his fingers working my nipples. He brought his face down, and I closed my eyes so I could pretend it was one of the young JUSMAG studs. He pushed his tongue between my lips in the kiss and I let him in.

“You’re going to let me fuck you, Baby,” he whispered when we came out of the kiss.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Do you do it for the money or the pleasure?” he asked in that low sexy voice he had.

“Yes,” I said, being flippant, but it was true nonetheless. I gave it away to The Major and the other soldiers at JUSMAG, but The Major sold me from time to time, usually to a Thai general or other military man in the various foreign missions for The Major’s advantage. I liked the variety. I also found the notion of being The Major’s slave to be sold to other men arousing.

The Major said it was because I liked playing the paid whore. I didn’t disagree. When he said that, though, I said it was because he liked playing the pimp. He didn’t disagree with that either. But he did say that, when I laid down for a Thai general, I was serving the mission of JUSMAG.

Out came a wad of Thai baht bills to be dropped beside the typewriter in front of me. He didn’t ask for permission beyond that, and, truth be known, I found that arousing. The Major hadn’t asked for permission the first time—nor since. He’d just grabbed me, put me under him, and fucked my lights out. It had been glorious. And he’d been right—it had been exactly what I wanted and needed even though I was totally unaware that it was happening until he had me in a doggy, with a strong arm under my belly, and was stuffing himself in me while I screamed and writhed. The first black bull cock is something to scream for—and then to want to scream for again. He kept stuffing and pumping me, calling out “You’re so tight,” until I had collapsed and was moaning and whimpering and sighing.

Culver swiveled the chair around and showed me he was both hung and erect, and I dutifully sucked him off as he crouched over me in the chair. Then he went down on his knees, and it was his turn to suck me fully erect while he reached between my thighs and under my buttocks, pulled me forward on the edge of the chair, and fingerfucked me until I was panting for it.

“Such slim hips,” he kept muttering, as if he’d found the Holy Grail. “Will I fit? Can you take me?”

We both knew I could, as he’d seen me take The Major. He was just saying this for the arousal value. So, I didn’t bother to answer in words. I whimpered something, and he moaned in pleasure.

He was a real movie actor—not in his prime or a box office name, but a movie actor nonetheless. And he knew what he was doing and how to get what he wanted. He’d gotten it a thousand times before.

When I’d taken this part-time job, I had fantasized about a movie actor laying me on the set, and now it was happening—not an A-list actor and in a production trailer rather than on the set, but it was a beginning, a unique notch on the bedpost.

He fucked me right there in the chair, coaxing my legs to spread and hang over the arms of the chair, hovering over me, running a hand into the hair on the back of my head, gripping it, and arching my head back over the back of the chair, making a big deal of slowly penetrating me with his cock, and running it up, deep into my core. “Such narrow hips. You’re so tight,” he muttered over and over again.

My passage went into shock at the invasion, the muscles of the wall gripping, clutching, and releasing. “Fuck me” they were screaming. I lifted my legs off the arms of the chair and hugged his hips tight between them, holding him into me, signaling want and acceptance and surrender to him.

He had this technique at the beginning—I could see why he said topping worked for him. All the way in and hold until my walls settled down and relaxed, opening completely to the shaft. And continuing to hold until the walls shimmered and the muscles started rippling over the cock, wanting friction, wanting the fuck. I embraced him with my arms, digging my fingernails into his shoulder blades. Then, as I whimpered and begged for it—“Fuck me. Please, fuck me now! Be good to me.”—he started the taking, moving slow and then faster and faster yet, pumping me to mutual ejaculations. He had never asked for permission. I had begged him for the fuck—not just to be inside me, but to move inside me.

Once he was moving inside me, it was a very good fuck. He continued kissing me on the mouth, giving me tongue, and on my throat and my nipples. “So nice; so tight,” he kept murmuring. He continued to grip my hair and arch my head back, which pushed my chest up and out, vulnerable to his searching lips and teeth. And he had a strong, deep stroke, coaxing me to move my hips with him, to rock against him and take him deep inside my soft core. His paunch was pressing painfully into my belly, but he expertly put me in a position that permitted him to get it all in, and when he had, I didn’t care. We had no restrictive thoughts. I took him raw. This was a good six years before the horror of the AIDS epidemic set in, and he fucked me bareback.

Once he had me fully covered, he got rough. He slapped me on the face a couple of times, crying out “Take it, bitch” and “Give it to me, you little whore” in what he no doubt considered his manliest Humphrey Bogart growl. At one point his hands grasped my throat until my eyes bugged out and I gasped for air. Once into it he was brutal. But I clung to him and took it. I’d taken it rough at the JUSMAG pool and he knew I had. I was a bitch and a whore there, and he knew it.

“Yes, yes, yes! Screw the hell out of me!” I cried out to let him know I’d take what he was giving. I hugged his hips close with my knees, dug my fingernails into his shoulder blades, and moved my pelvis with his thrusts.

He was a gusher. I felt his release—and then again and again. I didn’t always feel a guy’s breeding release and it was glorious when I did.

He was as self-centered as any movie star, and when he’d gotten the ejaculation he wanted, he pulled out of me, wiped himself off with a handkerchief, and left the trailer, leaving me without a release. I had to jack myself off, sprawled there in the chair.

But he’d been good while he was inside me, When he came around again days later, looking a bit sheepish and apologizing for being rough the first time, I opened my legs to him again. In the dimly lit trailer, it wasn’t as evident that he was moving beyond his prime.

He was rough with me again, and I had grown to needing it that way.

There was a cot in the back section of the trailer and that’s where he fucked me the subsequent two times he visited me late in the evening. He was too heavy for me, making me uncomfortable the first time on the cot when he lay on top of me. Once he was inside me, though, it was all heaven. He did know how to use a cock. The third time, I rode him in a cowboy. That was the most pleasant of the three couplings. He did get me off while fucking me after that first time.

They were just pleasant hookups. We didn’t interact other than that on the movie set and no big deal was made about him showing up to fuck me and me letting him do it. Only one part of the movie was being filmed in Bangkok and they were anxious to get the film in the can and edited. They had a release date that was within the year. Three weeks and they were out of there. I assumed he’d be leaving with the rest of them, and that was fine with me.

I was getting a lot of it, with variety, in those days. In terms of good bodies, Culver didn’t have one in relationship to the JUSMAG soldiers I was serving under. He had a more-than-average cock, though. And he was a movie actor. So being covered by him was nice. But just nice. One of the cameramen, who had been rough with me—was French and demanding and fucked dirty—had pulled more passion out of me than Culver did and had left me gasping. I wasn’t going to beg “over the hill” Culver to take me home with him. He was on his way down the hill rather than up, and I was just getting into my stride in this man-on-man business.

But a movie star notch on the bedpost is worth the effort.

* * * *

“Do you know Craig Culver? I believe you may have run into him on the set of The Deer Hunter. He had a part in that and has stayed around to do a couple of cultural exchange programs with us.”

“Yes, I believe I’ve met him,” I answered guardedly. Judy Taylor, the embassy cultural affairs attaché and my boss, had called me into her office at the American Center. Was this it, then, I wondered. Was my career going to come crashing down because of my homosexual promiscuity being called on me. On paper, it was a firing offense. In the State Department’s cultural affairs department, it was pretty much overlooked. This was the realm of artists, and creative people were mostly at least bi if they didn’t go all the way in playing for the home team. I was promiscuously gay here in Bangkok, yes, but I hadn’t been before coming here and I thought I’d been discreet. I didn’t mix it with my official duties. Yes, I’d fucked around with some Thai artists, actors, and musicians, but it had all been to make them favorable toward the United States. Wasn’t that my job? “Yes, I’ve encountered him a couple of times,” I nervously added.

“We’re sending him up to Chiang Mai to do a program at the university there—a play reading and discussion of American drama with the students. I’d like you to accompany him—both to babysit him and to do the play reading and discussion program. You’re ideal for it. You CV notes that you’ve had formal acting courses.”

I gave her a sharp look to ensure that I wasn’t getting the vibe that she knew just how well I fit in with Craig Culver on a program—that he’d had his dick inside me. But Judy was all innocence on the score. She was an expressive lady. I think I would have known if there were undercurrents here. She continued. “You just were on stage with the Bangkok Community Theatre in Edward Albee’s one-act Zoo Story. That would be ideal for this. Culver says he knows the play. You could do a couple of read throughs with him and be on the train to Chiang Mai by this weekend.”

“The train? We wouldn’t fly?”

“It’s Culver’s request. He says he’d like to go by train instead. Says he’s tired of airports and wants to see the countryside. We’re booking you on the night train.”

“He wants to see the countryside and you’re booking us on the night train?” I asked.

“Yes, well. I think he doesn’t want to admit that he has a fear of flying.”

He flew me all right, I was thinking. But there didn’t seem to be any reason not to agree with it. Culver and I had parted amicably enough on The Deer Hunter set. And this sort of thing was my job.

“Does Culver know you are pairing me with him?”

“Yes, he knows. He’s at the Ambassador Hotel on Sukhumvit, Soi 11. Call him and give him what he wants between now and Thursday night. That’s when you take the train.”

He did know I was coming—he met me at the door to his hotel room in just a towel, and I gave him what he wanted right off the bat—which included his bat.

I lay, naked, on my back at the foot of the bed, Culver hovering over me, between my spread thighs. I had my arms outstretched on the bed, grasping at wads of the silk bedspread, my legs raised and spread, held by his hands, and him staring down into my face, his cock deep up inside me, the muscles of my walls gripping and clutching on the hardness of the motionless invader. He was deep inside me, hard but motionless, waiting for me to beg for it. This tease seemed to be a fetish of his—not giving any real action until he was begged for it.

He released my legs, growling from me to leave them spread, and grabbed my throat with one hand and slapped me across the face a few times with the other.

“Shit, you’re so cruel,” I whimpered.

He laughed and slapped me again.

My passage walls undulating over the cock, trying to coax it into motion, I did beg for it. His paunch was heavy on my belly, causing me to pant and fight for breath, but I wanted it. “Fuck me, Craig. Don’t make me wait any longer. Work me. Make me come.”

“So, the cock of an old actor like me is good enough for a young, handsome piece like you,” he growled. He obviously was at that age of wondering about his desirability.

“Yes, yes. Your cock is magnificent. Work me. Do me. Be cruel,” I begged. I wasn’t acting.

Those moments during which he fully possessed me, ramrod hard, stretching me deep in my soft core, only slightly pulsating as my walls frantically grabbed at the shaft until surrendering wholly to him, relaxing and fully opening to him, were what his commanding sexual charisma was all about. They were moments of being totally in his control, without him moving inside me or allowing me to move either. They were moments of both agony and ecstasy—moments that had me suspended, breathless, on the clouds. Those moments were to hold in my mind as among the most significant experience of that year.

He laughed again and started to pump. I hadn’t thought a second about not seeing him again, not having him inside me again, when my temporary stint with The Deer Hunter was over. I thought it had just been a couple of hookups. He was just an old, heavy, has-been actor with a good cock and a commanding domination. I was shocked to find that I was wrong—that I was happy to be under him, him deep inside me, again. I ran my hands up and over the curve of his belly to his nipples, without shuddering in disgust at the size of his paunch or the puffiness of the pecs, and then around to palming his slack buttocks, holding him close to me, as I rocked on his cock, coaxing that repeated gush of his breeding out of him.

It was all about the cock in the hole. “So very nice. Such narrow hips. A nice, tight fit. Open to me, Baby. Take it. Ahhh, yes, like that. I’m gonna come!”

This time after ejaculating he stayed there, pressing me down on the bed with the heaviness of his paunch, capturing my eyes with his. He grabbed my wrists with his hands, holding them to the bedspread, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, crossing my ankles on his lower back. Both of us tuned all of our senses to the cock deep inside me, feeling it wither. Then, as he whispered how nice, young, and nubile my body was and what he was going to do to it, we both concentrated on him hardening again. As before, he held me fast, keeping me from writhing on his expanding, possessing cock, until I relaxed and my walls rumbled open for him. I cried out, “Do it. Fuck me again.”

“Stay tight for me, Baby.” And he fucked me again.

He clearly was glad to be inside me again. Against all odds and expectations, I was glad to have him inside me again.

* * * *

“The lady at the embassy said that you’d show me around—would take me where I wanted to go before the train leaves on Thursday.”

“That’s right,” I said. We were eating at the Chinese restaurant in his hotel. We’d had our choice of Chinese, Japanese, Thai, and Western. The embassy was paying. “Is there someplace you’d like to go this evening? Patpong maybe?” Patpong was the main, long-time tenderloin district of the city. It was just across the embassy district to the main road paralleling Sukhumvit and a few blocks into the city. You could almost see it from the top of the Ambassador Hotel in those days. You couldn’t see it from there through all of the new skyscrapers that have risen in that district of the city in the last forty years, though. Navigating Bangkok, the Venice of Asia, wasn’t easy. It never had been, but now the traffic was heavy. The canals—the klongs—snaking through the city made travel distances by surface road a journey, and when the klongs flooded, it made all travel hazardous.

“Where’s this Soi Cowboy I’ve heard of?” Culver asked. “Maybe we could go there. I heard there are tranny bars. I’d like to try one of those out.”

“Ah, yes, that’s easier. It’s on this side of Sukhumvit, off of Soi 23.” It, in fact, was a lot closer and easier to get to than Patpong was. It was quickly becoming the city’s second tenderloin district. All of the bars on that short street running between Asok Montri Road and Soi 23, one block in from Sukhumvit, belonged to an American expatriate known as Cowboy. Is real name was T. G. Edwards. By the time I got to Bangkok he’d made everyone forget what the “T” and the “G” stood for and he was just Cowboy.

The strip of bars cum brothels, serving all manner of prurient interests, had been developing just in the past few years. Cowboy was a charismatic black bull who had been a professional American basketball player—thus approaching seven feet in height with the beefy body to go with it—and who had been caught shaving points and joined the U.S. Air Force as an airman whose assignment was to play on the U.S. Air Force basketball team in Thailand. He didn’t last in the service for very long, but he remained in Thailand, where he put his ill-gotten betting earnings and his charismatic personality to establishing the Soi Cowboy pleasure strip. His claim to fame here was his jolly good humor, his open-handed charity projects, his massive size, his jet blackness, and that he was reputed to have the biggest cock in Thailand, no matter the nationality. I didn’t question that that was so. He also was bi and promiscuous and was able to pull off a “nail ’em, breed ’em, and walk off” technique without alienating the women or men he laid. He left them all with the urge to put a “I’ve been laid by Cowboy” magnet on their refrigerator doors.

For me, when it happened, it was another notch on my bedpost. Those of us who had been topped by Cowboy—and that included me—wore the experience as a badge of accomplishment. It was a status symbol here in Bangkok.

“We can go to Soi Cowboy and I can do better than just take you to where the tranny action is there. I can introduce you to Cowboy,” I said. I didn’t say anything about him salivating over doing a tranny after he’d just done me—twice. I didn’t expect any sense of jealously to creep in—not of a heavy, over-the-hill, old actor. But, surprisingly, it did give me a twinge of disappointment.

Culver was duly impressed as I introduced him to Cowboy at a Soi Cowboy tranny bar, having called ahead and asked Cowboy if he could meet us there. Culver and Cowboy were of a shared era in the States, although Cowboy was the younger of the two. Cowboy was a pro basketball star when Culver’s name was still included on the marquee of movie houses. They had heard of each other in their prior lives. Cowboy was happy to meet us and to cut one of his best tranny’s out of his herd for Culver to ride.

“They will be a while,” Cowboy said, turning and smiling to me, as Culver and the tranny sauntered off toward the back of the bar where a doorway covered by a beaded curtain led back to the fuck rooms. “Why don’t you come to my office here. I want to show you something.” I began to tremble at that point. Cowboy was prime meat; I didn’t expect to be getting his attention that easily. It was enough of a mark of pride that he’d done me more than once. To do it so casually now made me feel like part of his stable.

Get his attention I had. What he wanted to show me was nearly a foot of hard cock. It wasn’t new to me. Cowboy and The Major were friends. They had tag teamed me before. The Major enjoyed watching Cowboy fuck me and always positioned himself to watch the cock fill, stretch the hole, and move in it. This, though, was Cowboy showing his interest in and arousal for me outside of the realm of his friendship with The Major.

It wasn’t a romantic encounter. He held true to his “nail ’em, breed ’em, and walk off” reputation. What was satisfying was that he had selected me for the attention at all. I wore nothing to the encounter. He wore his ten-gallon hat and his fancy cowboy boots. He bent me over his desk, held my slim hips between his big, black mitts, and entered and entered and entered me. I writhed under him, exclaiming, “Fuck, shit, fuck, you’re killing me!” as he bounced the bulb of his baseball-bat sized shaft off the back of my tonsils from inside. He used his fat thumbs to stroke and pull my butt cheeks apart to open my hole as much as possible, as I gripped the far edge of the desk top with my claws, panted hard, and howled his cruel, glorious taking. I’m sure my screams of pain-passion-ecstasy echoed through the bar. Cowboy was as obsessed with the size of his cock in relation to the size of the hole as anyone else was. He had a mirror positioned so he could observe what his dick was doing in the hole.

He left me collapsed, spread-eagled, and gurgling on his desktop and had gone back to one of his other establishments on the street when I hobbled back into the bar. He had said nothing to me beyond two short sentences after he’d fucked me, but his cocking, his patting me on the rump, and his big smile afterward were enough. The next time he wanted me, I’d lay down for him. I’d even think about getting an “I get laid by Cowboy” magnet to put on my refrigerator door.

What he had growled to me when he pulled on his clothes and walked out of his office was, “Nice lay. Like them narrow hips and that you are tight no matter how much you’re used. Give my regards to The Major.” With just those few words he conveyed that I met his standards and he’d do me again as it was convenient. Beyond that he established he realized I was slaved to The Major but also that he, Cowboy, had privileges with me, as The Major’s friend. I didn’t object to any of that; I reveled in it. A major divide in the city was those who had been fucked by Cowboy and could hope to be fucked by him again and those who were losing out.

The shocker for me after that encounter was that all the time Cowboy was pumping me with that monster cock of his and bathing my stomach with his cum, I was thinking of Craig Culver and whether he was finding fucking a tranny was better than fucking me. I was ashamed to think it, but I did think that I hoped Craig Culver had heard my screams of being fucked royally by Cowboy while he was riding the tranny. I didn’t scream like this for Culver. Maybe he’d try to up his game.

But thinking these thoughts meant I was hooked on Culver without understanding why in the hell I would be.

He came back humming and fucked me divinely when we got back to the hotel, bending me over the bed and fucking me from behind as Cowboy had done, but taking his time and waiting for me to beg for it to move inside me—wanting to beg for it—unlike Cowboy, who, bang, bang, spiked me, tickled my tonsils with the bulb of his shaft, came, and left with a disarming smile that made me want him to do me again. But he never said a word about comparing taking a tranny with taking me, so I guess I’ll never know. Although increasingly and inextricably I was becoming clingy to him, Culver continued to treat every fuck as a casual hookup.

* * * *

It felt like a coffin, especially as there were two of us in there, not just one—and one of us, not including me, had a few too extra pounds on him. It was so claustrophobic in there that I was in danger of hyperventilating. And then I was hyperventilating in a good way—dancing on the clouds—and it had nothing to do with how close it was in the bunk on the train. I can’t fathom why, after all of these years, when I think of the year 1978, I think about this nine hours wedged into a confined space designed for the standard Thai body—only one standard Thai body—but I do.

The sleeping car—the premium-class sleeping car—configuration on the night train from Bangkok to the ancient cultural capital of Siam in the north, Chiang Mai, consisted of double-layer bunks running down both sides of the corridor of the coach, with drapes you could pull across the length of them to shield you from the walkway. The bunks were maybe six feet long, which accommodated me, but not Culver all that well, and three feet wide, which didn’t handle Culver’s bulk well at all. But we managed. Culver had ways of keeping my mind off how confining the space was.

Who would have known that pudgy, over-the-hill actor Craig Culver could give me two premium la Petite Mort—a little death—fucks, which were ones that laid me out totally and had me erupting in orgasms?

The top bunk, which was what I was ticketed for, would have been just too confining in that the outer metal wall was just that, the blank wall of the carriage, with the wall curving in at the top. The lower bunk had four feet of window looking out onto the passing countryside if you didn’t pull the curtains closed there, which I didn’t. I spent the time Culver was fucking me, which was pretty much the whole nine hours, with snooze and dinner breaks, with my head turned to the window and following the flashing lights of whatever civilization was awake at night outside the lurching train. The track from Bangkok to Chiang Mai went through a rural, rice-paddy world with limited lighting at night—the area hadn’t reached the twentieth century yet.

Nine hours almost nonstop of lying on my back, legs parted and bent, with a man lying between my legs, his cock buried inside me and moving, in and out, in and out, while I had nothing else to do but lie there, watching the countryside going by, and flexing my fingers on his shoulder blades to the rhythm of the fuck.

The near pitch-black darkness of the confining space helped me in staying aroused with an old—older than I was used to taking—and heavy man on top of me in such close quarters. He did spend as much time propped up on his elbows and knees as his conditioning permitted, though. It also was a help that Culver was an expert in working another man’s body—working up his arousal, preparing him, fucking him, cooling him down, working up his arousal again, fucking him . . . and repeat.

He made an adventure of getting me undressed in that space and using his hands and mouth to get me worked up to begging for the cock even before he had managed to strip himself in a space where you couldn’t even raise your arm very far over your head without hitting the underside of the bunk above you. He was still in his trousers when he bent my legs up into my chest, rolled my pelvis up, and went for my cock, balls, and hole with his lips and mouth.

He did a great job of that, and I was whimpering, “Do it. Do it now. Fuck me,” as I heard his belt being released and his zipper being lowered. All the time I was embarrassed that I, who considered myself a premium submissive and who commanded the attention of muscular, body-beautiful young soldiers, would be begging a fuck from an old has-been, pudgy actor.

“You prefer train travel to flight because of this, don’t you?” I accused him. “It’s because you like to fuck on a train, isn’t it?”

He just laughed.

I arched my head and chest back and did what I could to stifle my groans in a coach that wasn’t full but was occupied enough to worry about those in surrounding bunks knowing there was a fuck fest going on in their midst, as his finger entered my hole—and then another and another, almost up to the knuckles as he opened me up. My legs still bent, I placed my feet flat against the underside of the bunk above me and pressed up each time the fingers invaded to the knuckles. I rocked my pelvis on his hand, whimpering and panting. He placed a pillow over my face to give me something to silently scream into. If the upper bunk hadn’t been the one assigned to me, the occupant would have been bounced rhythmically into the ceiling of the coach.

“Now. Now. Fuck me now!” I sobbed into the underside of the pillow. The JUSMAG soldiers didn’t take their time preparing me, like this old actor was doing. I was entering a whole new realm of being aroused and being in want for it.

And then he did fuck me—or at least he and the train did. He provided the cock. The moving train provided the friction. I had never been fucked like that—by the combined efforts of a man’s cock and a train’s motion—before. I have never been fucked like that since.

After pulling his hand out of my ass, he arranged my body—and I let him manipulate me as he wished, me babbling, “Now, now, now,” as he did so. He palmed my lower back and raised my pelvis, my legs bent and spread, supporting the rise on my feet flat on the surface of the bunk. He murmured for me to stay in that position, and I did. I had pulled the pillow off my head and turned my face to the window. Then he moved over me, between my spread thighs, nimbly, considering his bulk and the confining space. I’m sure his back was pressed into the underside of the bunk above. He was on his knees between my thighs. His fists were pressed into the surface of the bunk on either side of my chest. His face was looking down into mine, although in the darkness of the space, I had to strain to discern his expression.

His cock went into position and I moaned and arched my back as he entered me and slowly pushed up into me. I was gritting my teeth and trying, unsuccessfully not to groan. I looked back into his face, almost involuntarily because I didn’t want him to see how much I wanted this. He was smiling, a knowing, victorious smile. He knew. He knew I had to have him inside me now. My hands went to cupping his buttocks and pulling him into me, so he knew I accepted him. He placed the pillow over my face again and I jerked and bit into the material on the underside as he thrust up the last four inches into my soft core in one long slide.

He grasped my throat between his hands and controlled my breathing, cutting off the air and then releasing, listening to me gasp for breath. This was done in the cadence of his thrusts and the act of mere breathing became integral to the breeding.

And then he held, buried in me, as he always did, as we both felt me opening at the center, going spongy for him in the core, relaxing to prepare for the pump. He brushed the pillow away and stared down into my eyes, his hands going to cupping my head and holding it in place under him. Waiting. Well, I was waiting, but he apparently was set and wasn’t going to pump me. I moaned and whispered, “Now, now. Work me now. Make me come.”

Nothing. He held, hard, filling, possessive. I grabbed his biceps and tried to rock against him, but he whispered, “No. Hold. Tune into it. Feel it. The train is doing it.”

And, indeed, when I tuned into it, I realized the train was doing it—providing the friction of the fuck, with both Culver and me just maintaining position. The train was rocking and lurching over the uneven iron rails and crossties, rhythmically providing a motion that had his cock moving deep inside my soft core and my pelvis moving with him. I relaxed and went with the natural rhythm of the train. He dipped his face and took my lips in a deep kiss. When he pulled away, we were both going with the natural rhythms of the train. I turned my face to the window, concentrating both on the passing of flashing lights in the darkness of the night and on the natural movement of the train, the train using Culver’s hard, steady cock to make love to my soft core. I was moaning deeply and he was humming. The train, combining its rocking motion with the rhythmic striking of wheels against worn rails, was using the old actor’s hard cock to fuck me.

“Now we’re there, aren’t we, baby?” he murmured, he sensing as I did that we had reached nirvana in the fuck.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I whispered in affirmation.

As I got into the rhythm, Culver loosened his hold on me, coaxing me to remain supporting my pelvis raised on my feet planted on the bunk surface but letting me rock my pelvis on his shaft to the sway of the train carriage. Then he, almost imperceptibly, went into motion too, building to where he was driving hard inside me, punishing me cruelly at the core. He slapped me across the face then, stinging blows, and took my throat in his hands and once more controlled my breathing to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Until then, the motion of the train had lulled me into relaxing, opening, giving him my spongy soft core as his bulb kissed and caressed me deep. Then, completely open and vulnerable, as he went into action, he fucked me at the core, thrusting, biting, punishing, conquering, ravishing—moving into La Petite Mort—a little death. I whimpered, “Yes, yes, yes,” to let him know he could kill me deep, and he did. I was totally open to him; he completely took and took and took. I latched onto the material of the pillow with my teeth, dug my nails into his biceps, and gave it and gave it and gave it. He was one with the train, though. It was still the train fucking me.

It took longer than usual, but it was a delicious building up of arousal in a symphony of pleasure crescendoing eventually in my la Petite Mort—my “little death” orgasmic coming, exploding again and again and again—“Fuck!” release; “Shit!” come; “Oh, FUCK!” flow—and Culver releasing his own flow deep inside me, as, not able to hold stance any longer, I collapsed under him in a sob.

“Did you enjoy that?” he murmured when we were able to catch our breath.

“That. That was incredible,” I whispered as he rolled over to the side, having to hold me in close to him, though, to keep me from falling out of the bunk and into the aisle.

“Now you know why I wanted to take the train,” he said.

Later, he rolled me onto my belly, held me close from above, covered and penetrated me, and fucked me in a more conventional act. But even later I whispered to him, “Could we . . . again? Could you have the train fuck me with your cock again?” and he gave a low, guttural laugh and complied.

Again, the experience was incredible . . . primeval . . . completely satisfying. And it’s what I remember first when I think back on what I did in 1978.

He fucked me a fourth time before the train steamed into the dawn, but I was still purring and exhausted from the second man’s cock-plus-train friction fuck, and just lay there on my back, thighs and passage open to him in a missionary fuck, ran my fingers lightly over his shoulder blades and in his hair, stared out of the window into the slowly reappearing Thai countryside, and let him play with his cock deep in my core as he wished. He took what he wanted, and I gave it to him.

“You are mine now, whenever I want you,” He declared. “I am your master and you are my slave.”

“Yes,” I agreed. After that experience, I couldn’t respond differently. I realized there was a conflict here as I had already slaved myself to The Major, but I couldn’t face trying to reason that out just now.

It wasn’t—and isn’t—often that a man could give me a la Petite Mort-class rolling orgasm—could coax me totally open and vulnerable in my spongy core and then murder me in a conquering fuck—and I never would have thought that someone old and out of shape like Craig Culver was could do it, but he and the night train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai combined to give me two la Petite Mort-class orgasms in one night in 1978.

* * * *

We were met at the train by the drama professor who was hosting our program at Chiang Mai University and taken directly to the Hilton Hotel, there, miraculously, being one in the remote northwestern city of Thailand, not far from the borders of both Burma and Laos. We were just to leave our overnight bags there and go on to the university to spend the day there.

Krit Thanawat must have taught at the university as a hobby or a way to fill his days, because he obviously was rich. He was a Chinese Thai, the ethnic Chinese making up a high percentage of Thailand’s population, particularly here in the north. He met us with a vintage, but pristine, Mercedes saloon car outfitted with a driver, a cute young Thai. Krit himself was also handsome—tall and lean—and he dressed elegantly and impeccably. He gave me the eye when he gathered us up, and I knew from the moment our eyes met that he wanted to give me something else as well. I knew him a bit by reputation as a play director in Chiang Mai, and I wondered how much he knew about me. I had also heard that he was gay and dominant.

He was perhaps fifty, but he was in great shape, ramrod straight and, I could tell, hard bodied. He had taken his suit jacket off, which was draped over his left arm. His right arm, which was so lean and muscular that the veins stood out on the surface, having no fat to run through, had a tattoo of a green dragon, with red highlights encircling his forearm. So, he wasn’t some pansy, I was sure. He moved with grace and authority.

We performed Edward Albee’s one-act psychological drama, Zoo Story, for some sixty university students Krit had pulled together, and we spent over an hour afterward discussing that and American drama with the students and then visited a couple of Krit’s classes. Craig Culver proved that not only could he act but he also knew a good bit about American drama and staging. Krit was no slouch on the subjects either.

Zoo Story was a good choice, not least because Culver and I had both appeared in the play—me quite recently—in our respective roles. I played the part of Peter, a quiet, methodical, man with the requisite wife, children, dog, and cat, and a well-paying job, who lunched in the park, always at the same bench. He didn’t really think of the bench as his or have a belligerent thought about anything, really. Appears Jerry, who engages Peter in conversation, eventually breaking through Peter’s shell for what might be meaningful talk, not the least about Peter’s possible interest in men. Jerry proceeds to try to take Peter’s bench from him, to entice Peter to be belligerent, and, in the end to murder Jerry with Jerry’s knife, something Jerry had said earlier that Peter would do and that Peter had vehemently denied he would ever be capable of doing.

It was not lost on me that Culver also was trying to break into my set life and stir it up. When we’d practiced the play in Culver’s Ambassador Hotel room in Bangkok, the struggle scene had segued into a sex scene in which Culver took me from being reluctant to move out of the play practice into something more intimate to my begging him to put his cock inside me. It all emphasized that Culver was not from my world of sexual partners but yet he was able to turn me and own me.

The disturbing issue of the tensions and opposite pulls Culver had brought into my life were stretched tight by the end of the school program in which the theme kept coming up again and again. Krit Thanawat seemed to have discerned exactly what tensions all of this had brought out between Culver and me and he played us both like violins. It almost was like he’d set it all up and he’d researched me and lured me up to Chiang Mai to do what he did when I was off balance and strung out about Culver being the last man on earth I wanted as a sex partner but who I repeatedly had begged to fuck me.

“Is there anything you wish to do this evening while you are in Chiang Mai?” Krit asked, asking it only of Craig Culver.

“Well, I . . .”

“Anything at all, Mr. Culver. I understand from some mutual acquaintances in the movies that you have some exotic sexual tastes—with men. Young men. You have fucked young Mr. Temple here, I’m sure. Your intimacy with each other came out clearly in your play performances. Don’t be shy or reticent. We have male brothels here that specialize in preferences and pleasures that you’ll find nowhere else. Would you like to take a taste this evening?”

“Well, since you ask, yes I would,” Culver answered, not nearly as shocked or put off balance as I was by the professor’s completely open and blatant speech. I had encountered much direct talk like this among the movie people on The Deer Hunter set. I had not yet adjusted to it, though. I had slept with men. I had been fucked by strangers at parties. I had been doubled and fisted and bound and whipped. But I had not yet, in the circles I moved in in Bangkok, heard talk of sex this openly expressed—certainly not by an elegantly dressed, obviously patrician fifty-year-old man.

“Tell me, Mr. Culver, are you perhaps into extreme fetishes?”

“I have been known to indulge, yes,” the actor responded.

“And you, Mr. Temple?” Krit asked, turning his eyes on me. I felt myself blush and I didn’t respond verbally, but he obviously took that as a “yes.”

“Very good,” Krit said, motioning one of the young male students over. “This is Intorn, one of my students,” he said. “Intorn works in a brothel you might find your pleasures in. He’ll take you to dinner and then to the Yù Fǎ Lè Sī Gōng, which translates into English as the Jade Phallus Palace. Feel free to use him as you wish along with any other young man you choose. You needn’t be shy with them. The University, of course, will cover the fee.”

“Meanwhile,” he continued, taking my forearm in his hand, “I will take Mr. Temple here to my home for the evening.” Before I could say anything, he continued, “I understand that you take vigorous and inventive cocking, Mr. Temple, and that you are happy to include that in your cultural exchange program in Thailand. Friendship across the world and all that.”

“Well, I . . .”

“I understand you were a gymnast at the university and are quite flexible.”

“Yes, I was on the gymnastic team at Auburn, but—”

“Delightful. I am a connoisseur of Kama Sutra copulation. You and I will have quite an evening.”

Kama Sutra copulation?

Krit indeed was an expert in Kama Sutra copulation, and I did, following a banquet of Thai food with both Krit and me bare-chested and draped from the waists down in just Thai silk sarongs, have quite an evening following dinner on a mat on the terrace of his Thai-style wooden house, laid out in a series of pavilions raised on pillars. I was royally laid out, tied in knots, and fucked in positions I’d never been in before.

I was maneuvered into being Krit’s plaything for the evening smoothly and with Krit assuming I would let him do whatever he wanted with me. But then, I was, in fact, totally submissive to his demands and will.

Krit’s sensuality in his wearing of a sarong with his chest bare aroused me from the beginning. The green and red dragon on his right forearm was accompanied by one covering his left pectoral, with the tail going to his shoulder blade and wrapping around his bicep. He was lean and hard-bodied. Through the meal, in matter-of-fact terms, he told me of the positions in which he was going to fuck me, and I was hard and fairly babbling when the sticky rice and mangos arrived. Augmenting the atmosphere, a foot-long green jade dildo was employed as a table decoration. It was thick in girth, with an enlarged bulb and a heavy black veining going through it and standing out on its surface. Beside it was a brass bowl with scented oil in it.

Lest I not understand what the dildo was for—why it was there, conveniently at hand—he asked me if I’d ever taken anything that size but, before I could respond, told me that I would enjoy him working me with it.

He asked me if I’d ever been fisted and I couldn’t say “no,” although I said that it had been within limitations—to the knuckles; not further. Thankfully, a look at his slim, elegant hands, with long sensual fingers assured me I could take him, if need be, and he wasn’t just teasing me with sexual banter.

At no time did he ask me if I was willing to be worked over by him. Before I even had a chance to comment on that, he let me know that he was a good friend of my master, the JUSMAG major, and that The Major had recommended me highly, so I knew, and accepted, that I was being given to him for his pleasure. This also explained how he knew so much about me—and what I would do for a man.

“I was surprised to find you were so small of body, Mr. Temple,” he said. “But I think that will make the copulation more pleasurable for me. Your hips are narrow and your hole is small; I trust your passage is tight.”

There wasn’t much I could say about that. The Major also told me that our significant differences in size aroused him—especially whether I would be able to sheath all of him.

As if he had read my mind, Krit said, “We’ll have to see if you can sheath all of me. Tell me, are you very vocal in sex? If you are stretched beyond the limit, will you scream for me?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I haven’t been so taxed as yet.”

I was sitting, my knees drawn into my belly on the mat, drawing the material of the sarong up to expose my cock and balls and hole, voluntarily making myself vulnerable and accessible, when he stood over me, unknotted his sarong, and let it fall. I gasped. He was nearly a foot in length—not thick, but extraordinarily long. When I could tear my eyes away from his shaft, I saw that he had a long red silk scarf in his hand. Smiling, he said, “Please put your wrists together behind your back. I am going to bind you with this scarf. You can easily get out of the binding if you really want to, but I think you will enjoy the taking more with the feeling of powerlessness.”

I put my wrists together behind my back. I didn’t even consider saying no.

When I was bound, he knelt down beside me, bringing the jade dildo and bowl of scented oil down with him, and said, “Lie back on the matting, please. Give me your hole. Be my willing slave.”

I did so and felt him unknot the sarong around my waist and fold it back, exposing my naked body. I shuddered as he moved his hand over my belly, hips, cock, and balls, and ran his fingers through my pubic hair. I was his.

I heard him voice a quiet, “You are a beautiful young man. Very nicely developed and narrow hips,” and sigh. “Spread your legs, please.” I did. “Bend your left leg and put your foot flat on the mat.” I did that too. “Raise your right leg and put your ankle on my left shoulder. Yes, like that. This pillow goes under your lower back, like this. Ah, sweet, a rosebud of an entry. I was afraid you would have been so used you would be slack. Now we begin.” And he began.

I gasped and groaned and arched my back after he’d oiled up both of his hands, taken my cock in his left hand, and started to open up my passage with his fingers. “You may react vocally as you wish,” he said. “Sometimes screaming will help you take the fist, which is what I’m going to give you.

“Your fist?” I asked in a tremulous voice.

“Yes, I am going to use your body fully. Your actor friend is no doubt having great pleasure at the Jade Phallus Palace. We will have pleasure with the Yù Fǎ Lè Sī here, just the two of us.”

I was panting hard and groaning deep when the oiled, oversized bulb of the dildo breached my sphincter.

“Wonderful. It opens right up,” he said in an approving tone. “A seasoned but still wonderfully accessible whore.”

I am sure I was doing a little screaming when the jade phallus was all inside me and moving in circular motions, twisting slowly and moving in and out. Could I feel the raised veins on the jade surface? Yes, indeed, I could.

“My fist is not much larger than this,” he murmured, having worked me for several minutes, humming to himself as I panted and arched my back, pushing up a bit with my feet into the dildo as it slowly swirled and moved inside me. All of my sensations centered on the jade rod so fully possessing me.

“Not much larger” wasn’t all that reassuring. But he could have whatever he wanted, do whatever he wanted.

He loosened his grip on my cock, making a sheath of his fingers for me to fuck up into as my pelvis rocked with the movement of the jade phallus inside me.

“Now the fist,” he murmured. “No, do not tighten up. You want to remain relaxed.”

I whimpered but fought to relax.

The dildo was replaced with his hand, but he didn’t go in up to his wrist, just to the knuckles. He stroked my prostate with the tip of a finger until, crying out to the stars and stroking his other hand with my oiled cock, I came a gusher—and again and again.

When his knuckles were pressing against the rim of my hole, I thought he was going to push the hand inside, up to the wrist, and I, of course, had no idea how I was going to take him. I just knew I wasn’t going to stop him if that’s what he wanted to do. I couldn’t have physically stopped him—he was too strong and too much in control of me. But I also knew that if that’s what he wanted from me, I would let him take it without a struggle.

But he hadn’t pushed in. I heard him murmur, “Not yet; perhaps later,” in a voice laced with regret, and regardless of the fear I had had that he would invade with his hand, I had a twinge of regret too. I wanted it all from this man.

This phase of his taking didn’t last for long. It was just to put me totally under his control. The fingers were exchanged with the jade phallus again. When he pulled that out this time, he placed it to the side, gently took my leg off his shoulder, and deliberately and slowly kissed down the leg toward my groin. I thought he would take my cock in his mouth when he was kissing high up my inner thigh, but he didn’t. I was panting and moaning low and whispering, “Yes, yes, yes.” He bent that leg and placed the foot on the surface of the mat as my other leg was positioned. He leaned over and nuzzled the inner thigh of that leg briefly with his cheek. Then his hands went under my buttocks and squeezed and separated and lifted my butt cheeks. I moaned more deeply and more loudly voiced, “Yes, yes, eat me out,” as he proceeded to bury his face between my cheeks and do just that.

Coming out of that, he moved his body over mine, hovering over me. He positioned my legs, one after the other, hooked on his hips, and I left them in place, while, stiff-arming his arms on either side of my chest.

“I can resist no longer,” he said. “I must have you.”

He slid deep inside me and fucked me in long, deep, slow strokes, in which his extraordinarily long cock reached into the soft, spongy core of me. I moved with him, putting the muscles of my channel walls and my pelvis in motion in the deep missionary fuck, focusing my eyes on the undulating muscles of his chest, watching the dragon come to life and lope across the landscape of his bulging pectoral to the rhythm of the fuck. When I could tear my eyes away from the dragon, I looked up into his slanted, Asian eyes. He was smiling slightly, enjoying the fuck. So was I. One of his hands went down to encase my cock, and he slow-stroked that to the same cadence as he was gliding inside me.

I arched my back, and murmured, “Yes, yes. Fuck me. Just like that. Make me come . . . and come inside me.”

He did all of that. He brought a flowing orgasm out of me and then gave me his. Then he held, inside me, both of us focused on him losing his erection. He was a vigorous, virile man. I knew he wouldn’t be flaccid long. And he wasn’t. He did pull out of me and sit over on his haunches beside me. He moved fluidly, like a dancer. He laid his left hand on my brow and ran his fingers in my hair. He was stroking his cock hard again with the other hand.

“You are a beautiful young man,” he whispered, as he stroked and captured my eyes with his. “I will enjoy putting you through your paces. I am sure you will enjoy it too. You take the cock like a champion. You open well. You know how to use the muscles of your passage walls. You come well. You will take the fist well when you trust me more too. We will do it all, you and I.” I was still moaning and panting when he was erect again and reached down and lifted and repositioned my body. We were going to go again.

He proceeded to fuck me in several different exotic positions, running his long, long cock deep up inside me to my soft core, where the bulb of the cock, like the head of a snake kissed and bit me everywhere, making the muscles of my passage undulate over the shaft and causing me to gasp and cry out as the bulb touched, kissed, and nipped at me here, there, everywhere in my spongy core. I came again and again, until my balls ached and I was having dry ejaculations. Each time, though, I was taken to the summit and plunged over the edge in an orgasmic explosion.

He fucked me for hours, managing an erection and an orgasm again and again—pulling the same out of me again and again.

Most of the positions were with him in a kneeling position. He had me sit on his thighs, facing him, his ankles crossed at the small of my back, and my legs wrapped around his waist. His shaft was maybe four inches inside me. He was palming my buttocks, squeezing and separating the mounds. My arms were bound behind my back by the silk scarf. He took my lips with his and kissed me deeply. His tongue invaded my mouth and just when we were fully engaged in the kiss, he clutched my buttocks tight and sharply pulled me into him, his cock plunging, for the first time, up, up, deep into my soft core. With a cry I pulled my mouth away from his, arched my head, and cried out to the stars above the terrace as he, in quick succession, moved his hands to my waist and pulled me off the cock, grasped my buttocks and pulled me fully onto the cock, and repeated the long thrusts again and again, endlessly. Moments later, he wrapped his arms around me, palmed my pecs, thumbing my nipples, and in a low, hoarse voice, commanded, “Raise your arms over my head.” I did so, and now, my bound wrists locked behind his neck and my chest, covered by his palms, arching out, at his command, I dug my toes into the matting behind him and pulled myself on and off his cock until he shuddered and released deep inside me.

He fucked me with him kneeling, me facing away from him, cantilevered over his thighs, my legs streaming behind him, him grasping my bound arms, and pulling me on and off the cock. He fucked me with my legs running up his chest and my body streaming out in front of his kneeling body, and him grasping my waist and pulling me on and off his cock. And he fucked me with me lying on the mat on my belly, stretched out, while he stretched on top of me, head to toe, his cock deep inside me, his fists grasping my ankles and his hips rocking, burying and withdrawing his cock.

It certainly was an evening and a night and a dawn to remember.

Near dawn he was finished taking me in every position he had wanted to and was standing beside me, where I was stretched out on the cushions, naked and exhausted, lightly panting and watching his every move, wondering if he was take me yet again. Staring down at me, he knotted his sarong around his waist and murmured, “A lovely lay.”

He sent me to the Hilton Hotel in the Mercedes saloon car in the morning’s light with the comment that he had enjoyed me and looked forward to the next time I brought a program to Chiang Mai. “Give my regards to The Major, please,” he said. “Tell him I enjoyed you immensely and thank him for giving you to me. I look forward to copulating with you again and introducing you to the fist and other delights. Perhaps your major will come to Chiang Mai too, and we can share you.”

I shuddered with both fear and pleasure at the prospect of that. I couldn’t say that I didn’t look forward to that next time myself.

“Perhaps next time we can discuss drama,” Krit said.

While we’re creating drama, I thought. “Yes, we should.”

“You were stunning as Peter in the play.”

“I don’t think of the character of Peter as ‘stunning’.”

“No, I suppose not. You were stunning as Hesphaetion, then. You remind me of my image of him. Small, blond, perfect body. Sweet, yielding lay. So yielding. So flexible. You’d make a high-quality courtesan, with the right training.”

“Who?”

“Alexander the Great’s young lover,” Krit said. “I like to think of Alexander as the great dominant male and of Hesphaetion as the perfect submissive. Every time I lay a beautiful, small blond man like you, I imagine myself as Alexander, lying with Hesphaetion. We can fuck in costume—me dressed as a Roman soldier, a conqueror and you as a serving boy.”

“I suppose that’s appropriate. I’m sure Alexander conquered him. You certainly conquered me.”

“You did enjoy it then?” he said.

“Immensely. Deeply. Completely . . . several times,” I answered. He smiled, understanding exactly what I meant.

* * * *

Craig Culver wasn’t at the hotel. He wasn’t at the hotel later in the morning when I checked out either. When I queried at the train station, I found that he had used our return train reservations, set for that day’s night train—a trip I was very much looking forward to going on with him—and changed the booking to the previous night. He had used both tickets. So, he’d taken one of the male prostitutes with him. Probably Intorn, I surmised.

I booked a flight and returned to Bangkok—alone. Culver wasn’t at the Ambassador Hotel. He wasn’t anywhere else I tried. I saw him a couple of weeks later, at a party thrown for movie and theater folks by Burt Blackmore, publisher of a Bangkok English-language paper, but he was with the Thai student, Intorn, and I was with my major, and I didn’t have a chance to speak with him. After that, it was like he had fallen off the face of the earth. I never heard from him again.

In time, I forgot what his name really was. The name “Craig Culver” was used for this telling just to identify him for this telling. I went over the movie credits and watched the film a hundred times without being able to pick him out. For all I knew, his scenes had fallen to the cutting room floor.

One thing I did not forget, though, was the three-way fucks—me, Culver, and the night train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai—I had experienced—the rare la Petite Mort-class orgasms they provided, which, strangely enough, were more sensual and fulfilling and satisfying than anything Professor Krit Thanawat did for me that first time and over the next two years of visits to Chiang Mai.

The Bangkok-to-Chiang Mai night train sex with whatever his name was were the highlights of my 1978.

TO BE CONTINUED