Extreme Gay Thailand, 1978

Burt Blackmore stood next to his son’s friend and Columbia University classmate, Sam Nadler, at the top of the entrance stairs at the rambling Thai-style house on stilts to watch the last of the party guests take off in their separate groups. Nadler wasn’t going to be going anywhere, though, and he knew it, because he was standing close to the hulking surgeon, who had a beefy hand down the back of Nadler’s trousers far enough to have his middle finger up Nadler’s ass.

Sam knew his host was going to fuck him. Blackmore had fucked him before—and more. Nadler had let the man fuck him often enough that he had privileges to assume he could do in as and when he wanted. He was a rich and powerful man. Nadler fell in with that.

Blackmore was on a high from a successful party. He wanted to do more to Sam today than he’d done before. He wasn’t just going to fuck the redheaded nineteen-year-old. Sam was going to suffer, and be grateful for the experience, in new ways. He would have much to tell his friends about Thai sexual practices when he returned to Columbia University. What had drawn Blackmore to the young man was that Sam liked being taken in new ways—and to suffer. Sam was a masochist, but he also was resilient and robust—and he had an appreciation for the nasty. He had been fucked with giant dildoes, bound, doubled, fisted—these last two one evening when Krit Thanawat was visiting—and whipped. He had bounced right back, ready for new extreme experiences.

Blackmore had had an arousing day. He had something special planned for Sam today. Sam knew it. Blackmore had whispered a hint of what they were going to do in Sam’s ear, and the young redhead had blushed, shuddered, and groaned—all of which turned him on, however. Sam hadn’t even known you could fuck that way.

Men were getting into cars in the courtyard of the rambling Thai-style mansion. Suket Blackmore and Judy Taylor had already left together for who knew where? The men at the party didn’t care. The bisexual men, The Major and Cowboy had already had Suket earlier in the day and Judy Taylor was such an obvious hard-edged, prickly lesbian that neither of those men were that interested in bedding her again. But Suket? To biblically know her was to want to know more of her. Both had had her several times, but that wasn’t enough for them. Not the same for Judy Taylor, but there was a bit of jealousy about what the two women might be off doing. What was most likely was that the women were going back to Taylor’s apartment to see if she could ravish Suket as well as The Major and Cowboy had done.

Below where Blackmore and Nadler stood, Nadler quaking at what was to come and licking his lips because he reveled in being used hard, the convoys were forming up. Cowboy was taking Brad Blackmore and the French cameraman, Jacques Boyier, off in one car to show them what slumming in Bangkok looked like. As they were leaving, Intorn, the Thai drama student who had come with Vince Burnett, came tripping down the stairs and entered their car.

Vince Burnett didn’t seem to mind. He’d been in deep discussion with the writer and producer, Deric Washburn, who seemed to want to talk to him about business, and Burt Blackmore had lent them his Mercedes to go to the bar at Vince’s hotel. The actor Gary Jones, who also was staying at the Ambassador Hotel, went with them.

The largest contingent left the compound in two cars. The Major had declared that the party would continue as a swim party at the JUSMAG single officer’s housing compound off Sathorn Road. The Major; the UN officer, Magnus Amundsen; and the actor Paul Cummings went in one car and JUSMAG lieutenant Ben Singleton, Thai Air Force colonel Samui Timruang, and embassy cultural officer Tim Temple went in another car.

As they left, Krit Thanawat came out of the house and left alone. He had left the third nineteen-year-old Columbia University student, Matthew Morris, lying on the bed in his room, still panting, on his back, with his arms akimbo, his legs bent and spread, his eyes glazed over, and his mouth blowing bubbles. Matthew thought he’d had it all from Krit, but Krit thought otherwise and was anxious to get the young man in his clutches again, more privately, where Krit would be totally in control. He had told Matthew as much, and the best Matthew could do or say in response was to shudder and grown.

Matthew wasn’t alone for long, though. The actor Joe D’Amato came upon him after having fucked Intorn in a hall and then explored distant wings of the house. Taking advantage of Matthew’s exhaustion and vulnerability, D’Amato walked over to the bed, unzipping and releasing himself on the way, grabbed Matthew’s ankles, and pulled the young man to the foot of the bed.

Matthew whispered, “Oh, shit. Fuck,” but he didn’t deny the actor, who had fucked him before on the set of The Deer Hunter. Ever the show-off actor, D’Amato stood on the bed, hovering over Matthew, between the young man’s spread thighs; rolled the young man up on his shoulder blades; grabbed Matthew’s ankles and spread his legs wide; put his own dick in position, the bulb just inside Matthew’s now-gaping hole; penetrated down into his hole; and jackhammered the hell out of him as Matthew arched his head back to stare at the bed’s headboard, flung his arms out, grasping bunches of bedspread to hold himself steady, and took D’Amato’s cock—and took it and took it.

When D’Amato was done, he left Matthew lying there, moaning softly, and made his way through what seemed to be an empty compound, other than the servants scuttling around to clean up from the party. Whistling, he let himself out of the gate and walked toward the lights of the city. Long before that, though, Burt Blackmore had drawn Sam Nadler away from the top of the stairway down from the reception pavilion to the parking area with an “I think it’s time we visit my examination room.” Sam had shuddered and smiled and allowed himself to be guided into the bowels of the mansion by Blackmore’s hand on his lower back.

Blackmore was so worked up that he had to get his rocks off first. He put Sam on his knees on the examination table, the young man’s chest flat on the surface of the table, with his arms pulled down on either side and strapped near the base of the table. His ass was in the air, his ankles strapped to the back edges of the table. Blackmore mounted from above, penetrated him, and rode him hard. He had a riding crop and beat Sam on the buttocks and thighs as he rode the young man to an ejaculation. He commanded Sam not to come, though, and Sam obeyed him, writhing under the heavy man as he was able and letting Burt know how much he was enjoying the rough ride.

After he’d come and was calmed down, Blackmore climbed off Sam and unbound the young man. He took Sam into his arms and kissed him. Sam lay, relaxed in his arms, mellow, not really realizing what was coming next. Blackmore rebound him on the table, on his back, a wedge under his lower back to roll his pelvis up, and a strap across his throat to keep his head arched back over the top of the table. His arms and legs were dropped off the sides of the table and bound at the wrists and ankles. The young man was immobilized and unable to move a muscle.

The surgeon hummed as he moved around the room, collecting his tools of sexual torture. He worked Sam’s body with feathers until the young man’s involuntary laughter subsided into sobs. Blackmore wanted to come again then, so he came around to the head of the table and face-fucked the young man with his cock, while he clipped pinchers connected with a chain on Sam’s nipples and pulled on the chain. As he moved his cock in Sam’s mouth, he massaged the young man’s throat with his hand and Sam was able to take the cock deep. Sam alternated between gurgling and gagging on the cock and begging for mercy, while actually being in seventh heaven, as Blackmore worked his nipples.

Then, for something new, something Sam hadn’t experienced from him before, Blackmore pulled out his case of sounding wands.

He explained what he was going to do with them, showing each metal rod, graduated in length and thickness, to Sam by displaying them in front of the young man’s eyes.

“These are sounding wands. They are going to be inserted into your urethra channel one by one, from the smallest to the largest I want to use. You’re going to want to hold really still and you’re going to want to come. But you can’t come until I tell you you can. If you disobey me and come, we will have to start from the very beginning again.”

“What in the fuck is a urethra?” Sam asked.

Blackmore laughed. “It’s in your dick, Sam. It’s the channel in your dick that you piss and come out of. Your cum flows up through it to get out. I’m going to fuck your dick, through your piss slit—in layman’s terms. And when we get into the long wands, we just might be dipping down into your ball sac.”

“Shit, my dick won’t take those thick things. You’re teasing me,” Sam answered. But he was sweating and his voice was quaking. Blackmore had done him in rough and kinky ways before. Always before he’d liked it. But this . . . fucking his dick with those rods? That was something else.

Blackmore laughed again, but it was a deeper, hoarser laugh. “No, I’m not teasing. Yes, I can fuck your dick with these rods. And I’m going to, whether you like it or not. There isn’t anything you can do about it now. It will be done, and if you want to make a fuss about it later, there’s a khlong right outside the door and I have servants who would do what I command and think nothing of it.” He took a leather string, wrapped it around the base of Sam’s balls to pull them into a tight sac. He patted them to hear Sam cry out and squeezed them to hear the young man cry out louder.

Sam was whimpering when Blackmore picked up the thinnest of the sounding wands and said, “Now we begin.”

“No, please. It’s too much,” Sam begged.

But they did begin and it wasn’t too much—not for sturdy, masochistic Sam. By the time Blackmore was spinning the third-smallest rod into the urethra channel, Sam was adjusting to it and enjoying it, harmonizing his low moans and groans to the doctor’s humming. But Blackmore had been right. The movement of the wands down into his cock channel made him want to blow. He whimpered his need.

When the fifth of the sounding rods had been inserted and Sam was babbling how hard it was being in holding back—that, yes, it had him dancing on the clouds but that his need to release was just too much, Blackmore said, “You’ve done well for the first time.”

For the first time? Sam thought and trembled.

“When I pull this one out, you may erupt,” Blackmore said. “Next time we do this, we’ll go further.” Then, to be cruel, he twirled the fifth wand in a little further before pulling it out. As it exited, Sam ejaculated with a cry of release.

“Shit that was hot,” Blackmore said. “I can’t resist. Just one more.”

“No, please,” Sam pleaded and then, as the sixth one twirled in, he whimpered, “Oh, fuck. Yes, Oh, shit, yes. Fuck me with that stick!” as a secondary ejaculation burbled up around the sides of the wand.

“Now you’ve got me going,” Blackmore declared, as he climbed up on the table between Sam’s spread and bound thighs, pushed his knees under the young man’s raised buttocks, hovered over him, penetrated him, and fucked his hole. He’d left the sixth wand buried in the young man’s urethra channel while he fucked him.

Sam lay there, panting and reveling in the most demanding fuck he’d ever taken. This fat monster of a man was the best top ever. And he wanted some more of this sounding fucking—just not right now. His balls ached and he didn’t know if he’d even be able to walk away from here . . . if Blackmore would let him.

After Blackmore unbound Sam, helped him off the table, and embraced and kissed him long enough to know that the young man was now fine with the sounding and even would be willing to have it done again, Sam hobbled off to his room. Blackmore sat for a while in his examination room, at his desk, knocking back shots of whiskey. He was antsy. The sounding of Sam had revved him up. He was full of nervous energy and had a hard on again. He stroked himself off to a release but that didn’t assuage the sexual heat he was in.

He wondered who else might still be in the house. Had they all gone off to other activities? He went over the guest list in his mind and ticked it off against those he’d seen depart earlier. Having gone through the list a couple of times, he stopped, laughed, rose up from the desk, and walked the corridors to Matthew Morris’s room.

He found Matthew still stretched out on his bed, exhausted from being fucked by both Krit Thanawat and Joe D’Amato. He was lying on his back, arms stretched out, legs together but bent, feet flat on the mattress. His eyes were open, fixed on the open network of wooden beams in the sloped ceiling above his head, murmuring to himself.

His eyes tried to focus on Burt Blackmore as the naked fat man entered the room and approached the bed. With a sigh of acceptance, Matthew spread his legs and weakly raised his pelvis, resigned to another cocking visitation. The man hadn’t fucked Matthew yet, but Sam had told him all about how demanding their host was, and Matthew had already become resigned to ending up in the big man’s bed at some point during their stay in Bangkok.

Blackmore didn’t present between the young man’s legs. He reached down, gathered Matthew up in his arms, draped the young man, belly down, over his shoulder, and marched back to his examination room. He strapped Matthew down on his back on the examination table, his head arched over the head of the table and his arms and legs draped over the sides and secured.

Matthew was too weak to do more than ask what his host was going to do to him. He moaned when Blackmore showed him the sounding wands and explained what they were for.

“You friend Sam loved them,” he said.

Matthew groaned. Sam liked a lot of sex acts better than he did.

Moments later, one of the servants was walking in the hall and paused when he heard his master call out “two,” which was followed by a weak cry by another man. He stopped, heard “three” and another little cry, and then a “four,” a cry and his master say, “No, don’t you dare come, or we’ll have to start all over again.” The servant didn’t wait to listen to more. He just shook his head and scurried on down the hall. It was never healthy to think too hard about what went on in this house, especially if the master was involved.

* * * *

“Off to Soi Cowboy,” the man who gave the street its name directed the driver of the car Cowboy; Brad Blackmore; the French movie cameraman Jacques Boyier; and the belatedly added Thai drama student, Intorn, had piled into as they drove out of the Blackmore compound to proceed with the night’s activities.

“Que diriez-vous quelque chose de plus intéressant?” Jacques spoke up.

“What the fuck did he say?” Cowboy asked Brad Blackmore. “He’s been spouting French fries all afternoon and you seem to know what he’s saying.”

“He’s saying we should do something more interesting,” Brad said.

“More interesting than an evening on Soi Cowboy under the guidance of Cowboy himself?” the man with the name asked in a clearly wounded tone. “Balls to that.”

“Your whore houses are very nice,” Jacques said, “but they are a bit tame for what I have in mind for us.”

“So, you speak English,” Cowboy said.

“When I have no one civilized to talk to,” Jacques said. “I’ll be flying out in a couple of days and I would like to really celebrate before I go.”

“You don’t have male cat houses in Paris?” Cowboy asked. “I find that hard to believe.”

“None as satisfying as yours on Soi Cowboy,” Jacques answered.

“What do you have in mind?” Cowboy asked, clearly pacified by Jacques’s compliment.

“The smoke houses in Khlong Toei,” Jacques said.

“What do you know of those? That’s a rough section.”

“Smoke houses?” Brad piped up and asked. He clearly was interested. Intorn was sunk into a corner of the backseat, looking a bit dreamy-eyed, as Jacques had a hand pushed under the waistband of the small Thai’s trousers and was playing with the young man’s cock.

“Hashish,” Jacques said. “Have you ever been fucked by a man high on hashish. A hard-bodied sailor in port for the first time in months?”

“No,” Brad answered, but he didn’t lose interest.

“The Khlong Toei docks are no place for someone like Brad,” Cowboy said.

“Even with a big black stud like you to protect him?” Jacques asked. He laughed. “You can fuck him at a hashish house as well as on Soi Cowboy. That’s clearly what you are going to do—and Brad clearly is going to let you.”

Cowboy, in fact, did have Brad in an embrace in the opposite corner from where Jaques had stripped off Intorn’s trousers, unzipped and released himself, and was maneuvering himself between the young Thai’s thighs. Intorn didn’t seem to mind. He was spreading and raising his legs. He’d have a story to tell up North when he’d been laid by this sexy Frenchman who was part of The Deer Hunter production crew.

“Let’s go there,” Brad said. “I haven’t done anything as rough as that sounds since I went slumming in New York’s Harlem. I’d like a taste of rough Bangkok before I have to go back to New York.”

“I’ll give you something to taste,” Cowboy said, with a laugh. The two already were stroking each other’s cocks. Cowboy cupped the back of Brad’s head and guided the young man’s face down into his lap. Brad went down willingly and went down on Cowboy’s legendary cock with relish. “So be it. Udom,” Cowboy called out to the driver, “several times around Lumpini Park please and then to Sarap’s House in Khlong Toei. Yes, just like that,” he then murmured, speaking to Brad rather than the driver. “Such a sweet, soft mouth.” He looked over into the other corner of the backseat, were he viewed Jacques’s now-bare back, with Intorn’s berry brown legs rising on either side of the Frenchmen’s torso. The cameraman’s buttocks were in motion and he was crooning in French.

“Ouvert à moi. Tu es serré, petit. Prends-le. Prends-le.”

If Cowboy was interested and asked for a translation, he’d be told that Jacques thought Intorn’s channel was tight, but that he wasn’t complaining. But Cowboy was more interested in the expertise Brad was exhibiting in giving him a blow job. The young man’s expertise was considerable, and Cowboy wasn’t complaining about that.

The hashish den was as rough and seedy as Cowboy had said it would be. Sarap’s was in a section of a warehouse near the docks. Jacques had been there before, which surprised Cowboy. The big black bull had assumed that the Frenchman was just blowing smoke, but it turned out that he knew how to smoke.

The warehouse floor was strewn with padded platforms where the clients reclined and smoked or, as they smoked and their spirits floated toward the far-distant metal ceiling, they joined each other and fucked. The patrons paid at the door, and what they smoked and for how long and what they were permitted to indulge in while they smoked was determined by how much they paid.

When they arrived, it was Jacques’s turn to be impressed, as the house master padded quickly from the depths of the area to greet them once he’d seen Cowboy, who was quite distinctive, standing a head taller than anyone else in the area and being built and black. The house master made clear that Cowboy and his colleagues were welcome without paying to indulge in whatever they wanted. He would, of course, expect reciprocal accommodation at Cowboy’s establishments in the future.

At the entrance, Cowboy looked around and muttered, “Be careful, guys. There are more than just sailors of different nationalities here. There are some pirates up from the South. They’ll slit your throats while they’re fucking you, and you’ll be feeling so taxed by the pain inflicted by their cocks that you won’t feel the knife slide across your throat.”

They were guided to four adjoining couches, but they only used three. Cowboy made it clear that he would not smoke but also that he had a hankering for Intorn. So, while Jacques and Brad stretched out on two neighboring platforms, Cowboy laid Intorn out on his back on a third one and then laid the small Thai.

Intorn lay, gasping but willing, as he spread and raised his legs and torso and slowly was pinned to the padding by Cowboy’s huge cock. This was an even better experience to boast about when he went back to Chiang Mai. The legend of Cowboy stretched that far. The brothel keepers would note that Intorn had been laid by Cowboy when they were selling the young Thai to clients. It wasn’t just a mark of celebrity by association; it also was a declaration that Intorn could take any cock a client in northern Thailand could challenge him with. Intorn dangled his arms over the side of the narrow couch, turned his glazed eyes to the side, and panted and whimpered as Cowboy slowly entered, entered, entered him and, then picking up speed, took him to heaven.

In the meantime, Jacques and Brad smoked hashish from bubbling pipes and started on their own journeys to heaven, switching after a while, at Jacques’s request, to opium. After Cowboy had fucked Intorn, who was led away by two burly sailors from the docks, not to be seen again that day, Cowboy sat for a while on the side of his couch and watched Jacques move over onto Brad’s couch and between the young American’s spread thighs, where he fucked Brad in a deep missionary and Brad received him with pleasure and glazed-over eyes.

The house master came by with a young, small, and particularly good-looking Cambodian and a Chinese sailor nearly as big as Cowboy and twice as ugly and thuggish looking and had little difficulty convincing Cowboy to go with them to a more private area set up as a video recording studio, where, for quite a nice price, Cowboy joined the Chinese sailor in ravishing the Cambodian youth in a total-taking double penetration for a subscription movie.

While Cowboy was gone, Jacques finished with Brad and barely made it back to his own couch, where he passed out. A gaggle of rough sailors who had been circling and watching and biding their time then descended on Brad and shared him for more than an hour. Brad, who did like orgies, might have appreciated that if the hashish and opium haze he’d been put in had allowed him to remember how and by how many he had been covered. As it was, the next day, when his head stopped pounding, he would think upon his evening of slumming on the Bangkok docks as a success. He’d been breeded so many times that, if he’d been a woman, nine months hence he’d be giving birth to octuplets of at least six different nationalities and a variety of colors.

Cowboy was sober enough, and the house master concerned that he not overstep himself enough, and Cowboy’s driver was disciplined enough to be able to retain his chauffeuring abilities, that, between them, they managed to get a humming Jacques and purring Brad back into the car and Jacques deposited in his hotel and Brad delivered back to his father’s house. They forgot all about Intorn, but he reappeared at Vince Burnett’s Ambassador Hotel room two days later, humming and extremely well fucked.

* * * *

It wasn’t an accident that The Major and the UN officer, Magnus Amundson, took The Deer Hunter actor Paul Cummings in one car when they left the Blackmore compound to go to the swim party at the JUSMAG single officer’s compound off Sathorn Road and that JUSMAG lieutenant Ben Singleton and Thai Air Force colonel Samui Timruang took American embassy cultural officer, Tim Temple, in another car. The group had been playing a beer game on the terrace of the Blackmore house. They’d been playing for high stakes, and Cummings had been won by The Major and Amundson in one round and Temple by Singleton and Samui in another round.

The actor and embassy officer, well into their cups, had both acknowledged that they were capable of and had given over to a certain sexual act and had laid their willingness on the line—and had lost to commanding military men who recognized the need to step up to high stakes in a game—and also who insisted on collecting on debts.

The two JUSMAG cars drove out to the corner of Ploenchit and Wireless Roads, turning onto Wireless at the British Embassy grounds, drove past the American Embassy, and onto Sathorn, where the JUSMAG officer compound was on the left and the bachelor officers’ quarters compound, taken over by the gay officers who fought for a billet at JUSMAG, was on the right, past Christ Church. The compound consisted of four former houses, with stuccoed walls and red-tiled roofs and offering a dozen bedrooms, with baths, and assorted living and kitchen facilities, all around a large swimming pool. The walls of the compound were high enough to keep the noise in and the nosy out, and all the protection the compound needed was the burly body-beautiful hunks who served at JUSMAG.

The party was already under way when the two cars arrived. Indeed, a party was always under way at the JUSMAG BOQ swimming pool when it wasn’t raining. Luckily for the neighborhood, it did rain in Bangkok every day at 4:00 p.m., though—torrential rain. Half a dozen JUSMAG gay soldiers were already cavorting around the pool. They’d brought in gay boys and transvestites from the nearby Patpong red-light district, and they were dancing and swimming and drinking and fucking—two Thai prostitutes to every JUSMAG soldier. The U.S. soldiers were in great demand in Bangkok. They uniformly were built, well financed, and ready and willing to go.

The Major and his guests melded right into the party when they arrived. They took care of the bets they had won right off the bat—and right there by the pool on the lounge beds. The Major and Magnus Amundsen put the actor Paul Cummings between them and stripped him down and sexed him up with their hands before Amundsen went down on a lounge bed on his back, Paul Cummings was stretched out on top of him, facing the heavens, Amundsen worked his cock into Cummings’s ass channel, and they fucked for several minutes before The Major straddled the lounge bed over the other two, raised and spread Cummings’s legs, and worked his cock inside Cummings’s channel on top of Amundsen’s already-buried shaft. As they fucked the actor in a groaning double penetration, JUSMAG lieutenant Ben Singleton and Thai colonel Samui Timruang were giving Tim Temple the same treatment on another lounge bed.

Drugs came out to add to the drinks while this double fucking was going on and Cummings and Temple were treated to their full share of fuck aids. Other men at the party gathered around the two lounge beds and cheered the performance on while embracing and fondling the Thai rent-boys they had been diddling. Occasionally, pairs of soldiers would take a small Thai figure off to another lounge bed to emulate what was happening with Cummings and Temple. By the time Cumming’s and Temple’s doubles partners were done with them, they were zonked out enough that they didn’t care that they were passed around to the other tops at the pool late into the night.

It was hedonist Bangkok, randy soldiers, and willing (at least when they were well lubricated) lays. A good time was had by all. Bangkok gay life five years before the scourge of AIDS descended. Rubbers were for sex with women, not with other guys. And if one cock was good, two were better. Buckets of cum all around.

* * * *

When the once-popular actor in The Deer Hunter, Vince Burnett, left the party at Burt Blackmore’s Thai-style house, he was in the company of the writer and producer, Deric Washburn, and the lesser-part actor Gary Jones, who, like Burnett, was staying at the Ambassador Hotel off Sukhumvit Road. He had come with Intorn, the Chiang Mai University drama student Burnett had picked up in Chiang Mai and brought back to Bangkok with him for the sport of bedding him, but Burnett was pissed at the young Thai and happy to leave him to find his own way back to where they were staying at the Ambassador Hotel—or not. Burnett would be leaving in a couple of days, needing, for reasons of his own, to disappear, and he wouldn’t be taking Intorn with him.

Burnett was pissed at Intorn because earlier during the Blackmore party, when he’d gone looking for the young man, he’d found him in a back corridor of the mansion being fucked against a wall by another, younger than Burnett, actor in the movie, Joe D’Amato. That had wounded Burnett’s pride, because Intorn had assured him he was a slave to Burnett’s, and only Burnett’s, shaft.

It did, though, make it easier for Burnett to leave the young man in Thailand when he slipped out of the country—if he could pull together enough money to carry through his disappearing act.

Washburn wanted to have a discussion separately with Burnett to pass on what he thought would be bad news. So, when they got to the Ambassador Hotel, Washburn and Burnett saw Jones off to his room and retired to the Lobby Lounge Bar for yet another drink and a consultation.

“You know I liked your work in the movie,” Washburn said.

“Thanks,” Burnett said guardedly. He suspected what this was about. He’d heard rumors and Joe D’Amato had been gloating around him a bit for a week. It wasn’t an accident, Burnett didn’t think, that D’Amato had latched on to the young man Burnett had brought to the party.

“And I know you were hoping that getting a part in the movie would help bolster your career.”

“Not really,” Burnett said. “My agent said I would help sell the movie.” He wasn’t going to go down without any push back. He was a box office draw when Washburn was an errand boy at the studio.

Washburn bridled a bit at that, although he tried to keep it internalized. He’d tried to tell casting that Burnett was over the hill and too old for the part. It was because the director thought he was too old for the part on film that Washburn had been left to clean this up, even though he’d been right about it from the beginning. He would try to let the actor down without telling Burnett precisely why, though. If he had to say it was because Burnett had aged out of his roles, he’d never get the washed-out actor off his case. “You know how the movie business works, Vince, so I won’t sugarcoat it. The director made some changes to the plotline and your character just doesn’t fit in it anymore. Your scenes have been cut. I’m sorry. I thought you were terrific in the scenes but the scenes just don’t fit in the movie the director is making anymore. I’ve been asked to change your contract.”

Burnett wasn’t a dummy. He knew that, after Washburn had said he wasn’t going to sugarcoat what he had to say, he’d done just that. D’Amato had been calling Burnett “Old Man” for nearly a week. Burnett had known when he read the script that he was too old for the part. His idea was to change the part to fit him, but they had resisted doing that.

“Change the contract how, Deric?”

“We want to buy it out. Go ahead and pay out the agreed sum and the residuals the contract specifies as well. We don’t expect the movie to make that much money. The figure the studio gave me for a buyout was $20,000. It could be paid into your bank—”

“If you make that in cash, U.S. dollars, handed to me here in Bangkok in the next two days, I’ll go quietly,” Burnett interrupted him to say. “Otherwise, my agent will want to negotiate the price up. He’s told me that The Deer Hunter is going to be promoted as an A movie—maybe even an Academy Award contender.”

Washburn was momentarily nonplused. He’d expected whining and finagling. He hadn’t expected cash on the barrelhead, delivered right away in Bangkok. But acceptance of the figure was too good an opportunity not to grab.

“I’m grateful we can settle this so quickly and amicably, Vince. It will be difficult for me to arrange, of course, but I’ll see what I can do and get back to you by tomorrow.” He held off his grin until he was facing away from Burnett and walking out of the bar.

If he’d turned his head, he would have seen Burnett grinning at his departing back. Burnett of course would have liked to have more money, but it would be difficult and dangerous to be carrying that much cash on him into the Genting Highlands of Malaysia, where he hoped to disappear and change his name and life. He’d gotten the news that the drug distribution arrangement he’d been a party to in L.A. was being busted and that users had died on adulterated drugs. It would be mere days before the authorities in California would be coming after him here in Thailand. He had some assets he was able to liquify but not enough. He’d been worried whether he could get anything out of The Deer Hunter gig before he took off.

Deric Washburn’s “bad” news had dropped in his lap like mana from heaven.

Three elements fell into place two days later: Deric Washburn visited him with $20,000 in large-denomination U.S. bills. The wad was small enough for Burnett to fit in a pouch he’d bought that could snuggle up under his balls. His biggest concern was keeping that much cash, added to the $10,000 he already had accumulated close to him while keeping its existence a secret. The second element that fell into place was that Intorn returned to him, with a story of woe of having been carried off from an opium den on the Khlong Toei docks by some rough sailors who had repeatedly gang banged him and only now having gotten away from them. “You can ask Cowboy or Brad Blackmore about that, if you don’t believe me,” he’d said. “They were the ones who took me to the opium den.”

“I believe you,” Burnett said, doing so because Intorn’s return and what he had suggested when Burnett said he was about to leave Bangkok fit in nicely with Burnett’s plans.

“If you want to see more of Thailand before you leave,” Intorn had said. “We could go to Phuket Beach, a resort for Farangs—foreigners—in the South, on the western leg of Thailand and opening on to the Andaman Sea. We could do the beach thing. It’s very different from Bangkok or Chiang Mai. Very remote. Very lush and nice.”

Burnett had looked at a map and smiled. Yes, it was remote from Bangkok, where the U.S. authorities would start looking for him. Better than that, it was nearly all the way to Malaysia. From there he could slip over the border to Malaysia as he was arranging on the black market to do. Best of all, Intorn was here now and could make all of the arrangements in his name. Nothing would be connected to Burnett—especially if Intorn had an unfortunate accident while they were in Phuket.

He enthusiastically agreed to Intorn’s travel proposal.

Burnett of course didn’t reveal to Intorn that he was carrying around $30,000 in a pouch under his balls. From then, he fucked the young Thai in the dark, in doggy fucks, where he could keep the pouch out of the action, but he avoided the blow jobs that Intorn had been giving him previously. Intorn said nothing about that, and Burnett was relieved that the young man didn’t bring the change in their sex pattern up. Perhaps he should have not been so relieved, though. Intorn didn’t ask because he’d figured it out, although he only thought it was $20,000 that the older actor was trying to hide.

Intorn hadn’t come right back from his captivity and being passed around by the rough sailors. He’d been freed earlier that day and had gone back to the opium den, where Joe D’Amato had returned for another round of rough, drug-induced pleasure. There, D’Amato had passed on the rumor that Burnett had been released from his contract in exchange for a large amount of American-dollar cash. He even knew how much money was involved in the release. There obviously were very few secrets on what remained of the production crew on The Deer Hunter set that was being broken down.

After leaving the Khlong Toei opium den, Intorn had made some arrangements of his own before returning to Vince Burnett at the Ambassador Hotel. Until he had learned Burnett had a big stash of cash Intorn hadn’t even been thinking of returning to him. Once back in the hotel room, it didn’t take Intorn much brain power or observation to figure where the cash was. He could bide his time, though, and develop better arrangements than a robbery in a major Bangkok hotel.

Phuket did, indeed, prove to be a paradise of a beach resort, although Burnett didn’t have much interest in stripping down to bathing suits and hitting the beach. He did, though, have an interest in the bright-colored fishing boats that floated off the beach, with crews offering sailing afternoons to remote islands off the beach.

“Can you arrange for one of those boats to take us on a day cruise, maybe down toward Malaysia?” Burnett asked Intorn. He wasn’t planning to go all the way down there on the first day sail, but he could check out the possibility and sound the crew out on whether they’d take him down to the Malaysia coast, how much it would be, and maybe whether they could do something about Intorn as well.

“I’d be delighted to,” Intorn said, and he immediately went off down the beach, looking for a boat—a specific boat.

The crew that took them out looked rather rough, but Intorn said that all of the sailors in this business off Phuket had to be strong and able. “There are pirates in these waters,” he said. “Tourists have to be protected from them.”

Half way toward an island the crew chief, a burly, tattooed hunk, in skimpy shorts, pointed out as their destination, the boat was brought to anchor.

“Thanat tong kan wainam,” Mongkut, the captain, said, as he stripped off his shorts, revealing a respectable-sized, half-hard cock. He proceeded to dive into the water.

“He said it would be safe for us to swim here,” Intorn translated. “And he said we could have a beer before we go to the island.” He too stripped off his Speedo and dove, naked, into the water. Another of the crew members, named Prasert, handed Burnett a beer and motioned to the water, with a smile. Burnett took the beer and motioned his thanks back but indicated he was going to remain dressed and wouldn’t go into the water. The crew, all drinking beer now, didn’t seem to mind.

After a bit, Mongkut and Intorn swam back and hauled themselves up onto the boat. They stood there, dripping, both naked, and kissed, while Mongkut frotted their cocks together. The crew members, gathered around Burnett near the wheelhouse, laughed and whistled and made crude gestures, jollying Burnett along with them. Mongkut laid Intorn on his back at the bow on a thick coil of rope, grabbed the young man’s ankles, raised and spread his legs, penetrated him, and began to fuck him.

Burnett watched, fascinated, not aware of the danger until the crew, gulping their beer, moving around restlessly, and cheering Mongkut on, began to get rough with Burnett. They didn’t make sexual advances to him—they started to tear his clothes off him and to beat him, looking for, finding, and relieving Burnett of his money pouch.

Burnett was a mangled, moaning mass, lying on the deck by the wheel house, when Mongkut was finished fucking Intorn, pulled off him, and took the money pouch from Prasert. Prasert and the others then moved in on Intorn and took their turns fucking him in the bow of the boat.

Mongkut and another of the Andaman Sea pirates who Intorn first had met up with in the opium house in Khlong Toei where Cowboy had sized up the clientele and warned them that pirates might be present, picked Burnett up and rolled his body into the sea. Intorn had gone with the pirates and serviced them willingly, and then when he’d gotten wind of the cash Burnett would be carrying, he’d gone back to the pirates and worked up this plan with them to divest Burnett of his money in a quiet, out-of-the-way place.

The pirates kept to their deal with Intorn. He was a great gang-bang lay and he very well might bring them more easy money in the future. They returned him to the Phuket beach, with his cut of the $30,000 Burnett had been carrying and an offer to help him with any similar scheme he came up with.

TO BE CONTINUED