Sporting and Spying

The Saturday morning impromptu tennis matches at the Royal Thai Military Academy on the corner of Wireless and Rama IV Roads in Bangkok, Thailand, were about sport, exercise, and networking. But they also were about sex and spying. The informal gathering on six courts on the academy grounds, hosting by a bevy of Thai Army colonels who ran the academy, were basically for the military guys in the foreign—farang to the Thai—diplomatic missions based in the Thai capital and not just that, but, specifically, a subset of these men who had a fetish for body sculpting and for driving young men.

I wasn’t military, but, at twenty-five, I was a young man who would lay under men, I worked in the American Embassy, and I was a near-pro tennis player. I also, unknown to most of the men in the Saturday morning group, was a spy of sorts. I was early to the game. I wasn’t charged with figuring out what information meant. My job was to gather it for others to assess and, if called upon, to function as a honey trap—to suborn men or women sexually to open them up to espionage blackmail.

The common understanding was that one could not be gay and work in U.S. intelligence at the same time—that if it were found that you were gay, you automatically would be drummed out of the service as a security risk. You could easily be blackmailed to inform foreign services on your own organization, or so the common wisdom went. I found that wasn’t necessarily the case. Sometimes you were recruited even if you were gay—or precisely because you were gay—by your intelligence service to use that themselves. You couldn’t be blackmailed for being gay if your own service not only knew you were but also was using that for its own purposes. People thinking this never could happen were ignoring the power of the world’s two oldest professions—prostitute and spy—being brought together to produce results.

Ostensibly, my first-tour job in the U.S. foreign service was as a visa clerk in the U.S. consulate at the American Embassy in Bangkok, which was just up the street on Wireless Road from the Royal Thai Military Academy complex. In reality, I was a young intelligence officer in Bangkok Station, the CIA office in the American Embassy, assigned to Bangkok because it was a wild and crazy, sexually open city with a large foreign diplomatic and military community. Diplomats and military men from around the world who had a fetish for other men wrangled tours of duty in Bangkok.

Americans were no different. JUSMAG—the Joint U.S. Military Advisory Group—which had been set up in Bangkok as the war in Vietnam was winding down to aid Thailand in preventing falling to the communists as Cambodia already had and Vietnam was about to, was almost completely composed of American military men who worshipped both their own bodies and those of other men. This was one of those billets where the Army sent officers they knew or suspected to be gay but who were too well connected or too valuable to U.S. military interests to drum out of the service.

I hadn’t been in Thailand for more than a couple of weeks before the commander of JUSMAG, a black major, nosed me out, no doubt with help from the CIA station, and seduced me and made me his. He was a regular member of the Saturday tennis gathering at the Royal Thai Military Academy and, despite my not being military or anyone of importance in that network, introduced me into the group. I was an immediate hit there not only because I was a very good tennis player but also because I was attractive to men and I would let them cover me.

It became known in the Saturday group that I craved having a man’s cock inside me and that, after tennis on Saturday, I would generally go with any of the other players whose turn it was with me. I did prefer fit men. They didn’t have to be handsome, but I preferred that they had great bodies. That wasn’t a problem with the Saturday morning tennis group. You had to be fit to manage to play vigorous tennis for two or three hours under the Bangkok morning sun. The Station encouraged the activity, because the gathering was a rich vein of foreign military and diplomatic information to mine.

The military men knew who I worked for and it became a “thing” for them to lure me to go with them after tennis by giving me a tidbit or two of intelligence to take back to the Station. So, Saturday became not only an exercise and sport day for me but a work day as well.

Sometimes the arrangement had been made who I would leave tennis with, but sometimes I went to the Saturday morning gatherings just for the general play and to see how opportunities would unfold. The organizer, Colonel Samat, who was a handsome, tall, muscular Thai with strong Chinese ancestry, which many in the city of Bangkok had, had taken a fancy to me. There were more dominant men in the group than submissives, so I was in constant demand. I also was young and blond Westerner, which were a premium in Bangkok. But Samat always had to be given his due and made happy, so more often than not I found myself on my back on the desk or sofa in his office at the academy taking his cock. But sometimes I went to the tennis gatherings with a mission. Such was the case on this specific Saturday.

Turkey was playing both sides on the cold war divide—the cold war still being in full swing in the mid-1970s of my “Saturday tennis at the Royal Thai Military Academy” years. The United States had bases there and counted Turkey as a close ally. But intelligence was in that Turkey was permitting the Soviets to build a satellite tracking base in the mountains overlooking the Black Sea. Just what satellites would the Soviets be tracking from there—and why—U.S. intelligence wondered. The United States had coveted putting a tracking base here itself to monitor the Soviet Union and had been turned down by the Turks. That only sharpened U.S. interest in what the Soviets were doing there.

Not all intelligence gathering on another country need be done in that country.

Erol Erdegon was a military attaché at the Turkish embassy in Bangkok. He was a bit more than forty, solidly built, with a heavily hirsute and muscular body. His face was so ugly in a thuggish way that he was, in fact, attractive to young men who wanted to be dominated—and not just dominated; young men in the mood to be manhandled. I was a young man who wanted to be dominated—and occasionally manhandled as well and to suffer a bit—so I didn’t shy away from men like Erdegon. That was a good thing, because my brief was to make him think he was seducing me and to find out what he knew about the satellite tracking station the Soviets were building in his country while letting him think I wanted to ride his cock so badly that I would give him a rundown of who really did what in the CIA Station at the Bangkok embassy. He wouldn’t expect a consular affairs clerk to know much about that, but maybe something. The station, in turn, didn’t mind him knowing more than just a little, because they wanted to recruit and run him. When someone from the Station approached him directly to work for us, via blackmail, if necessary, we wanted him to realize the contact was by the Station.

The temperature was over 100 Fahrenheit on an early October day. This was the tropics: hot and steamy. The men were hot and steamy too, playing bare-chested, all proud of their well-developed, constantly honed military-bearing, now sweat-glistening bodies. It was a two litre-bottles of Coke day in replacing fluids in our hard-worked, bronze-tanned, sweat-shimmering bodies. Given the interest of these men, as much effort was spent in admiring and being aroused by the bodies across the net from them as in the tennis. Although the tennis was good too. These men were athletes.

Without exception, the men choosing to be here on a Saturday morning were actively gay. Colonel Samat, who coordinated the Saturday morning tennis, made sure of that. Even those pushing seventy were in top form, both in terms of physical fitness and sexuality. If they hadn’t been, they wouldn’t have been invited to Saturday tennis. One or two did have trouble getting hard at their age, but even those knew how to work another man’s body to achieve sexual satisfaction. This also was a hedonist city; pills to provide effective help were readily available here. Many were the times that an old Thai general would stand over me, pop a few pills, and, within minutes, could get off while getting me off even without getting completely hard and inside me. There was no embarrassment to driving to an ejaculation in Bangkok in any way you could.

There were three dominants to every submissive on the court this morning, so I had no trouble whatsoever in attracting attention and suitors.

Most knew of Colonel Samat’s proprietary interest in me and kept their attention at the admiration level. Erdegon was new to the group. He wasn’t on warning about Samat’s claim, and I didn’t want him to be. I maneuvered to be across the net from him in doubles. Then I arranged to be his partner, coming close to him during consultations on how to handle the next point, letting him touch me, and he was a very hands-on man. It was obvious he wanted to touch me even more intimately than was being accorded. I was purposely teasing him.

Then, at last, with me across from the net from him in singles, each concentrating on the other, we engaged in a battle for control on the court. He lost—not by much, I made sure of—but he did lose. I was much the better tennis player, although he would not admit it and, given my mission, I would not claim it. But I made sure he lost. Turks didn’t lose graciously. I had become something that needed to be conquered. He had no idea I was the one who set that up.

Afterward, he whispered in my ear, “I must have you. Go with me afterward. I have tickets to the kick boxing.”

“Ah, building up to a mood of cruelty?” I asked.

“Does being cruel and vigorous scare you?”

“Yes, it makes me tremble,” I answered.

“Does it mean you won’t go with me?”

“No. I’ll go with you.”

“So, you like to tremble for a man?”

“I like to be satisfied totally,” I answered.

The kick boxing arena was next to the academy compound on Rama IV. It was a serious blood sport here. I could feel the connection he was making to sex in the intensity in which he was speaking of it. He was gripping my forearm with strong, calloused hands. I would be taxed hard for whatever information I could pillow talk out of him.

“You’ll have to wait,” I said. “I have to consult with Colonel Samat after tennis. If you want me to go with you today, you will have to wait afterward.” Holding him off would, I knew, have him wanting me even more.

“Samat will fuck you?”

“Yes, it’s what I have to give to be permitted to play tennis here on Saturdays.”

“But afterward, you will go with me?”

“Yes.”

“And I will fuck you?”

“If you wish.”

“Then I will wait.”

It didn’t take that long with Colonel Samat. We were well beyond seduction or foreplay. Sex was exercise for him—and release. Most of the group showered in a communal shower in the academy building afterward. Tennis on Saturdays in Bangkok was such a sweaty affair that cleanup was necessary before going forth, although Bangkok in October was so hot that all were sweaty shortly after going forth anyway.

Initially, I had participated in the communal showering as well, and this was often where the hooking up had happened—in the shower, all naked, after three hours of ogling each other, bare-chested and hard bodied over the tennis net. Here the erections were on proud display and the shopping of bodies was done. There were always more dominants at tennis than submissives. The dominants didn’t go unserviced, though. It meant that the submissives must do multiple servicing. One Saturday, before Colonel Samat had laid claim to me, I had been fucked by four men in the shower in the span of an hour after tennis, each watching another fuck me and waiting his turn.

Here was where I usually selected or was selected for ongoing exercise in the afternoon. Sometimes I made my choice based on the Station’s direction on who I needed to cultivate. Sometimes I did it out of sheer arousal by that man—or men. Here more than once I had ridden a man’s cock while others had watched and then ridden their cocks as well. Here once I had been sandwiched between two men in a standing double. Oh, how I’d gloriously suffered in that coupling. Doing it while others watched let them know I was in play.

After a few weeks, though, Samat, the man in charge of Saturday mornings, had laid his claim and when others went to the communal shower, I went with Samat to his office, which had its own adjacent bathroom, with shower attached. Now, if I was targeting a specific member of the group, I had to make arrangements for a tryst somewhere other than the communal shower—and I had to arranging it around anything Samat wanted to do with me. Fortunately, he wanted to cover any new submissive being tried out by the group, so I didn’t always have to go with him first.

On this day, I went with Samat to his office. We showered together in his shower, soaping each other up, and me dropping to my knees and taking him in my throat. Usually we lingered longer than today, with me being the one to spin it out. Samat was all business and this was exercise. His muscles had been exercised well in the tennis, but he was an Asian traditionalist. His beliefs included exercising his sexual muscles and draining his semen system regularly—daily for as long as he could manage it. He was fine with mounting me immediately, riding me in a gallop to release, and then dismissing me well breeded. If he could do it all in twelve minutes, well and good. He’d found additional time in his day for his many other demands and activities—maybe even for another ride on a young soldier.

Today my mission was the Turk, who may or may not have been waiting for me. I was more straightforward with Samat this day, needing to get it over with. After I heated him up with great and quick head, he pulled me up from my knees, turned me, and slammed me against the slick tiles of the shower wall under the cascading water.

“Fuck me. Fuck me now,” I cried out, and pressing my cheek against the tiles and grasping my wrists in one strong hand, and pushing my arms over my head, wrists against the tiles, while I jutted my buttocks back, he mounted me and fucked me with much frenzy and vigor as a man his age could muster. It was all over in fifteen minutes from start to finish. He was as satiated and I was as well plowed as we would have been if he’d taken a half hour.

Erol Erdegon had waited for me. He didn’t ask what I’d been consulting Colonel Samat about. He most likely knew. It didn’t decrease his arousal or his own need to conquer.

* * * *

Thai kickboxing quite definitely is a blood sport. There is blood and there is no-holds-bared jabbing. And sometimes there is maiming and death. It obviously was the Turk’s favorite sport. We were sitting just above the blood-splatter row. The ushers recognized and nearly genuflected to Erdegon, so he obviously was a regular here. He really got into the action, jerking with the punches, muttering suggestions, snorting and licking his lips when telling punches or kicks were delivered, and revving his engines for mayhem. The side of my body that was toward him in the seats came away with bruising from his gripping and squeezing as he became one with what was going on in the ring.

“You really seem to know how this was done,” I said at one point, which was when he informed me that he had been in the ring here a few times himself, a novelty that the Thai cheered.

I had thought we would pick up something to eat at the arena, but he was glued to the action there. He didn’t even seem to notice when I twice got up and went to the lobby because the fighting was getting too gruesome for me. And then after the fights, when I thought we’d get something to eat before getting down to action, he was too keyed up to do anything but satisfy his own blood lust. I had beaten him at tennis. Even without the influence of the war that was kickboxing had on him, he was heated up to need to show me who was master—who was conqueror and who was vanquished. I realized that it might have been a miscalculation not to let him win the tennis match.

Erdegon drove a large Mercedes sedan with smoked windows. We didn’t go far, just across Rama IV Road and into the Soi Ngam Du Phli, which isn’t far from the Patpong red light district. The street was lined with noodle shops and massage parlors. He pulled into an alleyway, which led to one of the short-time hotels that were scattered about the district. This one was of a common design in which the ground floor was for parking and the rooms were above, reached by individual staircases inside the covered parking place. We stopped momentarily at a guard house, where Erdegon paid the fee and was told which bay to park in. The garages were separately walled and the entries were covered by a sheeting of canvas strips that would part for a car to drive through and into the garage and then fall back into place so no one on the outside could see the car parked in the garage. License plates could not be read from the outside. The room above the garage, reached by an internal staircase on the inner wall of the garage, consisted of a bedroom, dominated by a large bed, a kitchenette, and a bathroom with bathtubs and showers that accommodated more than one. What stood out were the bed and the bathtub. There was a third floor that was a brothel. You still paid for a room on the second floor, though, and that’s where you fucked the rent-boy. There was a viewing room on the third floor where you made your choice if you hadn’t brought your own candy, and the whore came down to you. Corridors and staircases ran along the back of the building.

This wasn’t the first short-term hotel I’d been to in Bangkok. I’d even been to this particular hotel before. It was close to where I played tennis and hooked up with intelligence targets on Saturdays afterward. I had been brought to a variety of nearby fuck hotels frequently on a Saturday afternoon. There was another such hotel even closer to the Royal Thai Military Academy grounds, where the Station paid the gatekeeper to assign a unit that was bugged. If I guided a man there after tennis, the gate guard on duty knew which “take me to paradise” unit to assign us.

Erdegon was in such a high state of lust and need that we didn’t immediately make it upstairs to the bedroom. He fucked me in the backseat of the Mercedes, which, thankfully, provided a lot of room. He quickly stripped me and, other than stripping off his own trousers and briefs, remained clothed as I was slouched in the center of the backseat, one leg hooked on his right shoulder and the foot of the other leg pressed into the dome light, and he crouched over me, slapping me about and his hands rhythmically choking my throat while he fucked me with a beer can cock that wasn’t long but that was almost impossibly thick and stretched me with great difficulty because it was so thick and because he didn’t give me sufficient time to open to him. Ten minutes of his rutting and grunting and me gasping, gurgling, and pleading, “Easy, easy. Give me time!” and he was jerking and releasing into the bulb of his condom.

My second quick rush to servicing of the day. Except it wasn’t going to be just the once with the Turk.

Conquering and not giving me time to have any part of being in control was the whole point with Erdegon. He took me and took me hard, leaving me lying across the backseat of the Mercedes, panting and moaning, while he gathered up his trousers and briefs and mounted the stairs to the second floor.

“I’m not done,” he growled. “Come upstairs when you’re ready for more.”

“You’ve never killed a guy in sex, have you?” I asked, seeking assurances. He didn’t answer before he was gone up the stairs to the fuck room.

I can’t say he didn’t give me a change to leave. I’d gotten a taste of how lost to blood-lust he was and how brutal he could be. When he was conscious of it or not, he was giving me an opportunity just to slip out of the garage between those canvas strip and escape his lust. But I was on assignment. I didn’t really have a choice.

Twenty minutes later, I had joined him, finding him naked and hugging a bottle of Jack Daniels he’d had in the car and took upstairs with him. I didn’t see him in the room when I reached the top of the stairs. He was behind me, though. He grabbed me, turned me with one hand gripping my shoulder, and punched me in the belly. As I was going down, he hit me with an uppercut to the chin. Neither were killing blows, but I wasn’t a prize fighter. I had no defenses to offer. He grabbed me by the hair and dragged me across the floor to the bed. There, on the big bed that dominated the room, he put me on all fours, mounted me, dominated me, and fucked me hard and vigorously again. I gave him what he wanted, called him the master, surrendered to him, and told him exactly what he wanted to hear about what a dominating animal he was.

Once again, he used what he had—extraordinary thickness rather than length—to the best advantage, trapping my wrists and forcing himself in before I was dilated enough to take him, making me pant and gasp and whimper as he forced me open and used what he had as a battering ram. I whined embarrassingly and begged him to be less rough, knowing that that was exactly what he wanted to hear to justify the Turk in him—the need to win, to dominate, to conquer. I needed to simper and allow myself to be degraded.

He grasped both of my wrists in a beefy hand and held them together with one strong hand, my arms stretched painfully at my back, while he cupped my chin with his other hand, pulling the back of my head into his chest—and ramming, ramming, ramming me with his thick cock. I let him take it all, both because I enjoyed it like this on occasion and because I wanted him to be in a good, open, and unguarded mood for later.

He was only in maybe four inches when he could feel me surrender fully to him, relaxing and collapsing. My torso fell forward, flat onto the bed, the palms of his hands getting under me and clutching and working my pecs, The silkiness of his hairy chest rubbed on my shoulder blades, and the only energy I was expending was to my knees keeping my buttocks elevated enough to accommodate his angle of penetration and aiding me to rock back and forth on his shaft, assuring him that I was fully invested in the fuck.

His lips were close to my ear and he was murmuring a low litany of, “Al onu. Onu bana ver. Take it. Give it to me. I fuck you. Screw you hard, baby.”

Four inches of his thickness was enough for me to be lost to him. Giving a little laugh, he turned me onto my butt, hooked my ankles on his shoulders as he hovered over me, rocking on my pelvis, moving his thick cock in and out and around, stretching me to the max, while I lay back, my arms stretched out, my cheek to the sheets, my eyes bugged out and mouth yawning, every nerve in my body concentrating on those four extraordinarily thick four inches working, mastering, owning my passage. Arching my back and grabbing for my cock, I stroked to a finish as he held, hovering over me, clutching, separating, and kneading my buttocks.

With a little cry of “I’m coming,” I did. I tried to rise to him then, but he struck me across the face and I collapsed back onto the bed with a sob as he resumed the stroking to his own ejaculation.

Seduction mission or no seduction mission, this was a great fuck. The jury was still out, however, to the question of whether he’d every killed a guy during sex.

After we showered, he drove me over to the nearby Dusit Thani hotel on the opposite corner of Rama IV and Wireless Road from the Royal Thai Military Academy, where we had started that morning, and, at last, bought me a sandwich in the bar as we continued our love affair with Jack Daniels from a bottle. I didn’t point out to him that his devotion to American liquor meant I won. He had been conquered by the Americans.

We didn’t get around to what I, at least, and maybe Erol Erdegon too, was primarily here for until we had finished refueling in the Dusit Thani bar. I had asked him if he’d ever been to the States and told him that Disneyworld didn’t really count, but I’d done so to work in the comment that I’d been to the U.S. Incirlik Airforce base near Adana, Turkey, with the comment that this symbolized how well the United States and Turkey got along. This had played, rather tenuously, I admit, off his comment that we’d been good together in bed and he was interested in going back to the short-term hotel after we’d finished our drinks. He’d paid for the day, which was good up to 6:30 p.m. The cleaners would come in then and the night shift went into effect at 8:00.

“I don’t know if I’d survive another trip to that hotel with you,” I said.

He just smiled.

He agreed that the United States and Turkey were good allies, which let me get to where I was going.

“But what’s this I hear about the Soviets opening up a facility in Turkey up near the Black Sea?”

This was his prompt to pretend like he’d never heard of that and didn’t believe it, but I’d pleased him in bed and he wanted to bed me again. He was prompted to be forthcoming to achieve that desire. His defenses down, he came right back with, “That is just part of their man-in-space program—a communications tracking facility to help their manned capsuled get back to earth safely.”

“But do you really believe that?” I asked, surprised that he had a quick answer and acknowledged knowing about the facility. “How do you know what they are going to be doing there?”

He laughed and said, “My cousin, Sami, told me all about it. He’s a soldier and is being assigned to do security there. It’s nothing like America having military bases in Turkey. Where did you hear about it? Did someone at your embassy say something about what was happening there?”

This provided a perfect opening for me to do what else I’d been assigned to do—to drop a name in his lap that he would see as valuable information gathering and I knew was investment.

“Tom Dorning, a political officer, at the embassy told me,” I said. “If he’s really a political officer,” I added.

“A maybe political officer? Do you mean someone from the spy station in your embassy? A CIA agent? Or would you even know these things about who does what in your embassy?” He was goading me into revealing more than an embassy clerk should. I knew how this worked. He was being affectionate now, working my body out of view of others in the bar with his hands, and I was pretending I was lost to him.

“Of course I know about the people doing a different job than their job title said,” I answered. “Dorning does seem to be involved in more than just political reporting,” I acknowledged—purposely and somewhat innocently, I thought.

From there Erdegon tried to make me interested in going back to the short-term hotel with him. It was tempting and I told him it was, but I told him I had an embassy party to go to that evening and I’d better get back home and rest—that he was such a stud that he had exhausted me.

He let that stand when I added that there was always the next Saturday on the tennis courts at the Royal Thai Military Academy. In the “let’s go do it again” discussion, he hadn’t mention going back to his apartment. He was married. And I didn’t mention going to mine—I was married too. I knew that about him and that fact was going to make it so much easier to blackmail and recruit him; I doubted that he’d bothered to learn that about me. It didn’t matter so much about me. My wife worked in the Station and was as much a whore as U.S. interests required as I was.

* * * *

From the Dusit Thani, I retrieved my car from the military academy and drove up Wireless Road to the American Embassy, to meet, by prearrangement, Tom Dorning, a CIA Station agent at the embassy. My JUSMAG boyfriend had reported to the Station that I managed to drive away from the tennis that day with the Turkish Embassy mark. It had been prearranged that, if I managed to snare the Turk, Dorning was to come into the embassy and I would report to him when I could.

It wasn’t my job to assess information I’d collected, just to collect and report it, so I was somewhat surprised at how Dorning received what little I thought I’d learned from Erdegon on the new Soviet installation near the Black Sea in Turkey. He was delighted.

“Don’t you see?” he said. “If Erdegon knew about the facility and was quick to tell you what he thought was going on there, it’s good evidence that it’s for space program tracking rather than missile guidance. Otherwise, Erdegon wouldn’t have known it was being built and would doubt that it was. He’s nowhere close to the ‘need-to-know’ chain on that.”

“I see,” I said, only being able to half-way see that as evidence.

“And more important, he knows a Turk who says he’ll be involved in security there. If this were part of the Soviet offensive missile program, there’s no way they would let Turks do the security—or that Erdegon would be talking about it.”

“Ah, yes.” I did see the evidence of that.

“And did you manage to bring my name up with Erdegon?”

“Yes, that was easy,” I said. “So, are you going to recruit and run him now?”

“Since you’ve hooked up with him, we were thinking perhaps you could get him hooked for us before I move in. Tennis next Saturday. Did you leave it that you might hook up with him again then?”

“Yes,” I said. “He seems to be salivating for it.” I didn’t really like where this was going, though. I wasn’t then so deeply involved in recruitment, and Erdegon was more brutal fuck than I was comfortable taking. Not that I didn’t love the fucking; I just wasn’t sure I would survive it. Of course, later I was up to my neck in it.

“See if you can say that it’s your turn to drive and to pick out a hotel. Go to the one we have a room bugged in. The cameras will pick up the action and we’ll have something to blackmail him with. In fact, you said he really wanted to do it again today. Maybe—”

“Maybe not today. Anne and I have someplace to go, and I’ve been advised not to change my schedules around much not to attract attention.” What I really needed was to go a bit slower on this. Also, I wasn’t sure I could take this physically. The Turk was really brutal—not that the Station would care. My handlers didn’t take my well-being into much account. And I was as blackmailed into doing this as the Turk would end up being.

I’d do it, of course. I was part of my job. But now I’ll be more exposed. Turning Erdegon over to Dorning, and Erdegon thinking he’d pulled the name out of me himself, wouldn’t put me in the middle of this. If—no, when—I took the Turk to a room where we’d be photographed then he’d be blackmailed to work for the Station, Erdegon would know I was part of the recruitment. “Next Saturday,” I said.

I’d been on the job enough this Saturday.

I needed to unwind. I needed something tonight that was my choice. From the embassy compound, I drove back down Wireless, parked in the Dusit Thani garage, which, with my diplomatic tags, was easy enough to do. I walked into the Patpong red light district and went to a gay bar that had a male prostitute massage parlor and brothel in the floors above it.

Kiro Hirowatha, a little Japanese man of nearly fifty, who had magic hands and who owned the place, gave me a big smile when he saw me enter the bar. Kiro was a magician with the massage. He also was a magician in the use of his hands for other pleasures. I lay on his table and after he’d gotten me mellow with his deep massage, I felt his hand wrap around my erection, and I lay there and moaned. I was purring and completely relaxed when he’d gotten me off with his hands and then climbed up onto my prone body, mounted me, and rode my ass to heaven.

I was quite sure that Kiro wasn’t attached to any of the world’s intelligence agencies. But, then again, who could be sure of that?