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Thursday, May 1, 2014

The Hidden Fruit of Sala Daeng Road

Basil Papademos



When it's rainy and cold like today, here in this generic east coast city, I long for Bangkok’s sublime undercurrent, the heat of well disguised openness. A woman working a sidewalk fruit stand on densely packed Sala Daeng Road, near my place. Empirical evidence indicates certain East Asian women signal interest with a downward sideways scowl then eyes coming up for the quick glance you’ll miss if you’re not watching for it. They have no trouble speaking clearly without words.

It's wildly erotic heat made of anticipation, guesswork and possibilities. Our process takes a few weeks of brief encounters. We negotiate terms as I buy her fruit every morning near my apartment. Her looks become more intrusive, a harder set to her mouth. Then a bitten lip, a finger drawn slowly down her neck and along her collar bone. Finally, she loiters on her stool for a long minute before bothering to serve me, legs crossed, one sandal dangling and lets it fall.

Her eyes hold me as her bare foot wraps around the back of her calf when she stands to chop my fruit. Her tongue flicks out for an instant, then a disdaining look, eye to eye: This is the hot bitch in me - if you can see it, you thick-skulled white clod. I take the clear plastic bag of sliced watermelon and pineapple from her hand and drop my apartment building's business card behind the counter top, #603 written on the back. It disappears under her palm.

As I turn to leave, she gives me a quick, nasty squint and thrown up chin, dismissing the nosy looks of her fellow street peddlers. Her hatred rises like incense and powerful confirmation. It's a learned thing most white guys never pick up on, which results in impatiently paying for a very cheap dissociative blow job, as if the blower is absentmindedly carrying out some chore back at the village homestead, milking the old water buffalo.

A few hours later, after the stands are shut down, rather than go back to her room shared with a sister and another hometown girl, I get a quiet knock on the door, open it just enough to pull her in and kiss her hard against the back of my door. I feel for what kind of body she’s got, feel her quiver and exhale. Small, firm breasts, tight ass flexes in my hands.

I pick her up and toss her on the bed, pull off her sweaty dusty work clothes and pull her into my lovely SE Asian shower, those big bathrooms completely tiled so the whole thing is a shower, lay us on the floor under the cool water, look her over. A stocky peasant build, strong legs and shoulders, smooth reddish brown silk skin, work calloused hands and a crooked smile, an edge of playful evil.

I take a lotta time, wash her dirty feet and oily hair and much to her surprise, shave her well defined little bush of raven's black soft straight pubic hair. She watches with curiosity, examines her virginally naked cunt, shyly spreads herself open for me, taking an intense interest as I suck on her pussy, suck on her tiny powerfully tight asshole that's only ever known shit. I throw her wet on the bed, fuck her and laugh with her, find out she speaks only a little Thai, being a Shan or Kutchin or Red Wa tribal girl without papers, always one unpaid micro bribe from prison or deportation.

Her body is craving and aroused and she mutters in her language then dives onto my cock like a black mambo curling mouth and tongue round, imitating the snatches of bad Japanese porn she’s seen at the video stall next to where she sells fruit. The first blow job she's ever given but everyone says East Asians are good mimics. I show her how to squeeze my balls as hard as I like. It fascinates her. She watches my face while squeezing harder and harder.

Her belly lines are proof there’s a child mom looks after back in the hamlet. She’s never been pussy sucked and never swallowed cock. I roll her sideways and she takes the first open handed smack on her ass in stoic silence. I’m tempted to use my belt. She goes onto her stomach and raises her strong ass, spreads her legs. The whipping is mid-grade, nothing drastic. I force her hand down to her pussy. She pulls her cunt tight and doesn’t make a sound, closing her eyes with a swoon of relief.

She gets dressed slowly, looking over my place, calculates if I’d be worth something bigger, how well her clan could live here. But my apartments are always bare, an open bag on the floor, this laptop on a desk covered in scrawled notebooks, full ashtrays and motorcycle magazines, as if it’s inhabited by an aging adolescent escapee.

She’d never ask so I hold out a one thousand baht note, more than a week’s fruit stand wages. She takes the money, puts her hands together at her chin and bows her head, thanks me in Thai.