Unlocking Nguyen's Secrets

[Note: this is an entry in an "exactly 750-words" writing exercise. ]

"See one you like?" the manager of the Chiang Mai male brothel asked as we stood in front of the window display of male prostitutes. The German tourist, Dieter, but only for today—usually a U.S. military intel officer named Peter working the war raging in Vietnam to the east of Thailand—pretended to mull the offerings. He had a possessive arm around me. He wasn't looking just for himself. He was looking for us, and we'd followed the old Vietnamese colonel in and made sure he was among those standing by.

"You said there would be a discount if we let others watch."

"Yes, of course. Your friend here is a beauty. He'll be a great draw."

"Then that one. The tall, muscular bull with the mean look."

"Ah, yes. Han. He is Thai-Chinese and very strong. As you see, very well equipped. He will give good sport."

Han did, indeed, give good sport in a large room, with the three of us on a platform and others, including the Vietnamese, Nguyen, watching.

"Dieter" sat to the side at first, watching Han fuck me, me on my back on the low couch, holding my legs raised and spread, while Han moved between my thighs, mounted, penetrated, and fucked me in a deep-penetrating missionary position. At length "Dieter" came into the scene, brushing Han aside, turning me on my belly, mounting me, and riding me in the doggy position.

No one who was watching, including the Vietnamese, Nguyen, left until we'd come.

* * * *

I entered the shop near the Khlong Toei docks in Bangkok, moving beyond the teak cabinets and porcelain elephant tables to the jewelry display cabinet. The proprietor—Nguyen—tall, gaunt, hard-bodied, craggy but commanding of face and bearing, came from the back through the beaded curtains. He recognized me immediately but said nothing. I made no indication that I recognized him. I was just a young American checking out Vietnamese export goods.

"You see anything you like?" he asked, the sweep of his hand celebrating the jade and emerald jewelry.

"Yes, I love this opal ring set in gold, but it is too rich for my pocketbook," I said.

"Perhaps we can make an arrangement," he said.

I looked up in feigned surprise. "An arrangement?" I asked.

"I saw you in Chiang Mai at the Golden Phallus," he said. "I see something now that I like. Perhaps . . . for the ring . . ."

"Yes, perhaps," I agreed.

* * * *

We lay, stretched out against each other in the near dark of a small room behind the shop, both naked. He was old, but in the dim light he was quite bearable, thin and sinewy, the marks of battle on his body. His hands were slim, his fingers long and sensuous. He knew what to do with them to arouse and he did it. He played my body like a violin, both of us in erection—his a long, commanding one.

The old woman had just left, handing him an opium pipe. He offered it to me and I took a drag, trying not to inhale more than necessary, but needing to convince him I was yielding and willing. He took several drags, then putting the pipe aside, he ran an arm under me and turned and raised me toward him. I knew what he wanted and gave it to him. I saddled on his shaft and moaned as I descended on it. Rise and fall; rise and fall.

The opium was setting in and I lowered my face to his to catch what he might reveal and to suggest what he could reveal.

Rise and fall; rise and fall.

* * * *

I met Peter in a rent-by-the-half-hour hotel on Sathorn Road.

"Did he reveal anything of his operation in sending intelligence to Hanoi?" Peter asked.

"Yes, not much at first and probably not much this time. But the deeper he was pulled into the opium, the more he revealed," I answered, turning my new opal ring set in gold around on my finger.

"Do you think he wants you to return to him?"

"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure he wants me to come back—and to come for him again."

"How will he—?"

"I work out of the Always Ready House in Patpong. He will reach me there."

"Good. Now, lie down on the bed and spread and raise your legs. We don't have much time."