Gay Boy Thailand

Malaysia by night

As usual the boys could not resist me. I am cursed by my dazzling looks and all that.

As usual gorgeous guys half my age chased me around, and as usual it broke their hearts when I told them I had a boyfriend in Bangkok.

I met a Chinese boy in the gay bar, a sweet hairdresser aged 23. He was dressed in white. His boyfriend, who arrived twenty minutes after I had put Chinese boy on my lap for a cuddle, was dressed in black.

The boyfriend thought the Chinese boy behaved like a slut. I considered myself neutral. It wasn’t my fault that the Chinese boy used me as a bar stool.

The boyfriend went to dance and Chinese boy said it was complicated. No, they had not broken up, actually they were not really boyfriends either, or maybe they were, but in any case his friend was upset.

Chinese boy hugged me and said he wanted to cry.

—

I asked the manager if there were moneyboys among his guests.
- You want one? asked the manager.
- I am curious how things work here, I said.
- It can be hard to tell, said the manager. - But I suspect there are some. If they approach you and ask you to buy them a drink they are usually money. Ordinary guests buy their own drinks.
- Are they gay?
- Most of the rentals are straight, said the manager. - And most of them are Malay.

This was useful to know, as it ruled out the Chinese. Well, most of the Chinese. You never know.

When leaving I saw a couple of street-wise and dark-skinned boys make eye contact. They looked straight.

—

I asked for an old friend, Cute Boy. Cute Boy is not someone I would trust, as he has a habit of helping himself to property which doesn’t belong to him. But he is so good looking I can’t get him out of my mind. He is one of those people I am friends with against my better judgement.

Cute Boy is hard to find. I am not in Malaysia often enough to keep track of him. He is a restaurant waiter by trade, but where he works and lives seems to change every time I visit the country. He doesn’t have a phone, probably because he is unable to handle money.

Cute Boy said that next time I came to Malaysia I could ask his friend The Pirate. The Pirate would know where he was.

I saw The Pirate on a street corner. He was selling illegal movies and other pirate goods.
- Have you seen Cute Boy? I asked.
- No, said The Pirate.
- He has gone to Indonesia, said another pirate.
- Actually he is dead, said The Pirate.
- Dead? From what? I asked.
The Pirate mimicked a drug overdose.

I didn’t know Cute Boy was doing drugs. For all I knew maybe he was. But dead? Just like that? I didn’t know Cute Boy was an illegal immigrant from Indonesia either, due to be deported. He had said he was a local.

The Pirate came running after me.
- Kidding, said The Pirate.
- Kidding about what?
- Cute Boy is not dead. I was joking.
- Not very funny.
- Cute Boy is over there, eating, said The Pirate and pointed. - Do you want to talk to him?
- OK.
- You give me a tip and I find him for you.
- All right.

A silence followed.
- A tip, said The Pirate.
- I understand, I said.
- You give me the tip first. Then I go find Cute Boy for you.
- You find Cute Boy. Then I give you a tip.
- No, no. Tip first. Then I find your friend.
- Wrong. Number one you find Cute Boy. Number two I give you a tip when you bring him here.
- Tip is number one, said The Pirate.
- Forget it, I said.

Thus ended my search for Cute Boy.