Gay Boy Thailand

On the flight to Penang a young African guy came up and asked for help filling out the Malaysian immigration form.

He looked like a boy. I guessed he was 20. His passport from one of the seriouosly messed up African countries said he was 32. He was born on the first of January, the passport said. Like in Thailand such a date suggests nobody knows when he was born.

I thought it was strange he needed help to fill out the form. He had been to Malaysia before, he said. And when I left some fields unanswered he easily filled in the missing info without my help.

The African was nerveous. He twisted in his seat while I filled out the form for him. I felt he had something else he wanted to speak about. But what? I waited. The African guy measured me. He never went back to his own seat but he remained silent.

By chance I checked into the same hotel in Penang as the African boy. We both share an exclusive taste in el cheapo hotels. I saw the African sitting outside on a bench. Again he looked like he wanted to tell me something. And again he didn’t.

I wonder if I should help him. Should I walk over and say: “Hello. Do you have 25 million US dollar left over from the former dictator of Congo that you will give me a quarter of if only you can use my bank account to transfer the money?”

Or how about: “Hi. Are you the guy who has a hundred thousand dollar in ink-stained notes which I for a small sum can buy the chemicals to wash clean?”

I know. I have a suspicious mind. Maybe this chap is innocent. Maybe he is not playing the tricks certain other West Africans in Bangkok play. But he is up to something. If I meet him again I hope he will give me the full performance. I need it for the blog.