Orwun

Orwun had slided up to me in the throng seething along the sidewalk. Ignored her initially, as all the other ladies. Would stand there my statutory few hours, suddenly nodding to one or the other, always eyes waiting... drift back together to the room. Orwun had been persistent, probably very broke, the rent for her room due and no money ... usual with the majority of these ladies. Always hanging on to the last moment before putting in an appearance, trying to claw back enough for existence. Their attitude of living only for each day is something everyone could learn.

She had pressed herself closer to me as time slipped by that particular night of our first meeting, finding her one side of me and a girl I had not seen for ages clinging surreptitiously to my arm on my other. Somehow managing to ignore them both in so far as any human being can ignore two others.

Liked my evenings of watching, simply watching. A Voyeur to the core. Liked to read what was in the men's minds.... although all very predictable, nevertheless, one or two originals.

Watch the "Torpedoes" Anyone of which, strolling suggestively in Oxford Street would bring the West End to a standstill. Young, very, dressed usually expensive bikinis, high heeled, long leather boots, straight hair, down beyond the waist, a certain arrogance... something along those lines. The complete answer to every man's fantasy, imagination.

Extremely clever young ladies. Extremely dangerous. Know a few.

Most incredible bodies, if able to pay sufficiently to get near them. Incredibly beautiful... so is a Shark.


Relented finally. Decided to put my hand in my pocket, buy the two girls a drink... not from the Bar... from the Chemist, one quarter of the price... They ran off across the road together through the myriad, madly rushing, motor cycles. Smiling now, although dubious of which one would make it back to the room.
Tired, suddenly. The food carts being pushed into place, their aromas mixed in with the heavy smell from the dustbins... people drifting away.
Raw tourists... Husbands, holding hands with stern faced wives, long gone back to the Package Hotel, only able to dream of what may have been, what could have been.
The men had looked at me, at my position against the post.
Black leather trousers, black shirt, black boots, black leather peaked cap. Heavy silver bracelet with the names of all my known children engraved upon it, this, hanging from my wrist. A "young" woman pressed each side of me. Looked ... could see the wheels going round in their bewildered heads.
The noise, the confusion, the heavy, all permeating atmosphere of Sex beating from between hundreds of hot, impatient thighs.
The wives, a hard stare in their eyes. I had escaped them, not shackled, unfettered, free. My face blank. Long stopped smiling or giving any indication of my thoughts... stopped bothering with these people from that Western World controlled by Women.

A weakened Matriarch Society.

The Fall…

The Decline.

Stepped down finally into the road. 3.30 a.m. Heavy Beat from the disco above the bar stopped, girls walking down the wide stairway in two's and three's, about twenty men standing at the bottom in order to get a better view of the goods on offer, or simply watch the legs, the breasts, no funds for anything other than this cheap thrill. The two girls hesitated, I had not given any indication of a preference, did not have one. All cats being grey in the Dark. They had both stood with me, uncomplaining, for a long time. It could only be a three up situation, although some girls refusing to concede to this, both following as I picked my way along the long line of parked motorcycles, trying to find mine, could never remember where I left it. Pulled it out, pushed my big backside far forward as possible, making room for both of them. The choice theirs. No hesitation. First one climbed on behind me, then the other.

Moved slowly off into the dying embers of the night, could feel the first faint, soft dawn breeze, a slight chill in the air, a freshness. Slowly round to the "Arab quarter" dodging the deep ruts and pot holes littering the roadway... thirty or forty different stalls, a quite amazing variety of food catering for tastes from Cambodia, Laos, Burma. Put my backside on a rickety seat, sent the girls off for food. For perhaps a couple of pounds finishing up with more than we could eat, cooked while you wait, Dubious about the sea food, had been caught by that once, although it did look delicious, two girls stuffing themselves as if no tomorrow, chopsticks swirling round the half dozen bowls balanced on the broken table. Probably not eaten for a couple of days, anything other than a handful of rice.


Getting light, Buddhist Monks up and out, started doing their rounds standing in front of shops, stalls, mob handed, waiting to be given food ... waiting to be given.... We climbed back on the bike drifted down Soi 2 ... to the Palm Villa, a sprawling place, combination of hotel and bungalows at the back, all set in a tropical garden. Always suited me ... no one to check you in, no one to check you out, an anonymity. A huge bed, the Thai's always get their priorities right, a fan, a couple of broken chairs, small table stool, toilet, shower. What more is there to have? With the bungalows there is always the possibility of hearing the groans of other people's orgasms, which can be quite loud, quite disturbing ... some girls scream a lot although this is not often, anyway it is totally ignored. Always suited me, always pleased to sink into the room with its high roof, lizards clinging to the open rafters.

Not going to be any apparent problem with my solution of three in a bed. Obviously, also, not going to be any Lesbianism.

Both shivering, both hesitant, their naked, soft, cool bodies slipping between the sheets one either side of me. My mind drifted to "Dear Susan" encapsulated in Bishops Stortford, the green rolling fields of Hertfordshire, the Church spire so clearly seen from the M11. The rupture over that building between her mother and myself. Susan's abhorrence at my decision to leave her that Xmas and go to Thailand, tired of her ranting, her ravings, smiled in the half light of day arm about each slightly nervous young woman.