Author: Jay J Carr
Date: 2015-12-17 05:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Pink Gorilla Multimedia Publishers

That Place

Jay J. Carr

© 2015 Jay J. Carr

Jay J. Carr asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this book. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

Published by Pink Gorilla Multimedia Publishers

London – Cape Town – Los Angeles

1st edition.

ISBN-13: 978-1522769859

ISBN-10: 1522769854

ASIN- B019JI18YU

Distributed through CreateSpace and digitally through Kindle.

“There is much about That Place that will leave the reader speechless and shocked, but the author’s intention isn’t as much about shocking his readers as it is about chronicling the deconstruction of one man’s life and this he does most effectively. If there’s anything to be gleaned about That Place, it would be that we all have one; that place, that incident, that special secret in our past which we may not necessarily want disclosed to anyone else. But no matter how careful we are, how closely we guard our secret, there’s always a risk that someone will find out.” – Readers’ Favorite

It’s not a secret if no one asks…

0.

Press Release: For Immediate Release-

Statement from the Peace Prize Committee:

The committee is privileged to award the annual Peace Prize to:

– Professor Barry Cunningham and the Institute for Mediation and Peace Studies from New Jersey, the United States of America –

Professor Cunningham has worked tirelessly for peace in his country and around the world. His inspiring work into truth commissions and utopian spaces has considered the element of dignity as a bridge to conflict.

He has documented how through an acknowledged engagement with others, through examining atrocities, that real healing can take place. This is best documented in his academic work of which ‘The Road to Dignity: Moving from acts of dignity to acts of giving dignity’ published in thirty-seven languages is his most significant contribution to peace studies.

In addition, he set up the Institute for Mediation and Peace Studies in New Jersey in order to provide an educational opportunity to students within New Jersey, the United States of America and abroad. The Institute has been a bastion of scholarly engagement and learning and has produced many graduates who have made very real changes in their communities and countries alike.

To use the words of Professor Cunningham:

What is dignity?

Is it a word, is it being humble, or is it an action?

It may be all of these things-

But we can choose to “give” dignity to someone, it is a direct act, it is the act of giving, the act of transferring.

When we do this we empower to make the difference and restore hope to all that come into contact with the act of dignity.

It is the hope that in our lifetime, we will be witness to this.

Part 1

New Jersey-

1.

He stands hidden behind a curtain trying to be inconspicuous. He looks out of his kitchen window - which frames a view of the university - the back of a mountain and a piece of controversial land which stands vacant and on which you can see people taking their dogs in the early morning or afternoon, which has been aptly called a community park.

Today however, it is different because coupled with all these things is a pack of reporters; not a quiet group of people gathered together awaiting a news conference; not a group of professionals acting in an appropriate manner; this is a pack of hungry rabid animals wanting to be the first to urinate on him and mark their territory. These reporters have taken over the community park and have set up camp on the land.

He peers out every now and then, wishing that the crowd would abate but it is the opposite, as more and more parasites come looking for something to feed on. He has had to disconnect the electronic doorbell. The rings had not stopped and came incessantly for almost an hour - until the chiming sound had driven him to near insanity. As he looks out he notices mobile lights set up so that the reporters are illuminated even though the sun is shining.

The phone call had punctuated his early morning sleep. He had taken it as a hoax at first. However, after the third call and confirmation from the television, he had been awarded the most prestigious prize in the world. He watched the screen as obscure photographs of himself flashed by for the world to see and as he clutched the remote control he pushed wildly until the television switched off. At this point his cellular phone and landline did not stop ringing. He watched as his hands ripped out the battery of his phone and yanked the telephone from its socket – trying to restore calm. If his partner would only answer his damn phone he could let him know what happened and ask him to please come home. He panicked. He was terrified and his throat and whole mouth had gone dry as he struggled to swallow.

Those ‘new age gurus’ always talk about those moments in life which are surreal. Ones in which you wander around like a somnambulist waiting to be woken from the trance. It was a lie, a big fat lie. This was not how he felt. He had energy pulsing through every vein in his body - he was having hot flushes - he had a deep sense of terror that would not find its denouement. And then there was a silence, one in which he could not hear anything. It was a scalding silence.

What had just happened, he kept thinking?

In order to try and distract himself, he switches on the television again and rather than sit, stands behind the sofa moving around like a caged animal. The two commentators on the television are debating the choice of the recipient – him.

One commentator named Lucy, with her Washington drawl, chuckles when the reason for the award and subsequent justification is ‘sound clipped’ in. The press statement from the committee says:

The Committee has awarded the prize to Professor Barry Cunningham for his groundbreaking research on dignity and negotiation as seen in utopian spaces. Adopting the power of truth commissions to overcome the spirals of ongoing violence is a fine example of the kind of work that should be produced by academics to contribute to Peace Studies. The Institute of Peace Studies is indeed a place that has helped young minds come to terms with dealing with violence and hatred within their communities …

Lucy’s face dominates the screen as the chuckles subside and is replaced by a guffaw, “And next the literature prize is going to go to a blogger. A science fiction or Harry Potter blogger.” More cackles. “The choice is ludicrous. It’s taken a prize, which has other recipients that read like a who’s who of amazing people, and made it insignificant.”

He finds it difficult not to disengage from what is being said, as this is about him. It had only been four hours since the announcement and yet they had images of the Institute flashing everywhere - his picture profile on LinkedIn; pictures of him from different stages of his life, which must have been produced by getting one of his Facebook friends to share them. His life, which had largely been nondescript, had exploded into a microscopic dissection by the media.

Then it happens, his energy starts to slowly drain. He feels his body losing power. He stops hearing the noise on the television. Is this what a stroke feels like he wonders? All he can do is lie down on the sofa, while his two dogs, his two fluffy poodles, snuggle in with him sensing something is wrong and he goes into a deep sleep.

Bangkok-

2.

Tod Hanson loved and hated his job. He was scouring the streets of Bangkok looking for the meeting place where the senior producer of the network has instructed him to meet.

How can people live here? The heat is intense and he feels at times that he is being suffocated with a wet towel. He is sure he has lost at least a third of his body weight due to the large amount of sweat pouring out and down his sticky clothing, which by now was completely sopping wet. Today, Tod Hanson hated his job.

Trailing behind him was the local cameraman who did not even demonstrate one sign of being hot, just to highlight the Britishness of Tod. His ‘kin’ was dragging a camera as well as the equipment for the shoot.

This wasn’t Tod’s first time in Bangkok, having enjoyed a wicked period backpacking through Thailand with three of his best university mates. He hadn’t noticed the heat then as they were focused on other things. But that was over ten years ago and clearly things had changed.

He remembered the first time staying in Khao San Road and thinking that the whole of Thailand was geared towards drunken degenerates like himself, only to be rudely awakened when he visited the centre of Bangkok and saw a fully functional first world city. It was this kind of contradiction that made him so confused and yet aware of the hidden charms of the land of smiles.

The cameraman motioned towards the Starbucks at the end of Sala Daeng Station. He was so relieved that they had arrived and that he would soon be in the comfort of air-conditioning. He hurriedly pushed open the doors and the waft of cool air swept over him - at last.

Inside cocooned behind a laptop, an iPad, an iPhone and a frozen drink of some sort sat Hurtle Jones, the senior producer and possibly the slimiest geezer on the bureau. Jones will without doubt tell anyone, who is willing to listen, how he is named after the Patrick White character (not that anyone knows who the hell Patrick White is) and that his mother was a fan and wrote her Masters thesis on the figurative whappedee doo da whatever. Hurtle was in charge of all news stories of the upper South East Asian countries from Thailand to Myanmar. Tod had the unfortunate experience of working with him on a story in Laos during the uprisings there; as well as in Myanmar during the religious skirmishes between the Muslims and the Buddhists. Due to those experiences with Hurtle he dreaded this assignment.

When he had been assigned the peace prizewinner story he was elated, as he would be going to New Jersey in the good old USA, a rare opportunity for a field reporter. Good food and wine next door in New York City, a quick shoot focusing on an overview of the winner’s life and then later the ceremony in Oslo. He had no idea he would be coming to Thailand but then no one did, as he would have turned down the assignment for sure. Tod hated Hurtle that much and made no qualms about it. Similarly, Hurtle couldn’t have cared less and openly said Tod was insignificant and did not matter.

Hurtle motioned with his free hand that was not clutching the iPad and moved his face slightly to ensure the continued balance of the phone which was tucked under his chin, while he pointed to the open chairs as if to give Tod permission to sit. He decided to ignore the action and instead went ahead and ordered himself a drink from the counter.

The cameraman on the other hand, sat dutifully and awaited further instructions from his boss.

Tod retrieved his drink taking extra long to locate a straw and some sugar. The fact that the drink was an iced coffee further helped his cause as the sugar took a long time to dissolve. Even with the whole charade when he finally sat down at the table Hurtle was still jabbing his finger on the iPad screen and yelling orders into the phone.

“Cunt,” Hurtle yelled, as he threw the phone onto the table, his thick Australian accent cutting through the quiet coffee shop.

Tod decided not to take the cue and simply ignored him. “So any biters?”

“Hello to you too, Tod,” Hurtle guffawed out, expelling a burp. “Well, I think I have found the first credible source - not that the caretaker of hookers is one - but anyway this bloke says he remembers Cunningham coming to the bar and going off with one of the rentboys.”

“How many customers go through one of these places a night?” he asked cautiously.

“Who cares? Every queer and his dog. Can’t say I am there counting them in and out, Matey. But you can ask all the questions you want to the Mama-san.”

“What the hell is a Mama-san?” Tod enquired.

“It’s a person in Thailand who is in charge of entertaining the guests and ensuring that they leave with a hooker.” Hurtle winked at Tod, while the cameraman looked down and then he let out another burp stifled with a laugh.

“Right,” Tod said, and also felt himself averting his eyes in solidarity with the cameraman.

“Matey, you are going to have to familiarize yourself with all of this go-go bar talk if you are going to cover this story. And even more so gay-for-pay talk.” Hurtle was imitating a limp wrist as he said this, and then chuckled again.

“I guess I will,” Tod said.

"So have you ever been into a go-go bar?" Hurtle asked him condescendingly.

"Well," said Tod, not sure how to answer, "went to a ping pong show when I was a backpacker here."

"Oh, please!" Hurtle shot back. "They are not the real thing … I mean have you paid for sex?"

"Oi Hurtle!" he shot back, the sarcasm evident. "I am not the person who was awarded the peace prize and who has a double life."

"Touchy, touchy, Matey. Just asking so that you can know what the scoop is on the story." Hurtle spat.

"I don't think I have to pay for sex to get the scoop on the story."

Hurtle looked at him and laughed that stupid laugh. "All right, don't get your knickers in a tangle. I won't say anymore in case you feel I am offending you." With this he roared and then quickly fluttered his eyelids and muttered, "Mister, I give you good time."

Tod wondered what was wrong with this guy. "Well hot shot have you paid for sex?"

Hurtle shot back with a voice like a juvenile, "I am not the person who was awarded the peace prize and has a sordid past."

"Funny one," Tod said, before pulling out his phone and pretending to answer a text.

Hurtle wasn't finished. "I don't have to pay for it. There are plenty of loose women roaming this city wanting foreign dick."

Tod ignored the statement and looked through all his applications on his phone but there were no messages.

Hurtle went quiet and stopped after that. There was an awkward silence and tension that lasted for a few minutes as each man interfaced with their technology pretending that the other one was not there.

"I have written your opening and we are going to shoot now. But tonight you are going to have to come back and do the primary shots as well as get the low down on this place. Tomorrow, I have lined up an interview with the Mama-san. The Mama-san is trying to get hold of the rentboy that Cunningham screwed to come down to Bangkok for an interview. Says he has gone back to his home village. I have offered a lot of cash to get him here as quickly as possible. Imagine that exclusive and breaking it before the other networks even know what is happening. I had to be very discreet about it. I noticed some activity here and have seen other producers doing the rounds ever since the story broke in the tabloids yesterday. You will notice the odd sound bite and story being broadcast from the Soi. Oh fuck it you won’t know that word either. The street, alley … whatever, where the bars are. No one wants to speculate too much until a source is confirmed. Luckily, with a little but of wheeling and dealing, as well as knowing the Commissioner of Police who happens to be the biggest ladyboy fan around, I was able to get the information. When we shoot we are going to do them from the front like everyone else not to draw attention to ourselves. I have organized for you to meet the Mama-san at a hotel round the corner. Rooms are rented by the hour!” Another guffaw, wink and choke. Followed by, “Going to have to put that one through the expense account as ‘courier services’ like any of these are.”

While finishing off the ‘lecture’ he was at it with the multitasking and everything was packed away swiftly. “Any questions?”

Tod had a hundred but now was not the time to ask. He got to his feet and threw his half finished drink into the trashcan, ready to take on the heat once more.

That Place-

3.

The rain is falling in the late afternoon. A ray of sunlight has broken through the clouds and is reflected as it catches the river that weaves through the city below. He sits in the window of his room in the hotel. It is a huge ledge that you can easily lie on top of and look out of the window. Below him lies the city of Bangkok - the lights, fumes, movement and people carrying on with their daily business. He is detached from the heat and humidity that threatened to suffocate him earlier in the day when he went walking through the streets. The room is icy cold - thanks to the air conditioning - and he lies peacefully.

He thinks back to yesterday - the agreed meeting; the man looking him over to see whether he would suffice; the sex that ensued; the time that went by as the guy took forever to come. He had enjoyed himself but he now realises he was the only one. No return call and all the messages he had sent were unread. It was the only person on the website who had been interested in meeting up and the rejection was obvious.

He has hit an all time low, as he can no longer take being judged for his looks. The time spent trawling through the websites looking for possible meets. Being rejected in the first instance if you did not look good enough. Then the actual meetings where comments like, ‘you look different to the photo,’ have started to erode his confidence in what he looks like. Maybe he is ugly – he is starting to believe it. So much for all that shit about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. It was more like your body was the in the dick of the beholder.

He is transported back to his university days. Spending weekends in the bar and not one taker. Not even someone noticing him. It all added up and he knew if he was honest with himself, a reason for his low self-esteem and constant thoughts of suicide had to be linked to it. Thinking about this he lets out a laugh as he considers what his suicide note would look like. It would contain five simple words – ‘Because I was not beautiful’.  He can joke even with himself but then the reality returns and he no longer smiles.

However, as much as he tries not to think about it, he keeps thinking about yesterday. The humiliation.

Today he spent hours going through the various websites and chatrooms but to no avail. It was during this time that he had read about the Soi, an alleyway, a magical place where men were available for ‘pay’ and could be selected from a line up. Sounded too good to be true. Part of him could not entertain the idea of this. There was morality, or was there? No it wasn’t about morality it was about being judged by others yet again for his choices. In order to justify it he thought about all the strip bars all over the world for straight men. Why not for his kind?

So he had decided to go and find ‘that place’ where it all unfolded. He had made notes and drawn a rough map on how to get there which was a replica from a website he had found. The Soi was within walking distance of his hotel; he had validated this online. It was not something he could ask the concierge for help with. He decided to go in the daytime - tracing a route there - so that when he needed to go back in the evening it would be easier.

The humidity was thick, sticky and there was sweat which poured from his face. He felt dehydrated and found it difficult to breathe. However, he was determined to see if this place really existed. He had wondered aimlessly down streets but it was only later that he realized he was not looking for an alleyway with cars but a walking street. The Soi had possibly been a street for vehicles at some point but the bars and clubs had encroached on it. Now it was simply a small lane to be walked through. The only giveaway sign was when you looked up and saw the name boards, connecting the various buildings together, with names like ‘Sex Bomb’ and ‘Dick Delight’, which gave no doubt that this was gay cargo for sale.

The lane was lifeless. As he looked at the various establishments he noticed various bars, bars and massage parlors but the doors that led to these were closed. There was a stench of alcohol and sewage and puddles of water everywhere. As he continued his way down the Soi, there inconspicuously in the middle of it was a café and it was open. The lights were on and there was activity inside. The café was set up like a chic Ibiza restaurant with all the chairs facing forward as if towards the ocean. The small tables big enough to hold a plate and drink. What was it doing here? Do people lounge and eat during … He was drawn to it and sat down. The only customer. The only human on the street.

A waiter had appeared and brought him a menu. There was a large selection of Western food. He didn’t have to guess about the clientele. He had laughed out loud for the second time that day. He ordered a grilled sandwich, fries and a coffee. The waiter was small, shy and nodded before disappearing inside.

It was while he was sitting there that he had the time to look around at each detail of the Soi and was still confused. He knew it must be different at night but there was nothing to indicate that it was any degenerate place. This made him relax and calm down about visiting later in the evening. His only concern now was how to face the others visiting. He decided to deal with that later.

The sandwich and coffee had arrived and he asked, “Really quiet?”

The waiter did not talk but simply smiled and disappeared. It had got him thinking about communication and the challenges associated with it. Could this affect the outcome of the evening?

The walk home was different and he realised that it is much closer than he had initially thought - two blocks.

And now as this thoughts return to the room and the ledge he is sitting on, the beauty of the river and the setting sun can be seen below.

New Jersey -

4.

It is a tunnel, a tunnel punctuated by a terrifying sound. It is a siren wailing in pain. The tunnel get fuzzier and fuzzier and he wakes up from the dream because the noise from the street is unbearable. The onslaught of the press has resulted in the already busy street taking extra strain. It is commuter time and the bottleneck that has been created erupts into chaos. There is hooting, shouting, and the noise of pedestrians caught in the crossfire and now the sirens of the police.

How does he deal with this? No book exists which reads- ‘How to deal with fame in ten seconds’. However, this is not true as all of what society consumes of late is the famous adage,  ‘ten seconds of fame’. This is different though, the fames whores had sought their pseudo-fame – he had not. Although, he had smiled when alumni from the Institute had proposed him for a nomination for the prize a year ago, he knew it could and would never happen. It was after all his students wish, so he had obliged as one does to a small child who wants you to play hide and seek, when you know where they are hiding and pretend not to see. Thus, he had not thought about it again.

He is not someone noteworthy. He doesn’t even think that the Institute is known outside of Jersey, let alone the rest of the US. Have they not made a really big mistake?

The first book he had written was not even published by a publisher. It was self-published with one click. With another click it was available all over the world. The second book about dealing with national guilt had been published locally but received a lukewarm response and not many sales. His ‘real’ publisher had mentioned that there was more interest abroad than locally. Then there was the Institute and this was where he was the biggest faker. He had set it up because he was struggling to find a job outside of consulting that he was doing with the odd NGO and state department. A friend had helped with the accreditation and curriculum development, which he had no knowledge of. It had started small with a few students, a sub-leased premises of another educational institution and had grown a little bit with the help of international funding. The draw card was there were no student fees it was subsidized through funding. Even though he was a sham, this was his wish that he could allow learning to be accessible by all but the truth be told it attracted brilliant minds who wanted to study but could not afford it. As time went by and the Institute got noticed, more and more funding was provided to those who had the same passion as he did, which was in healing, restoring equilibrium to troubled souls, communities, countries.

This wasn’t noteworthy though; it was not groundbreaking work which had the potential to change the world. He was not invited to international conferences as a keynote speaker; he had to pay to speak like most other pseudo-academics, to save face and show that the Institute had some academic credibility.

Could they not see? He was a fraud. He was not an academic. He was a self-proclaimed and fabricated professor. Surely, they had checked this when they were selecting a candidate?

He finds himself cautiously returning to the spot at the kitchen window where he can peek at the circus outside. Now that the light is fading; now that the hyenas are more exposed than him; the fear and panic start to return. The extreme lighting used by the various television stations, with their reporters ablaze is what remains outside on the other side of the street. Next to his safe space, his home, the only other place he knows he is protected.

There are yelping noises and he looks down to see his ‘baby’, she wants to go for a walk and bounces and claws at him. “Not tonight darling.” Picking her up he kisses her comforted by the warmth that she offers.

His partner is hopefully on his way home from the airport. Any hope of an early return has now faded. He needs some calm to return to their lives.

Bangkok-

5.

Hurtle had a ‘brainwave’ and insisted on shooting the interview down the lane, which held all the ‘rentboy bars,’ before the other networks put the pieces together. They would do it quietly, in the middle of the day and at a cafe that supposedly overlooked the bar when no one else was around. Tod was disappointed, as he would like to have seen Hurtle explain the hotel that ‘rented’ rooms by the hour to the finance department.

The taxi pulled up to the curb and as he got out he wasn’t sure where to go. There were no obvious signs and he walked up and down the main street until he looked up and saw the ‘real’ signs. As he entered the alleyway he noticed the doors to the left and right. All were shut and there were a few people further in the distance. Half way down he came upon a cafe where Hurtle was in the process of taking over, moving chairs and talking to someone that Tod could not see. The cameraman had started setting up and the camera and stand were soon in place followed by the lights. He watched all of this through the window and decided not to go in until he really had to.

He couldn’t see much but through one of the windows the lights had been focused towards an object. It was then that he saw him/her/it sitting like a prima donna on the cushions, which were plumped up around him. Hurtle saw him and then motioned him to come inside.

As he entered the café he heard a high-pitched sound. “You can get good side,” the Mama-san shrieked and then continued in fits of laughter. No one else seemed to find it funny.

This is why he didn’t understand fags, he thought, as he looked the man in front of him up and down. The hands were not flapping but conducting the air in front of him and the voice shrilled up and down a scale trying to break each side of the sound spectrum.

Hurtle was trying to make small talk and the cameraman had stopped and looked on in horror. So clearly this was not the norm or otherwise he would not have been fazed. Hurtle turned to him and gave that awful wink, and with his head indicated he must come closer, "I would like you to meet the infamous Sak - the Mama-san of 'Boys World' - the critical link in our story."

Tod didn't know what to do? The last thing he wanted to do was to shake this man's hand and yet he could not be rude. Luckily, at the last minute he was able to pull his thoughts back together and he remembered where he was and raised his hands in greeting, "Sawadee-krub ... kub?"

"Ahh, you good. You greet me Thai way," he screeched and returned the greeting. "But you know we are all friend here and you are handsome man. You can hug me." Tod let out a nervous laugh and then gave a fake smile quickly walking back to where the cameraman had set up.

Hurtle, emerging from the shadows said, "So let's go through what we are going to do today and some of the ideas that we have for the interview."

Tod took a seat and gathered his notes. He looked up and saw Sak looking at him with startling intensity and felt remarkably uncomfortable. Better get this over with as quickly as possible.

"So, Tod here," he motioned towards Tod, "is going to ask you some questions about when Cunningham visited here and what you know."

"Ohhh yessss," the voice sang from the pillows.

Hurtle did not entertain it and carried on speaking, "We are not going to give you the questions before as we want spontaneous answers and also we want to make sure that you give the most honest responses.”

The hands were in the air one more time. “Not understand …”

Hurtle raised his eyebrow which was always a sign of irritation. “We will ask you questions.” While he said this he went into condescending mode and pointed at the Mama-san imitating talking. “We will then film the bar and you can walk us through like you agreed,” he imitated walking with his fingers. “You will then show us the process or how this thing works.” Hurtle didn’t imitate any actions for this as clearly he didn’t know what to do. “When we come back tonight we can then do the other shots. Any questions.” It was not a question.

The show was ready to start. The cameraman did the preliminary color checks and then walked over to clip the microphone on. It was at this time that a conversation ensued between the two in Thai but the cameraman had been well briefed and in English stated, "We must talk in English as they do not understand Thai."

The Mama-san was now ready for her debut Tod thought as he/she/it moved from side to side looking like he was going to lay an egg. Finally after much movement he said, "I am readeeeee!"

Tod let out a deep sigh and looking at his subject said, "I will open with a brief introduction about you and then I will start with the questions. The camera will first be on me then will pan and include you in the shot, and once we start we have to keep going. We will not be stopping.” No actions or motions accompanied his explanation.

The Mama-san pouted his lips and was about to say something when Tod motioned to the cameraman and Hurtle with a countdown of his hands.

"Sak, the Mama-san of 'Boys World' has agreed to be interviewed and to share the experiences of the life that goes on beyond these walls. The world in which sex is for sale, a place where men from all over the world flock to fulfill their fantasies and desires." With this he turned to face Sak directly and looking him straight in the eyes asked, "Sak, if you could explain to our viewers at home what a Mama-san is?"

Sak was enjoying this and leaned forward, "I am Sak, a Mama-san. I work at 'Boys World' and love my job."

Tod could see where this was going and quickly intercepted the monologue with, "Maybe if you can explain what a Mama-san does. Their job."

"Of course," the sound erupted back. "A Mama-san welcome the guest to bar and make feel good. I am friend to them. I am help to choose the boy that they want ... They say what they like, muscle boy or young boy, big dick boy or small dick boy then I show boy they want."

“Boy? You mean that they are underage? Under 18 years old?”

“No … no … no we call all boy.”

Tod was happy with this and to make sure that it did not turn into the circus of Sak once again interrupted with, "Well that helps put it into perspective. Maybe you could explain what a customer would typically do once they enter the bar till they leave?"

Sak was not so happy to have been cut off and was showing signs of irritation. Tod noted this and decided to do what he did best, "As the expert we need to hear it from you to understand the day to day running of 'Boys World'."

It worked and Sak once again puffed himself up before raising his hands in animation, "The customer come to the bar. We seat them. Get them drink and make comfortable with joke and laughing. We then find what customer like. What kind of boy. What kind of sex and we find boy that best for customer. Not easy job. We have to know what each boy do and what they are - gay or man." With this he had raised his left eyebrow like Hurtle did, he had to contain himself from laughing and gently bit his cheek. "Once make suggestions then must make sure to get boy quickly to customer in case other customer want boy. Customer buy drink for boy and then they have talk time … and touch. Once customer happy with boy he pay and boy change and go with customer."

“And when you say, ‘go with customer’, you mean to have sex with them?”

“Sex, massage, drinking, get high.”

“High?” he asked, thinking it was another gay term.

“Drug, take drug.”

Tod realized that he should have focused on the sex and quickly asked, “But in most cases for sex right?”

“Sex good.”

The Mama-san cocked his head to Tod as if he expected a round of applause. Hurtle sitting to the left of the Mama-san out of frame was also smiling at Tod and once again gave that awful bloody wink.

Tod professional as always gave that reassuring smile and nod and with a voice of concern, fake but required, "And now tell us what you can remember of that visit where you remember seeing Barry Cunningham visit 'Boys World'." Tod was worried about the next part of the question and made sure to look as trusting as possible. "There must be many customers every day? For you to remember Barry Cunningham he must have left some impression or to put it into other words … he must have been easy to remember?"

Sak did not pick up on the nuance and was quite comfortable to answer, "Oh, we remember customer well. Our job is to remember customer. What they like." Sak reached over the table and took his hand. He nearly jumped out of his skin in fright and every part of his body resisted the action. What was this man trying to do?

Sak's voice had gone all silky and seductive as he said, "Like you my customer." He was stroking his hand and interspersing this with a squeeze every now and then. "I look you. I see you strong man. You like boy not man. You like boy who look like girl. I must remember that."

Tod gently retrieved his hands back and made sure to place them under the table and out of reach of Sak. In his mind he was furiously thinking of what the footage would look like and his face. Disoriented by the move, he focused himself back to the present and without looking at Sak said, "Well if that was the case … but as a straight man maybe I don't understand the intricacies of this, um ... well there we have it."

Sak sat there and looked at him, a half- grimace, half-smile lurking on his lips clearly pleased with what he had done. Oddly he felt some form of respect for Sak in how he had played and lost to his opponent.

"Um, um ... was there anything that stood out about him," Tod asked. He then realized that this didn't sound good and quickly interjected with, "Well something that you can tell us about him."

Sak did not answer immediately, and then after some time said, "He visit many time to bar. We know his face and he like laugh. Boy like him. They say he is kind."

"Kind?" Tod repeated.

"Yes, they say good man. Kind man."

"But, by that, um ... do you mean, he was nice to them?"

"We know who is good man with good heart."

"Anything else you would like to share?" Sak did not respond and stared back at him.

"Right then." Tod looked straight into the camera, "And there you have it from Sak, Mama-san at 'Boys World', who was able to give us some perspective and confirmation that Barry Cunningham visited a gay go-go bar here in Bangkok."

Hurtle did the customary count out and then went over to Sak and loudly said, "Thank you Sak, we really appreciate your participation in this. Our viewers will be pleased." With that he handed over an envelope in full view of all.

Tod felt completely flustered and angrily threw his notes into the backpack he was using. Hurtle looked over his shoulder and this time there was no wink.

"We are going to film inside the bar now," he said to the cameraman. "Tod it may be best if you go back to the hotel, as these are direct shots."

Tod was not sure if this was a rebuttal of how he had reacted in the interview or if it was a time out. "No, I will stay until the end," he replied stubbornly, and as an afterthought, "need to understand all angles of this story."

The bar was dark and dingy and once the lights were switched on, it looked like any cabaret venue. Padded seats lined the walls and in the middle was a stage, a bar on the one side of the wall, and that was it. He could only imagine this full of naked men on a stage and some old randy pedophiles sitting in the seats drooling.

The shots were quick as Sak walked the cameraman through the venue with Hurtle in tow. They were soon deposited outside and he felt dizzy and nauseous. He needed to lie down before they came back so that he could get his energy and focus back.

Hurtle was on his phone immediately. “We need to stay on top of things. It is going to be one of those that we might need to break and quick. I need everyone to be on high alert for quick edits.”

They were directed with that finger once more towards the top of the alley and then into a taxi. Hurtle, the cameraman and himself were squashed in with the equipment and were on their way back to the hotel. The cameraman on cue gave directions of where they needed to go while Hurtle continued to blab. Thank goodness its over Tod thought.

Hurtle ended the call and sighed out deeply. “Bloody staff.”

"I don't trust him," Tod said.

"Who cares, Matey," Hurtle returned, too quickly for comfort.

"There is just something about him," Tod struggled for words, "um, he's ..."

"Gay," Hurtle laughed back. "A man trying to act like a woman and getting it horribly wrong?”

"I didn’t realize that I was that homophobic," He said although unconvincingly.

"The story isn't odd. He mapped out what happens. He confirmed that Cunningham was in the bar and paid to take a ‘boy’. That proves he paid for sex. End of story."

"What about that shit about being a good guy?"

"We can edit it out. It didn't make sense anyway."

"But that's just it ..."

"Listen Matey, we did some checks about the place. And you know its hearsay. You could say that there is no way that people can remember a face, or a person, especially if there are hundreds of people going through a place a day. The point is we don't care. We don't give a fuck. The bottom line is that there are 'sources' and they are either 'reliable' or 'not', either way we don't care as nowadays no one spends time digging, authenticating ensuring that the news is correct. And for fuck's sake we are not CNN, so nobody gives a shit."

Tod chose not to reply and simply sat quietly at the back, mulling over what Hurtle had said.

When Hurtle spoke again, his tone had changed and he was not as cocky as before, "Matey, the man is a brothel madam keeping the customers happy. We are not going to get a clean story."

Tod did not reply again but let the silence do the communicating. There were no more interjections after this and by the time they arrived at the hotel he quickly go out of the cab and climbed the stairs to his room so he didn't have to share the elevator.

That Place-

6.

The sun has set and the room is in darkness. He has been staring into the distance for what feels an eternity.

Another hour passes and he continues to stare but he can’t remember what he is thinking about anymore. He notices the river only because it is one of the only things not illuminated and the silence of the room punctuated only now and then by blasts of air from the air-conditioner.

When he gets up it is his body in charge and not his mind. He watches as he collects his wallet, closes the safe in the room and descends in the elevator. Before he knows it the blast of warm air hits him which brings him back into the real world as he exits the hotel. He decides he will go and have a coffee at Starbucks first and then go. However, he walks straight past Starbucks, he walks with a determination that he does not realize he has. He is now standing directly across from the entrance to the Soi and it is now or never.

Looking left and right, he crosses the road.

The experience now compared to the experience earlier in the day, do not even remotely resemble each other. Where there was silence and drabness before, there is music pumping out of every space, with each bar competing with the next, a barrage of flashing lights, it’s a Vegas style sensory challenge. As he sets foot into the Soi, he is accosted by at least ten people vying for his patronage.

“Sex show …”

“Good boy …”

“Nice drink …”

“Ladyboy …”

“Big cock show …”

His instinct is to turn back and run. He wanted this experience to be subtle and discreet. He wanted to quietly enter a bar while no one watched him go in. He thought that it would be a little busier not like this. So many people are looking at him. He does not want to look like a newbie so he heads for the bar that he has seen on the web with the best show. He is greeted at the door by a Mama-san, who escorts him up the stairs and into the bar.

“Welcome,” he says, while gently leading him inside.

It is everything he is expecting and not. He is led to a seat at the back of the bar.

“Drink?” he is asked.

“Beer.”

For the first time he breathes. He is in a bar! On the stage in front of him are about 100 ‘boys’. The only clothing they wear is underwear. He watches as they slowly circulate around so that you are able to have a good look. Twinks to semi-buffed, to muscle deluxe, the selection of gorgeous ‘boys’ astounds even him. Surely he had died and gone to heaven?

The bar is full, every seat is almost taken and there are a mix of people inside – Asians and Caucasians. He feels he is the youngest inside and there are many older or elderly men in attendance.

While he is looking around a ‘boy’ walks up to the vacant chair next to him and sits down. He is not sure what to do; the ‘boy’ is only wearing underwear and is sitting next to him.

“Hello, Mister,” the ‘boy’ starts.

“Hi,” he says, embarrassed.

“You want fun? I give you massage and fun.”

He smiles and does not say anything back. The ‘boy’ is not his type and when there is so much choice on offer it’s difficult to focus on anything else. For a moment he thinks to the day before, the rejection. Here he was doing it too. He remembers why he is here, it is because he doesn’t want to feel rejected and it is a transaction, one in which both parties get something out of it. He doesn’t want to offend but the ‘boy’ sits next to him.

The ‘boy’ has taken his hand and is gently massaging it. The Mama-san returns with his beer and acts all surprised at what he finds.

“Busy, busy,” he clucks.

“No,” he says in defense.

“I like, I like. You busy man.” He then moves their faces together forcibly, “So cute.”

He feels irritated by the move but also gets the sinking feeling that he is being coerced into something he does not want. So it’s not really a choice, more like a pairing.

“Buy drink. Manners!” the Mama-san orders.

“Sure,” he says, anything to get the attention away from himself.

The ‘boy’ snuggles in and places his head on his shoulder while continuing to gently stroke his arm. He sits and watches the stage trying to look uninterested.

When the Mama-san returns with the ‘boys’ drink, he places himself on the other empty chair.

“Good boy,” he says. “He make you happy.”

Again he smiles. Curiosity gets the better of him and he asks, “How does it work?”

It is the magic cue that opens the door, which the Mama-san has been waiting for.

“You pay ‘off fee’ for boy,” he then points at the ‘boy’ attached to him. “Then you and boy have fun. Pay boy what you like …” but then rehearsed to perfection, “Must pay boy well.”

There is no judgment in his eye for this information. It is shared as the instructions on how to use a new washing machine. The uncomfortable feeling is still hovering over him.

“You need fun,” the Mama-san says, gently reassuring. Clearly he looks like a first timer in need of gentle nudging.

“Show start soon. Good show.”

He is relieved, as this will give him time to think. The lights dim and the ‘boys’ leave the stage.

He enjoys the dancing of the performers and the opportunity to laugh at the drag queens who prance and make fun of the audience. There are also the sex parts of the show. Intercourse with two men ten meters from his seat. One man being turned a full 360 degrees while he is fucked.

This is followed by fooling around of the ‘boys’ in between the sex acts. During the show his hand is locked into another’s and no matter how he tries to free himself, it always gets drawn back.

When the show finishes he has made a decision. He will not be coerced and feel obligated into going with someone. He will try and speak privately to the Mama-san about this. The Mama-san, routinely comes back at the end of the show and once again is cooing and clucking about the ‘boy’.

“You have good time?”

This is interjected with the ‘boy’ saying the same.

“I make you happy Mister.”

He pulls out his money and he gives the ‘boy’ a large tip and says, “Not tonight but thank you.”

The ‘boy’ looks disappointed but stands up, raises his hands in greeting and retreats back into the shadows.

The Mama-san, thinking that he is leaving raises his hands in greeting and he stands up. While they are walking to the exit he sees a ‘boy’ sitting at the back of the bar. He is so handsome. He must be in his twenties, with a light complexion, piercing brown eyes and a smooth body. Twink heaven. That is the kind of guy he would have liked to meet. The Mama-san continues to walk. He gently leans over and says, “I want number 57.” When he looks back the ‘boy’ is gone. He looks around but can’t see him anymore. Another person must have requested him. He is so disappointed.

The Mama-san smiles back and seeing that he is upset says, “What make you happy. I go find for you.” He then motions for him to join him in his quest.

The ‘boys’ are sitting all over the bar, waiting for their turn to go onto the stage. The Mama-san weaves through the customers. He looks and spots the ‘boy’ waiting behind a curtain. A conversation quickly ensues and the ‘boy’ raises his hands in greeting before disappearing again.

“Good choice, Mister,” the Mama-san says. “Boy go change.”

He smiles and waits while the Mama-san quickly writes out a bill and calculates the cost.

He sees the total and pays it without any exchange in conversation.

“Is there anywhere close by where we can go? It’s so that I don’t have to go to my hotel which is far away?”

“Of course, Mister. Close by cheap hotel. Down road. I tell boy take you there.”

Everything is convenient, maybe too convenient.

With that the ‘boy’ arrives and they leave the bar together.

“My name Joe,” he says.

“Nice to meet you, Joe. My name is Barry.”

A shy smile. “Nice meet you. I take you hotel.”

With the ‘boy’ on his arm there is no interference from the touts. And as they make their way further and further back into the Soi the crowds dissipate. The hotel is a two-minute walk from the bar.

The ‘boy’ shows him inside and says to the receptionist, “Short stay.”

They both look at him and he feels really awkward.

“Pay hotel,” the ‘boy’ says.

He fumbles for his money and drops notes all over the counter. The receptionist sorts through and takes some notes and hands over the keys.

Within a minute they are in the room together. In five minutes he has gone from disappointment to immense anxiety, to immense excitement and then back to anxiety again.

“I go shower,” the ‘boy’ mumbles.

“Right,” he says not sure how to respond. Does he also go and shower? Do they shower one after the other?

While the ‘boy’ is showering, he has time to reflect for the first time. There is a desirable person in the room next door. He is about to pay for sex. Why doesn’t he feel guilty?

New Jersey-

7.

It is inevitable … as if he can define what inevitability is. He needs to hear the turn of the lock and the door opening. As the time drags on he knows that his partner should be coming home soon. Desperation has taken hold of him and he needs to talk to someone or for someone to talk to him. He has used the tracking software on his phone to determine his whereabouts. According to the map he is a quarter of a mile away. He waits impatiently, pacing the passageway. His bewildered dogs stare at him.

The last part of the drive doesn’t usually take longer than a minute, but after five minutes he can see that the pin on the map is in the same position. He doesn’t know why. After a further five minutes the pin’s movement is only marginal. Fifteen minutes later and he hears the electronic gate open followed by flashes and various people shouting. Thankfully, he hears the gate close.

The keys turn in the lock, the familiar sound he is used to. He has hidden in the passageway so that no one can see him as his partner comes through the door. The dogs have gone crazy barking and jumping up to greet him. He responds by touching each one before closing the door behind him.

“Hello,” he hears himself say.

“Hi,” he hears back. It is not what he is expecting to hear. “I can’t believe these fucking people that have blocked the road! I wasn’t able to get through. There is a police block on the road and a diversion round the community park. I had to convince the one officer that I lived here. What the fuck.”

“It’s a bit crazy out there.”

“That is an understatement.” Followed by, “Why did you switch your phone off?”

“It wouldn’t stop ringing.”

“I see.” Some judgment is left in the air.

He wants to break the silence and looking once more at him, says. “Can I make you some coffee? It will be good after work and the flight home.”

“Yes, that would be good.”

He walks into the kitchen and notes how the act of making coffee in the house is always the same. Filling up the coffee pot with water, pouring it into the machine, opening the cupboard door and taking out the tin of ground coffee, two coffee spoons later (they are slightly bigger than a teaspoon), and then the machine is switched on.

During the coffee making there is silence and he sits down at the kitchen table and looks at his partner.

“I am in total shock. All my colleagues at the Washington office were swarming around me, congratulating me, as if I had one the bloody prize. Even Geoff said I should come home and celebrate with you. I had too much work to do and I didn’t want to have to go back again this month, so I stayed. Might as well have though as couldn’t get stuff done after that.”

“Right.”

Silence then filled the room. “What about you?”

“I guess I am in shock too … Don’t really know what to think or say – have been wandering around like a zombie and every now and then peeking out of the window at the insanity outside.”

“I didn’t hear your acceptance speech. What did you say to the press?”

“I haven’t said anything, too scared to leave the house.”

“Why haven’t you made a statement? The reason there is all that fucking chaos out there is because they are waiting to hear from you! Bloody hell! Don’t be so idiotic and say something. Once they have your official statement or something like that, and only then, will they leave us alone!”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You won the bloody prize. I am sure you can say thank you to start with.”

“I guess so.”

“Just do it!”

“I will,” he hears himself say, but he doesn’t believe it.

The coffee is ready and so he pours it carefully into the mugs, goes to the refrigerator to get the cream and lastly throws in the sugar. He stirs twenty times in each cup, even though this irritates his partner. He can’t help it, it’s a habit. Once again he is sitting at the table joined by one of his poodles that has jumped on his lap and snuggled in.

“Thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

“Man oh man.”

He doesn’t respond this time and just stares blankly ahead. There is nothing he can say; there is no way to articulate his thoughts.

“I should have congratulated you, sorry.”

“No problem,” he responds.

“It’s just really strange and kind of awkward all of this.” He points outside to the street.

“I know.”

“Didn’t mean to lecture you on what to do.”

The silence that follows highlights the noise from outside. There is still the racket of the news people.

“Guess, I am … well you know. Um …”

He sips his coffee and feels the warm liquid go down his throat.

“You do need to say something, though.”

“Like what?”

“As I said, thank the committee and say what you hope to do with the money. You know you can’t spend it?”

“Shit, I completely forgot about the money?”

“Oh come on! There is a fuck load of money.”

“I am serious. I didn’t think about it.”

“Think about who you are going to donate it to. At least say that the Institute will be the beneficiary.”

“Okay.” How come he didn’t remember the prize money? There were so many other things to think about. How could this have slipped his mind?

“Why don’t you call Susan? She is your right hand man, um ... woman … person. Forgot we have to be politically correct now that, you know … Ask her to inform the Press Association that there will be a news conference tomorrow at the Institute and the time it will be.”

He is now on autopilot and says, “That’s a good idea.”

His partner takes out his phone and pushes it over to him.  Messages are constantly coming through, but unlike him, he has put his phone on silent. He dials Susan’s number.

It doesn’t even ring, “Hi Charles. This is megacrazy. I have been trying to get hold of Barry since this morning.”

“Hi, it’s Barry.”

“Oh my God! Jesus, Mary and all the angels! Barry, I have been so worried. It is out of control here. We had to hire a temp just to answer the phone.”

“Sorry, about that.”

“You won the peace prize … Hello! OMG! You are amazing. Congratulations!”

“Thanks, Susan. I don’t know why?”

“OMG! Oh my my … GGGG!”

“I need a favor, please.”

“Duh! Anything.”

“Can you call the Press Association and let them know that there will be a formal press statement, or news conference, or whatever the hell it is called at the Institute tomorrow at 10.”

“OMG! How freaking exciting.”

“Can you do it?”

“Hello! Of course Mr Peace Prize winner. Or should I say Professor Peace Prize winner.”

He can’t respond.

She goes into Susan mode, “Thinking about it, this is going to be quite a logistical issue. I will have to ensure we have enough chairs and think which lecture theatre to use, and …”

He zones out of the rambling. The loathing feeling creeps up again as well as the fear which has haunted him throughout the day.

“ … and ensure that only a few people attend. So, we will need to have an invite. Okay, will get onto it. Don’t think I am going to sleep. Oh, my God. Okay, so I will get off the phone so you can take other calls … anything else you need?

He has to ask her, “Can you write something for me to say?”

There is a hesitant pause. “Are you sure about that?

“Please.”

“Okay, well sure. Will get on it right away. See you tomorrow. Leave it all to me.”

Autopilot again, “Thank you Susan. You are the amazing one, not me.” He hangs up.

“Do you want me there?” It sounds like an afterthought. He slides the phone over the table.

“No, don’t worry. I know how busy you are.”

“Come on! It’s like a big deal right.”

“I guess so.” He looks at the empty coffee cups and collects them and places them in the sink. “Let’s go and sit down.”

“Good idea.”

He retrieves the poodle from his lap, kisses it and stands up. They walk through to the den and take up their usual spots on separate sofas. In no time both dogs are all over him and he carefully positions each one.

His partner picks up the remote control and switches on the television. He sees himself staring back.

This year’s winner of the Peace Prize has been announced in Oslo and has been awarded to American academic and Head of the Institute of Peace Studies - Professor Barry Cunningham.

He feels his body cringe as he hears this.

Now over to our reporter on the ground … Megan … Megan can you hear me? … What’s the latest?

Hello Robyn, nothing new to report. Professor Cunningham has still not made a press statement. He has remained inside his home for most of the day. We did notice some activity earlier in the evening when, what has now been confirmed; Charles Sinclair his life partner was seen driving into the grounds. We were able to see the silhouette of what we are assuming as being that of Professor Cunningham, through the glass partitions of the front door.

“Seriously!” he exclaims, and is shocked at what he sees next. A clip showing Charles driving in and walking to the front door, which could only have been shot through the slats of the wooden gate. The next image is of his silhouette caught briefly when he must have been pacing the passageway.

Back to you Robyn.

Well thank you Megan for that. Wait … this just in … There will be a press conference tomorrow at the Institute where Professor Cunningham will make a formal statement about the award. There you have it … A confirmed press conference. And that the official press conference will be at … they have just confirmed the time … at … ten, ten tomorrow morning.

Why did they have to repeat themselves so may times? The same idea- different words. It’s so strange as he listens and looks at himself in the third person.

Charles, on the other hand, is smiling and does not seem to be worried. “These guys are hysterical!”

He feels nauseous.

“They will do anything to show they have the unique angle on the story. Susan would have invited the world by now. Sorry, people,” he points at the television, “you are not special.” This is followed by a laugh.

It is then that he finds his voice, “But you got home like thirty minutes ago. How could they already be broadcasting this to the world?”

“Duh, it’s called technology!”

“Well I don’t like having my face smeared all over.”

“You have no choice, now … You are a celebrity. Like one of those, can’t remember their names … the ones that don’t actually do anything but are famous … Hmm … oh whatever.”

Charles is now talking to the dogs, which have changed places and now want his attention. He picks up the brush as they look at him unimpressed. They should have stayed with him. The television continues to flash image after image of him. His life is flashing before him but he is not dead.

Charles is finished brushing the dogs and goes into the kitchen to warm up the leftovers from the day before. While he sits on his own, for the first time since the infamous ‘arrival’ of his ‘life partner’, he looks over the room and its poorly maintained contents. The sofa with the old cushions which cannot even be plumped into place. The throws which have holes in them. If only people had this insight. What would the news clips sound like then?

A plate with steaming pasta is handed to him. He takes it with both hands. “Thank you, that is very kind of you.” Autopilot has returned.

“You are welcome.”

“Was there enough for both of us?” he asks, looking at the mass of food on his plate.

There is no answer and the channel gets changed. Clearly Charles has seen enough. A crime scene investigator, peering over a dead body, has replaced his face and the details of the news conference. They are watching the latest murder in Miami - a mind numbing television fictional series - where there are more murders than in the listed crime capital of the world. It’s why he would never move to Florida.

Bangkok-

8.

Hurtle insisted on a meeting, as they needed to plan the evening. They would have to be discrete and this required logistical consideration. The owner of the bar would not allow filming inside. After some careful negotiation from Hurtle and some pressure from the Police Commissioner, they had relented in the end. There were very strict rules and the Police Commissioner had overseen the negotiation, insisting that it become a legal contract that all parties sign. It wasn’t that the contract would be enforced through the formal legal system but through the ‘underworld court’ of the Police Commissioner. Hurtle had not notified legal as there was no time, so he had made an 'executive' decision and had insisted that the shoot go ahead and thus signed.

The meeting was in the lobby of the hotel at six in the evening. Hurtle had them hunch over the contract that had been laid out on the coffee table. "I can't stress enough how careful we need to be. I mean zero mistakes."

He looked nervous and worried and Tod realised that there must be some serious undocumented consequences to this contract. "We have to take a hand cam. Not the big one.” This was said to the cameraman, who nodded in understanding. “We can only film the back of the bar. We can’t film any of the ‘boys’ or any of the customers. In addition to this, we need to make sure that there is nothing that identifies the owner of the bar.” Another pause as he waited for a sign of acknowledgement from them. “The place will probably be packed. They have a show at about ten-thirty which we will stay for. I will be at the back with the camera, Tod you are going to be out front.”

“ I am not sure what you mean about this back and front stuff.” Tod asked. “You mean I need to stand outside in the alleyway in front of the bar? Surely that will blow our cover?”

“Jesus, Matey, we will be backstage, you will be seated inside the bar as a ‘customer’! Back, front. Get it?”

“I see.”

“After the show, you will come backstage and we will then do the wrap up based on your experience, as well as what we know to date. Not looking for too much of the kinky details. Just matter of fact of what you see.” He pointed at Tod while he said this. “This needs to be wrapped by tonight. We are breaking the story tomorrow. Any questions?” There were none. “Let’s not fuck this up, okay!”

Hurtle got them into a taxi. They were going to arrive together so as to look like friends visiting the bars. Once more, they made their way into the crazy traffic of Bangkok. This place was buzzing like no other city he had visited. This visit, Tod had not connected with it and could not wait to leave.

Hurtle was on his phone throughout the ride. "It's almost in the can ... No don't worry, it will be ready by tomorrow. I will be working on it until it’s finished ... Look, there has been no time to locate the ‘boy’ that we originally wanted to interview. The one that he supposedly hired ... Yup ... Yup ... No don't worry, if we can get it ... Yes, the follow up story. Hmmm ... no, I agree we need to get the story out there ... Yup ... Okay ... Later." He did not turn but said to them, "I think this is going to be big. Really big."

"It’s going to be interesting to see what the story does to public sentiment." Tod said. And then as an afterthought, “This confirms, or indirectly confirms he did it.”

"The public is going to fucking love it. Nothing sells better than a nun who is a hooker." This was followed by that cackle laugh, which cut through the car.

There was silence for the rest of the ride until they were nearing the Soi. Hurtle's fingers started to point to the right and left, as they made their way down the road. "That Matey is Patpong market. Where the 'innocent' public collides with the sex industry.”

Tod looked to where Hurtle’s fingers were pointing and saw the makeshift tents, sidewalks packed with people and in the distance a sign in bright pink was flashing, ‘Pussy Palace’.

"No one even bats an eyelid anymore. Well, the locals don't," he said, and then pointing to the left, "And on this side the gays."

Hurtle got out first, as the taxi pulled up to the side of the street. The cameraman was out thereafter, looking a little bit more conspicuous with the backpack, in which the camera was placed. He was the last out preparing himself for the night ahead.

The experience at night was nothing like the afternoon. Tod was glad there was no camera following him around. If it had been filming his face he would have had to remind himself to close his mouth. The Soi was not only unidentifiable but also surreal. At one point he felt he had snorted the wickedest cocaine as everything was in super-heightened mode. The lights were ablaze all over - blinking, shining and reflecting. Where there had been no people in the afternoon it was now packed with bodies. The noise of the music made him stop. ‘Please don't stop the music’ blared from the speakers of one of the bars and the place was pumping with the bass bouncing of the walls causing the whole Soi to vibrate. He came out of the trance and saw that Hurtle and the cameraman were in the distance and so he would need to quickly catch up.

As Tod made his way down the alley, he worked hard to avoid the touts that were trying to pull him into the bars. He reached 'Boys World' and quickly made his way up the stairs. As he ascended, he tried not to make too much eye contact in case those climbing up with them got the wrong idea.

When they entered the bar, Tod found himself looking around in disbelief.  They were ushered to a couch right at the back. On the stage were men only in underwear. This was not normal. Like the music outside, the music in the bar was also blaring. Hurtle made a sign to the cameraman to follow him and for Tod to stay behind and move closer to the stage. Hurtle chortled as he took his index and middle finger and lifted them to his eyes mimicking, ‘I am watching you.’

"Where is Sak?" he asked nervously.

"Don't worry he will be back with us. Talking us through what typically happens throughout the course of an evening."

Tod seated himself closer to the stage but behind a pillar so that he only had a partial view. He felt relieved that he was a bit safer. It wasn't long before another Mama-san arrived to take his drink order and at the same time try to cajole him into taking a ‘boy’ for some ‘good time’. He smiled and did not engage. "A beer. I am only here for the show," he heard himself say.

The evening was uncomfortable. He endured the stares of ‘boys’, who peered past the pillar so that he could fully see them. Then there was the behavior of the Mama-sans, not to mention the other customers. It was like he had a huge sign on his forehead screaming out ‘I like gay hookers.’

The show was even more painful with transvestite men showing penises and the ‘ladyboys’, according to Hurtle or whatever they were, badly lip-synching songs. Then came the ‘fucking show’ in which three men sucked each other off and then fucked each other up the ass. He was physically repulsed.

The worst was to sit and watch what was taking place in the bar itself. Old men, fat men, weird looking men - sometimes they pointed, sometimes got the Mama-sans running – as they showed who they wanted, selected their meat and watched it being brought over. The ‘boys’ were in their underwear and nothing else as they sat next to the fully clothed men. The men touched, tickled, fondled the ‘boys’ genitals and kissed them in front of everyone. The ‘boys’ mostly sat and looked bored, or just sat.

Tod would have liked to interview one of these ‘boys’ to hear how they felt as these perverts touched them. He hoped Hurtle could find the ‘boy’ that Cunningham had used so he could do just that. It was one interview he wanted to do.

After the show he was escorted to the back of the stage by one of the ‘boys’ who pointed to the back and said, “Sak.” Tod understood that he should follow as the ‘boy’ quietly walked him there, not saying a further thing.

He found Hurtle huddled with the cameraman and Sak sitting on a stool clearly the center of attention. Hurtle turned towards him and said, "What do you have for us? Let’s start the intro and sound bite. Ready … ?"

Tod nodded at him, as the cameraman took his position and Hurtle counted him in:

It’s an ordinary street, an alleyway with no vehicles but lots of human traffic. The sides lined with bar after bar and touts beckoning passersby to come inside. Once inside, sex workers or ‘boys’ as they are called, only dressed in underwear ply their trade - standing and selling themselves. The way they do this is with their bodies, with their smiles, with a number attached to their underwear. The customers are varied – men who are middle aged, elderly, large and small. They engage in the act of voyeurism on the ‘boys’ with lustful eyes. Are the customers who frequent these bars sexual deviants? Or is this a system which benefits both parties? A transaction takes place; the exchange of money for the possibility of sex. The bars are filled with loneliness and discarded men, trying hard to retrieve their lives. And in return the bars entertain these discarded souls. The sex workers also sit discarded, placed next to those that have selected them. This is the world that Cunningham was part of.

“Stop! What the fuck was that?” Hurtle yelled. “Fucking souls and all that shit about being discarded. I am not looking for poetry. One more time …”

That Place-

9.

The ‘boy’ and him are standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel. The ‘boy’ raises his hands and says, “Hope see you again, Krub.”

He raises his hands in response. All the time he looks around thinking someone is going to take his picture, or the police are going to jump out from behind a building, ready to arrest him for engaging in prostitution. But there is no one. The street is deserted.

“Thank you, Joe,” he says.

The ‘boy’ turns around. He stands for a while watching him walk down the street and disappear around the corner.

He cannot help smiling all the way back to his hotel - the ‘official one’. The streets are still busy and alive with frenetic activity, even though it is close to 2 am in the morning.

He is in love. Not with a person but a place. This could be his home. That Place.

New Jersey-

10.

The next morning when he peers out of the crack in the curtains there is no longer the chaos from the day before. He sighs in relief. He had not said goodbye to Charles at the door fearing the same fiasco as before. He needn’t have worried, as Charles was right after all. They wanted to hear from him and they had, albeit indirectly through Susan.

The coffee pot still has some leftover coffee in it and he pours himself a cup and slices a banana over his granola. He eats slowly, thinking about the last 24 hours. What did today have in store for him?

With guilt he looks at the dogs. Both are staring at him, reminding him of his responsibilities at home, like taking them for their twice-daily walk. He will do it in the afternoon once he is back and has satisfied everyone.

Clothing and him were never friends. He didn’t get what all the fuss was about. Normally he did not care as long as the pants were ironed and shoes and shirt matched. Today is different though, as he is sure that someone will comment on what he is wearing, like they had on everything else so far.

In the end he chooses a recently bought shirt and a jacket from the last graduation to go with it.

What did he do once he arrived at the Institute? First thing would be for Susan to get a new SIM card for his phone. He needed a new number, one which only her and Charles would know. He isn’t thinking clearly, that would not be possible as he would be speaking at a news conference and Susan had to be there. His priorities.

He gets his keys from next to his bed, kisses his ‘fluffy children’ goodbye and ventures to the garage where his car is parked. He opens the electronic gate and no sooner has he done this when his car is swarmed by three or four, he couldn’t count, flashing cameras. Instinct takes over and he reverses as fast as he can leaving the shocked ‘attackers’ in the wake. With a quick flick he pushes his remote, closes the gate and races off down the road.

The Institute is swarming with people and even as he tries to drive in he struggles to make it through the boom gates. Cars are backed up on one side of the entranceway. Luckily he has an electronic tag reserved for tenants and is quickly able to enter. So far, no one has recognized him.

He parks in the basement and Susan materializes out of the shadows. The relief is overwhelming. As he sits back he motions for Susan to join him. She slowly walks over, opens the door and slips inside.

“Hello,” she says awkwardly.

“Hello.”

“I didn’t realize there would be this much pressure.” She is looking drained.

“I am so sorry to have left it all to you, I just didn’t …”

“No problem, its just that it is insane up there. I have all the Institute staff doing various things - controlling crowds and cameras and the crazies that have also come.”

“You are a lifesaver.” He didn’t look at her when he said this.

“I said … no problem. Look, I tried my best … it’s not something that one can write quickly and the subject matter is incredibly complex and maybe there will be a chance to be spontaneous.”

He looks confused, “Not sure what you mean?

“The speech you asked me to write.” She hands him some papers and as he looks at it he remembers that he asked her to do this for him.

He doesn’t want to glance over it now. He is also too scared to leave the car and deal with the pressure of what the day has in store, as Susan so glibly put it.

They both sit in silence for a while, neither one wanting to take responsibility. Susan is the first to break and says, “All right, let’s get the show on the road.”

She is back in control and looks at him and says, “Right, so this is what is going to happen. We are going to go up in the elevator. You and I are then going to slip into the back entrance which is being manned by the temp we hired yesterday. We had no choice, there were too many calls and we needed someone to help answer the phone. This means you will have direct access to your office. At 9:55 I will let the press know that you are ready to address them. I have set up a table and a tablecloth, as well as placed the banner of the Institute behind it. At least we can get some publicity out of this,” followed by a quick and nervous laugh. “Only kidding! Then you can wait in the passageway and enter after I have given an introduction. I thought it best to address the press and let them know the format of the press conference. This is all from a Google search at 4:00 this morning. So, do you want to answer questions?”

He hadn’t even thought of it and quickly shot back, “Hell, no!”

“Right, thought that would be the case. So I will let them know there will not be an opportunity to ask questions. I will then wait while you scuttle back to your office and will ensure everyone leaves. So far there have been over 45 requests for a personal interview; one which even agreed to pay a few hundred thousand dollars; and then one which said they would be happy to do it at the resort of your choosing from the Maldives to Majorca.”

The terror has returned, he is struggling to breathe again and has to concentrate hard on ensuring that he gets sufficient oxygen. This information, supplied in this rapid way has fueled his anxiety.

“I have everything under control.” For the first time she turns and looks at him. “You won the peace prize. Well done. There is a reason for it. Now, you are going to be great. I know how much you hate crowds and people but lets do this in the best way we can. Once it’s over, I will come through to your office and we can talk about the next steps.”

The words come out all jumbled, “Susan, really, thankful ... I can’t express how … you are amazing.”

“You are welcome. Charles is sitting inside. Do you want me to send him through?”

“No, I need some Barry time.”

She squeezes his hand and opens the door.

They walk in silence towards the elevator and make their way up. When the doors open, he looks around in panic but Susan has managed to keep the press out of the trade elevator area.

He meets the temp at the door, a sweet looking boy albeit terror-filled and wild-eyed. The boy half bows as he stands back to let them in. “Hello,” he hears himself say, “my name is Barry and thank you for helping out.”

The boy does not say a thing but quickly moves out of the way to close the door and lock it as instructed.  He walks to his office, closes the door behind him and sinks into his chair. The desk is a mess filled with papers, requests, a collection of phone messages as well as flowers, and plants and other gifts which have been delivered. He turns the chair around and stares at the wall, as he desperately needs to meditate and prepare himself for what is coming and not face what’s on the desk in front of him.

He reaches into his pocket and removes the speech. He wants to go over it a few times. He scans it first, trying to get an overview. He reads it and is quietly taken a back at how much effort has gone into this. Susan knows him so well. She has captured his spirit and even his wording. He does not need to change anything. The speech has a nice rhythm and he can make this work. Even be spontaneous as Susan suggested.

The clock on the wall shows 9:50. It is nearly time. He stands up, prepares his tie and jacket; looks at himself in the reflection of his computer screen; and is relieved that he can’t see his face clearly like he did on the television yesterday. Well this will have to do. There is a knock at the door. It is Jack. He still can’t speak but motions to the passageway. Poor boy, he thinks, with such an adorable face.

“Thank you,” he says, as he walks down the passage. From the next room he can hear Susan speaking.

“Please note that we are not going to allow anymore microphones on the table. As we are about to begin could I please request that you switch off your mobile phones and keep them off for the duration of the press conference. I am aware that we have not been able to accommodate everyone today and appreciate those who are waiting outside with the audio feed. Professor Cunningham will be speaking shortly and I kindly ask you to respect his wishes at this time. He acknowledges all the requests for personal interviews and will consider them in the next few days. He won’t be answering questions at the end of this address. So on behalf of the Institute of Peace Studies, please welcome Professor Barry Cunningham.”

There is applause as he turns the corner. There are blinding lights everywhere and he has to squint as he walks. In front of him there are so many faces all intensely staring at him.

He walks to the table and sits down but not before losing his balance and slightly stumbling. He tries to remain composed. He smiles at the lights because the faces have disappeared into it. He reads:

I would like to thank you all for coming here today. Your patience in awaiting my response is much appreciated.

I would like to thank the peace prize committee for this honor. I stand back and take stock of the hundreds of other politicians, practitioners and academics who should have this honor bestowed on them instead of me. But I thank you for there must have been something in me, which you are acknowledging, and the work done here at the Institute.

On reflection, looking over the mountains of our county, I thought about the ramifications of this honor. My speech here today can never do justice to this prize and all it stands for. I am humbled and share it with all the people around the world who try hard to make a difference and ensure that peace exists in every community. I share it with community leaders, communities and those who stand in solidarity with people who are marginalized; who suffer at the hands of those who use power to rob them of rights; but more than this rob them of dignity. It is dignity, which I would like to remind us is the one thing that every human on earth can demonstrate to others. If we can ensure that dignity is maintained in every interaction we engage in, if we can see the very real possibility of empowering people through simple words, or acts of kindness, we have the ability to transform the hatred and unkindness we see, into something different, something which says that there is a possibility for change, one which will restore dignity.

Charity, dignity and change do not require being heard, or even noted, they happen because people will it. They do it not to be recognized, but because it is their wish. I urge you to consider what you can do in your communities to initiate the change.

In this age, where we yearn to be noticed, yearn to have our actions acknowledged, yearn to do something so we can benefit in return, let us remember that every act of kindness regardless of the intention deserves to be acknowledged and I would rather that something is done positively, even if the intention is for reward.

My request to you today is to pass on an act of kindness, whether it be on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter. Do something good for someone. I humbly urge you to transform a life. Please help to make the difference and give dignity.

Once more, thank you, once more, I am humbled by this award.

There is silence after his speech. No one says a thing. He isn’t sure what to do and sits for a few moments paralyzed. Questions are shouted from across the room and he quickly puts on his fake smile, stands and exits through the door. He stands against the wall in the passageway out of the prying eyes of the press. He let’s out a big sigh. Susan passes him and gently squeezes his arm. She then disappears back into the room.

“Thank you for making the time to come here. Copies of the speech are available as you exit, as well as a brief biography of Professor Cunningham and the work done here at the Institute of Peace Studies.”

Standing is calming for him and he waits for Susan to finish and close the door, blocking off the hum in the room. They both look drained – conspirators in a plot to fool the naïve. He hugs her. “I don’t know how to say thank you.”

Part 2

New Jersey-

1.

It has been a week since his life had been completely turned upside down. While most people would be thankful for the experience and accolade, he hated every single minute of it.

In true form, the analysis of his speech had been anything but kind. Some of the comments were:

-Didn’t say anything.

-Shortest acceptance speech in the history of the prize.

-Speech like a poor self-help book.

Susan had once again been amazing. She had warded off the press and every organization that wanted information or an interview - in a polite and cordial manner. Basically, she told them to piss off nicely.

The news channels are also bored with the story and are now focusing on women who are trained to execute people in a country with a dictator. The reason being that – ‘women are likely to feel less emotion’. Even a Professor of Psychology - from some absurd academic institution agrees with this ludicrous claim - and it is he who is currently being transmitted, over and over again, to the world.

There had been press circling his house for three days after the statement. He would have the same fear whenever he opened the electric garage doors. However, this too had petered out. Yesterday was the first paparazzi free day and he felt normalcy returning.

He wanted to go for his daily early morning walk with his dogs and he felt that now it would be possible. He put the dogs’ leads on, shut up the house and puts on the alarm. When he opens the side gate and looks around the street is deserted and he lets out a huge sigh of relief.

The mountain is looking beautiful this morning, with the rays of sun gently catching the various buildings that reflect an orange and pink hue back. The air is crisp and he quickly crosses the street to the pedestrian pathway on the other side. He lets the dogs loose and watches as they bounce up and down, sniffing everything on their way.

He is deep in thought when he hears, “Wow! It’s you. The Peace Prize winner?” The man has been jogging and has stopped. There is the outstretched hand, “Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“What are the chances of actually meeting someone that has won the Peace Prize and in our neighbourhood? I am going to have to tell my wife this.”

He smiles and does a sort of slight bow with his head and carries on walking to ensure that he sends out the signal - he doesn’t want to chat. It is then that more ideas start to gnaw. What if he is known for being rude and not engaging with people? Wasn’t there pressure, once you won the Prize, to act in a certain manner? The more pressing thought was – is this going to be everyday? Everyday, people wanting to say hello?

Ever since he had been to high school his social skills had been destroyed. His ability to engage with others was ripped out of him and could no longer make small talk; deal with strangers; and had been known to be unfriendly to others, when in fact it was his built in security mechanism.

And here it was happening - he had been anonymous and now he was the opposite of it. Not that he could think of what the word was. Someone had stopped his daily activity to speak to him. Would this also be the case when he collected the dry cleaning, or went grocery shopping or decided to go and see a movie? If it was, he didn’t know how he was going to survive.

He looks around again to see if there are any other joggers or people going for their early morning walks and sees some in the distance. He quickly collects the dogs, puts on their leads and crosses to the other side of the road. Here, he is not in close proximity to the walking pathway and hopefully more inconspicuous. The dogs are happy with this decision, as this is newer territory and more to smell. When Charles wanted to talk, they would take this path as they could chat freely without having to worry about dodging people.

The song he hums is one which is filled with sadness from the playlist he created called ‘Melancholy’. It sticks in his head and he has been haunted by it for the whole week. He hums it because he wants it to leave him, to be expelled as it goes from thought into sound but this is not the case.

It is as he is coming to the final stretch of his walk that he hears two people running behind him. This is not the sound of runners but of people desperately trying to chase someone. He is worried that they might attack him, as crime has increased in the area but is too scared to turn around.

“Barrryyyyy,” he hears and he is startled and jumps forward in fright. As he turns he comes face to face with two ‘makeup mothers’, as Charles puts it, neither of which he knows.

“My name is Anastasia but everyone calls me Anne, and this is Samantha but everyone calls her Sam. Can’t believe that it is you walking here …”

How can it get any worse? Then out come the phones and he hears, “We have to get a selfie with you. We simply have to.”

He has not said one word in the entire conversation, or monologue he later realises. Now it is him scurrying away, breaking into a run before rounding the corner and opening the gate of the house, diving into the opening before slamming it quickly behind him.

He is panting and tries to catch his breath, all the time being observed by the dogs that have been yanked along as he ran. It is then that he feels he is slowly cracking and that his soul is running out onto the grass below. Filled with self-hatred, the tears start running down his cheeks, as if he is able to watch himself - he is a cry baby. A grown man crying. He detests himself - he wishes he was dead - he wishes he could get the strength to do what he has always wanted to do - he wants to die. It is dying that is the hard part, because he is pathetic and does not want to ‘hurt’ himself in the process. Trying to find the painless options for suicide are no longer easy. He has looked on the internet and tried to get Nembutal. Like everything else, he failed at that too. Cutting his arms, hanging himself, taking poison all have an element of pain in them. He is pathetic, a pathetic human being.

Bangkok-

2.

Hurtle seemed pleased with himself. The second take was more clinical and Tod had stated facts without any analysis or further explanation. They had left the Soi and decide to go their separate ways. The cameraman and Hurtle got in a taxi to go and edit the footage and speak with the powers that be about the story. Tod had offered to do a voice over but Hurtle had insisted that it was not needed. Tod had the night off, left standing on the street, with the gay bars behind him. Eager to leave the area, he walked quickly away following the crowds of people who were teeming the streets.

Tod knew what he wanted. It was going to be the opposite of ‘gay-for-pay’. He headed towards the Soi with the girlie bars on it. He knew he should have gone back to the hotel but his legs were walking and he was making his way down the road, to the place that Hurtle had pointed out.

The market had the most unusual collection of goods, fake watches, bootlegged DVD's, underwear and then some pretty interesting T-shirts. Under a tarpaulin there were three long rows each with a little table, lights and electricity.

He felt safer walking down the middle row so that he could scout out the area and also make sure that no one recognized him from the television. In this aspect he had been lucky, as so far he was able to stay pretty much incognito. The network had limited viewership in this part of the world.

He had made his way half way up when he saw a man showing pictures of the ‘Pussy Palace’ to a passerby. Two Australian men looked at the pictures that had been shoved into their face. "Come Mister, good girl –ping-pong show." The Australian's were not impressed and walked off. Tod moved closer looking interested but as Murphy would have it when you want to be approached you are not. The tout then turned and walked over to two Japanese men who were clearly interested in what the ‘Pussy Palace’ had to offer. With lightning speed they were ushered up the staircase.

Tod played out the options in his head. He could either go in and look around and leave; or, go in look around and watch the ping-pong show; or, he could just go back to the hotel. The latter was the most sensible. Tomorrow was going to be a long day of live reporting, where he would connect with the anchors on air to explain what was known to date. The logic was overridden by base human desire. He carried on walking up the stairs. Before he knew it, he was sitting inside the ‘Pussy Palace’ with a drink in his hand and a fat woman shouting, "Choose the girl. She give you good time."

When he woke up the next morning, he tried to put the pieces together of the night before. Was it a dream? The throbbing hangover quickly eliminated that idea. If he recalled correctly, he entered the bar and a drink of some kind was served, then women, lots of women had surrounded him. A really young girl with a petit frame, jet-black hair and perky tits that he like so much, was dancing in front of him and even in his inebriated state he felt horny. He had shouted out her little red number on her panties to this big fat and really unattractive woman who ran the place. The rest of the time was not something he wanted to remember. The bar where they drank as he groped her. The room hired by the hour and him taking advantage of a girl that could easily be his daughter, in a rough manner because he could. He did remember that he had acted like a demon and a pig. He had been physically unpleasant. He closed his eyes.

Tod violently hit his hand against the headboard. "Damnit," he said aloud. What the hell was he thinking?

He couldn't remember if he had been wearing a condom? How much he had paid the girl? What he had said? His mouth was dry inside and tasted vile. What was he was going to do today? How could he look good for the camera? Damn, damn, damn. He slowly got up and made his way to the bathroom.

That Place-

3.

There are many touts and pundits vying for his attention as he enters the Soi. This irritates him, as does the hot and humid evening. One man grabs his hand and he gets a fright.

“Don’t,” he hears himself whisper, but the man is equally shocked as he looks at him apologetically, bows his head while raising his hands in the salutary gesture.

“Sorry Mister. Not mean make you scary,” he says, with a goofy smile.

He carries on walking, not making eye contact, dodging the offers that are forced on him left and right. At least this way there are no expectations. He wants to try somewhere new tonight and with a determined walk heads to the bar Xcellent-Boys.

“Welcome Mister,” the ladyboy gushes. She has more make up on than most women wear in a lifetime. It is thickly layered clearly masking the truth below.

He raises his hands in greeting to her. The bar has a different layout out to others he has been to. There is a stage and it is a full circle. The patrons sit all the way around it. This makes him uncomfortable, as he does not like to look at other customers and now has no choice.

The show has started and he is squashed into a chair. On the stage a drag queen/ladyboy, he doesn’t know if the breasts are real or not, lip-synchs to the latest hit. She misses each pronounced syllable, which makes her look like she is eating rather than singing. His eyes acclimatize to the dark and he looks around the bar. It is really full and there are many Japanese and Korean patrons.

The show continues with one act after the next but he does not watch it. His mind is pre-occupied with the volume of work that he has to do. When he focuses back, the show has finished and the stage is filled with ‘boys’.

He knows he should go back and work but he also wants to have some fun. As the ‘boys’ walk around, he looks over them and is not overly excited about what is on offer. At the end of the row he sees a young ‘boy’, youthful charm and completely shy, not even making eye contact with potential customers. The ‘boy’ does not change positions but remains hidden at the back of the stage.

“You want boy?” The painted apparition asks him, seeing he is looking at the stage.

“Yes,” he hears himself say. “Number 97.”

“Good choice, Mister. New boy, very young.”

The last few words stick and he cautiously asks, “He is legal, right?”

“Just turned 18.”

“Oh, okay then.”

“I will tell him to change.” It is final and the exchange has begun.

He hesitates and turns to call her back but she has disappeared into the chaos.

The activity continues around him; other customers are busy selecting ‘boys’ and making idle talk with the Mama-sans.

The young ‘boy’ makes his way through the bar towards him. He is small in size, short and looks like an adolescent up close and not like an adult. “Hi, my name Tee.” It is robotic.

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” he says. The ‘boy’ does not ask for his name.

“Nice meet you,” the ‘boy’ responds.

“And you.”

“We go?”

“Yes.” He stands up and pulls out his wallet to pay his check.

The Mama-san is nowhere to be found. This irritates him and the ‘boy’ is standing next to him waiting for further instructions. He feels awkward, as they have not said anymore. Taking the ‘boy’ back to his hotel is not a good idea. The hotel has different rules to others. There are signs all over the lobby that say ‘no additional guests’, otherwise a ‘joining fee’ will be charged. He should have thought this through a little more.

The Mama-san re-appears and he signs to her that he wants to pay. She saunters over with a naughty smile on her face. He hurriedly hands over the bills, which he has extracted from his wallet and makes a hasty exit with the ‘boy’ in tow.

When they are back in the Soi, he considers his options and then points towards the hotel that offers ‘short-time’ rooms. The ‘boy’ is confused but follows. They enter the hotel and the receptionist asks for the ‘boy’s’ identity card, which he hands over. The receptionist looks at the card longer than normal and then back at the ‘boy’. The ‘boy’ is quiet. The receptionist asks him something in Thai and he responds.

“Sorry, is there a problem?” he asks, the embarrassment increasing. Maybe this is an out for him. Could it be a fake identity card?

“No, Mister. That will be …” Before he has finished the money is on the counter.

The bellboy escorts them to a room and then quickly retreats.

He is rough again. He forces his penis into the ‘boy’ without any lubrication. So hard that the ‘boy’ winces and groans in pain and not pleasure.

After sex, he lies on the bed and touches the ‘boy’, tracing his fingers over the small nipples and stomach.

“Are you really 18? You look so much younger.”

“No,” the ‘boy’ says.

He laughs at the ‘boy’ but he is not smiling. He doesn’t understand and looks at the young face looking back at him. “How old are you?”

The ‘boy’ smiles shyly and looks away.

“No really, just out of interest, how old are you?”

The ‘boy’ smiles and says “I,” pointing at himself, “15. You my first customer.”

It is obvious. He knew that the ‘boy’ was underage but chose to listen to the Mama-san. The confirmation was in the conversation with the hotel receptionist, but hearing it from the ‘boy’ directly has a different effect. Sex with a minor. Being horny over being responsible.

He looks at the ‘boy’ and says, “Sorry.”

The ‘boy’ smiles back.

“You,” he says, pointing at him. “Not good work in bar. Too young.”

“Money … need money.”

The plans of visiting a new bar every night during his trip and utilizing the services of as many ‘boys’ as possible is stalled. In his mind he hears, “15,15,15,15…”

New Jersey-

4.

The morning events have shaken him. He does not feel like eating but then forces himself to have breakfast; otherwise he is going to be hungry for the whole day. He swallows the croissant down with a cup of coffee. The cellphone rings and he knows it is Susan calling.

“Hi, Susan …”

“Hi,” and then briskly and un-Susan like. “You need to look at the television news channels now.”

“What?”

“Its’ about you. They are saying that there are some allegations about you that have surfaced.”

“Like what?”

“You need to just watch … Call me once you have.”

She hangs up and anxiety takes over. This really has to stop. He switches the television on, changes the channel until he finds a news channel and listens carefully. The story about the women trained as executors is being shown again and it looks pretty normal to him. He watches for a bit longer and then hears:

And in our developing stories, Barry Cunningham, this year’s winner of the Peace Prize, is being implicated in a sex scandal. This story and more after the short break.

His stomach sinks and the coffee and croissant come dangerously close to being ejected. What are they saying about him? Where did these allegations come from? Thinking about the press and the experience to date, he knows they will manipulate a story to make it more dramatic. He watches in morbid fascination as his face is beamed around the world once again. Susan will have to get on it.

Barry Cunningham, this year’s winner of the prestigious Peace Prize has been implicated in a sex scandal. A source in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia has indicated that Cunningham may have used male prostitutes on his visit to the city. Over to our correspondent Amy Chan.

Hello Rosemary, a source close to BTN has confirmed that Barry Cunningham used the services of an infamous ‘sex for sale’ agency on his many visits to the city. Cunningham was identified as a customer after the prize announcement.  We cannot confirm more than this but as soon as we have more on the developing story we will let you know.

He will have to be quick he thinks as he dials Susan’s number.

“I just saw it.”

“What should we do?”

“Well it’s not true.” There is doubt in his voice.

“What you do in your personal life has nothing to do with anyone else.”

“Susan, I went to Kuala Lumpur twenty years ago. I was presenting at a conference and I met someone … I … um … But it wasn’t like that.”

There is silence on the other side of the phone.

“I have only been there once.”

The silence is replaced by, “Okay. What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.” He hopes that she will manage this one too.

“Well I need some guidance. Do I mention that you met someone, or not?”

“Um …”

“Leave it to me. I will make a plan. I sometimes worry that when people try to defend themselves that’s when it becomes more obvious.”

“I agree …”

“I will do a quick press release. I am becoming good at these.” The humor or sarcasm is lost within the conversation.

“Thanks.”

He knows what this means - they are coming back. Whether he likes it or not, the vultures will be stalking him again and they will congregate outside. He goes back into the kitchen and quickly closes the curtains, not before seeing that there are already three reporters standing on the other side of the road.

The beep of the sms cuts through the air. He thinks it’s Susan but it’s Charles:

we need to talk. i am on my way home

It is not long before he hears the gate open and the keys in the lock.

There is no greeting. They both sit down at the kitchen table. Charles is the first one to speak.

“So is it true?”

How much does he know? “What?”

“Oh please! Don’t fucking pretend you don’t know!”

If only he knew the truth. “You mean the allegations?”

“Yes, the fucking allegations. I have to hear them from a colleague and not even you. I look like the fucking idiot in the office. There is even that silence that comes when others have been talking about you. It happened in our office as everyone went quiet and looked at me.” Does he even understand about space being violated?

I am in this position that I did not choose. “Sorry.”

“I asked you if they are true?”

Of course they are true. “We agreed we could have an open relationship.”

“Yes, we did but that did not include fucking a prostitute.”

Didn’t it. “What difference does it make?”

“So you’re admitting you did?”

Can’t you see what I am admitting to? “I said we had an open relationship.”

“Fucking hookers was not part of the deal.”

They are not hookers, they are people. “We never defined what was and what was not included.”

“For fuck’s sake I am going to seriously lose my cool.”

So tell me what’s new. The silence is sickly and the casualties are lying all over the room.

“And I asked what difference does it make? We are all prostitutes - some for money, some for power, some for sex.”

This time there is no response.

He continues, “What is the difference if you find it in a bar, or find it on the street, the aim is to have sex? That is what we agreed on, as long as it was safe and didn’t develop into a relationship.”

While he is speaking the chair scrapes back and before he is finished the kitchen door slams. He hears the thunderous footsteps down the passage. Keys are collected and the front door slams. There is silence once more.

Another beep. He doesn’t want to look at it. Another beep and another one. He is about to switch off the phone when he sees that they are from Susan. What has she done, he wonders? It reads:

see attached press release.

He opens the document but struggles to read it:

Professor Cunningham notes the allegations made against him. He does not wish to engage in a prolonged explanation but wishes to share the following information. Professor Cunningham presented a paper on ‘Dignity in the face of government oppression’ in Malaysia twenty years ago. This was the first and only trip he made to the country. The allegations therefore are questionable. He requests that you respect his privacy.

Bangkok-

5.

It was later in the day when he realised how bad it was. The audio link played an interview with the British NGO that dealt with sex workers, which was linked to the Cunningham story.

He heard, "What is worrying is that many of the sex workers are in fact stuck in situations of dire poverty and they see this as the only way to escape it. Those that prey on them, in effect, reduce them to commodities knowing this." She cleared her throat and this sounded thunderous in the earpiece, " … and they are left trapped and victims of the sex industry."

Tod wanted to speak to her directly and say that she was wrong, that he was actually the victim and that he had not meant to exploit the girl. He felt his cheeks burning red and he felt bad, really bad. He had used someone for sex and paid for it. Something he had used his moral compass to judge others on and yet he now fitted the same category.

It wasn’t only that he had used the girl for sex and paid for it, it was that he had treated her like meat. Tod was not one for sentiment but he knew he had crossed the line.

What made it worse was what he was covering and how throughout the day he had to talk about the sex industry in Thailand. He was Cunningham too.

That Place-

6.

Addiction - is the only way to explain it. Severe addiction. Not to a substance or a drink but to the body. He finds every opportunity to return to it. This is his fourth visit in the year and he still wonders how he can make another one without causing suspicion.

He no longer looks for younger ‘boys’; the last experience had left him feeling immense guilt. Only older ‘boys’ in their late twenties still called ‘boys’, were his choice. Regardless of the decision that either young or old ‘boys’ made - the older ones had a bit more life experience and could possibly understand the consequences of their choice. Bullshit, he thinks! Again part of him is moralizing over this, as if there are levels of morality. They did it because … money, and as a participant he was fueling it by paying for sex.

For some variety he heads to the seaside town of Pattaya, which has its own reputation for three ‘boy’ bar areas all over town. This interests him. The bars are different here, not as sophisticated as Bangkok. This is part of the appeal.

The first night he wanders around the street looking at what is on offer. There is so much, his head spins. A sign flashing muscled torsos beckons him in. Muscles, buffed and pumped are on display as well as big bulges in their underwear too. He looks in lust at the stage imagining how the night could end.

The Mama-san saunters over and loudly says, “Strong man. Fuck you good.” She then inserts her finger in her thumb mimicking a penis being inserted into a hole.

“Are they all top?” He doesn’t know if he wants to be the bottom tonight.

“All man.”

“Man? Is that what you call older ‘boy’?” This is a good thing.

“No,” she says, looking at him with surprise. “Man, is not gay.”

Rather than ask what this means because he still doesn’t understand, he looks at her.

“You understand?” She asks.

“Not really.”

“Man fuck women.”

“Oh,” he responds, with disappointment. Makes sense. He thought these bars were only gay but there must be women who also look for sex. “So, these are for women who want sex.”

“Yes, but you choose too. Man fuck you.”

“Straight man fucks me. How can they?”

“Blue pill and cock ring?”

He is intrigued. Not sure about this, he doesn’t ask any more questions.

“Man, good. Strong. Big cock.” She is called over to another table where two German men are fondling one ‘man’ simultaneously, each touching one of his nipples.

It would be nice to have one of those next to him he thinks, so that he could feel the muscles as well as whatever else he could touch. There is a ‘man’, a really good looking and muscular ‘man’ looking at him and smiling. After a wink from the stage he can’t anymore and calls the Mama-san over.

“Number 83.”

The ‘man’ leaps off the stage and quickly walks over. In no time, there is a drink in his hand and they clink their glasses together.

“My name, Aek.”

“Hello, Aek.”

“Nice to meet you.” It has become a routine.

“And you.”

He attempts to ask more questions but Aek does not speak any more English than that.

Aek takes his hand in his and slowly starts to massage it. The sensation heightens his desire to have sex with him. This ‘man’ knows what to do to make him horny. How can a straight man be so gifted? He feels his hand slowly being taken down and rubs over muscles and finally the penis below. The bulge is big.

The Mama-san has been watching and hovers nearby. “You want take ‘boy’?

“I thought he was a ‘man’?

“Still ‘boy’?

“Yes, I want to take him.” Desire over reason.

The bar is situated near his hotel on the gay Soi. They shower together once inside the room. His un-erect cock is huge, thick and long. It is smooth to the touch. He is soaped and while he is turned around he feels those fingers gently enter his arse prodding gently on his anus hole. Trembling, he is trembling. Never before has he experienced something as erotic as this - no gay man has succeeded. He is slowly dried.

On the bed he is gently massaged. The hands prodding each muscle on his back. There is oil trickled onto his back and something touching it but not hands. Gently he feels movement and realises Aek’s body is doing the massaging. The muscular chest is slid up and down on his back and the pressure is increased. The cock slides over his arse every now and then and he moans in delight.

He can’t control himself anymore. “Fuck me.” This is not what he had planned but he can’t stop himself.

There is the sound of a condom opening. When he looks at the erect cock, he doesn’t know if he will be able to take it inside him. His anus is gently massaged with lubrication while Aek puts his cock in a little bit each time, before repeating the massage. It is not as painful as he was expecting. This man was a professional.

The sex is gentle to begin with and then he thrusts harder and harder. It is his body that is on fire as he feels the sensation inside him. He is panting and moaning. The motions continue and he comes without having his penis touched at all. He yells out aloud in pleasure. Slowly the thrusting slows down and then stops.

There is no rush as the ‘come’ is cleaned up with tissues, the condom taken off and he is moved onto the pillows above. It is not over. The hands continue to touch him. To slowly move around his arms, stomach and legs. More shudders. A smile.

They have not spoken since leaving the bar.

New Jersey-

7.

One more time they are sitting in a car. Not his. It is Susan’s idea; he doesn’t want to do it.

“I can’t face it,” he says to her.

“You have no choice.”

“Please …” he urges.

“Think about it, there is so much noise about you. The best way to handle this is to simply show you are not fazed by the allegations.”

“So it is going to be in a neutral space, right?”

“Yes, it’s going to be at that hotel next to the downtown park.”

“And you are coming with …”

“Yes.”

They do not talk as Susan drives to the hotel.

For anyone watching the pre-interview they would have noticed the typical setup of an interviewer framing their subject with the usual formalities and niceties expected of such an engagement. The interviewer is the most senior journalist on the cable network, whose voice had been described as ‘merlot with a hint of pine.’ Her demeanor and frame are petite but her intellect oozes out of her and radiates on the screen. He has watched her show many times as she has grilled politicians, interviewed victims and celebrated those that have achieved.

He sits looking anything but relaxed; he fidgets and repeatedly massages his right index finger with the thumb and index finger of his left hand. The fact that he notices the detail of his action reflects his attempt to focus elsewhere. He tries to look relaxed. If he can at least project a façade, but the screen magnifies terror and what plays out is apparent as it reflects to the audience at home that this is a sickly nervous subject about to be interviewed by a veteran who always gets the outcome she wants.

It starts all too quickly.

“Good evening and welcome to this special interview with Dr Barry Cunningham, this year’s winner of the prestigious Peace Prize. Dr Cunningham welcome to the show.” Others have called him Professor but here he is just Doctor because of the Ph.D. he had actually earned.

She barely glances at him while she does the introduction.

“Thank you,” he responds mechanically.

“So Dr Cunningham, how does it feel to be awarded the prize?” Awful, awful, awful.

“It is something that one does not expect. As mentioned previously, I am humbled by the recognition of the Institute and staff that are its backbone.”

“Talking about the Institute, you started it yourself some time back? What were the reasons for doing this?” Well I needed to do something with the Ph.D. and as I couldn’t get a full-time job, I saved face by starting something.

“No place existed then where students could learn about peace studies in a formal environment. Other educational institutions were only offering certificate programmes and so I thought what about a private university that could formally recognize the contribution that young people can make to their communities.”

“Interesting.” So she can see through it too.

“How many graduates does the Institute have?”

“Well over the years we have had hundreds.”

“I see.” What is she getting at?

“What would you say is your biggest achievement besides the obvious Peace Prize?” In other words show the world what a piece of shit you really are.

“I … um … I have tried to be a humble promoter of peace in this country. I have seen myself as a vehicle for others to use the skills taught to them to make a difference. I believe that I have lived the hope that peace studies offers and hopefully been the agent to inspire others.”

“On that, you self-published your first book. Some would say that self-publishing in academia is not really publishing a book as it has not been peer-reviewed. What do you say about that? You are a fake, just own up to it.

“Well, you are right. When one self-publishes one does take that risk. I felt differently though. I felt it was something I was passionate about and if others wanted to read it, they could decide if it was worthy or not. The readers could be the ones that peer-reviewed it.” Take that and stick it!

“Yes, I see your point. It has got quite a following and is referred to in many journals and amongst scholars of peace studies. What about your second work?” Oh, now you want to save face, bitch.

“The second book looks at dignity and what the power is of maintaining it in every part of our lives. It was a utopian dream of mine, and I am glad that it was picked up by our government and shared as part of transforming the countries image around the rest of the world.”

“Well it’s interesting you say that as it links to my next set of questions. Let’s get straight to the point and ask the questions that everyone around the world wants to know- are the allegations true about your use of male prostitutes? Do you think you should turn down the prize?” You fucking bitch, what the fuck!

He looks confused and takes in a short breath. Later on he would describe to Susan that it had felt as if he had been shot and could not breathe. He was expecting a more civil line of questioning, one which would slowly lead towards this point. Instead he had been assaulted upfront, framing the boundaries of the discussions, which were clearly not around his academic work and winning the prize.

“Um …” he hesitates, then swallows loudly. “Um …” He looks down to collect his thoughts. The question comes again, re-structured and re-phrased and softer as if to coax him to speak.

“Let me ask you this,” she says glancing over her glasses towards him, “there have been some rumors from the British Press that you have, in the past, had relations with other men and have paid for it. How do you wish to respond to this?” I wish to respond that I did and it is no ones fucking business who I have fucked.

She takes off her glasses and gently points them at him, “Is there any substantiation to these allegations?” Fuck off, fuck right off.

He looks at the glasses which had been extended towards him and not at her, and sighs deeply. “I think the issue is not as simple as your question.”

“What do you mean by that?” She throws back. “Are you saying the allegations are true?” I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. Do I stand up and walk away?

“No, I am not saying that. How you choose to explain a story will ultimately allow others to make choices about you.” He says this more confidently as if to show he is not scared, even though he is at the lowest low he has experienced this far.

“Of course, every story has two points of view but what I am getting at is what is your side of the story? What do you want to share about the various and rather serious allegations made against you?” Nothing, I want to share nothing. I want my life back.

“By now it is no secret about my sexuality, although it was something I never hid or chose to hide. I have disclosed my sexuality to anyone who has asked about it.”

“I don’t believe that anyone thinks otherwise. What is the relevance of this to my initial question?” So know you say gay rights for all. Woo hoo the fucking Supreme Court. Fuck off.

“I am getting there,” he responds, more composed and looking down at his index finger. “The construction of my sexuality or the way I choose to spend my time behind closed doors is really my business.”

She had been waiting for this, as she picks up a piece of paper and responds in seconds. “On the 10 November you mentioned to Le Monde that you were in an open-relationship and this was a matter between your partner and yourself.” There was no question only the statement. What did she want him to say?

“Well you seem to know this much better than me,” he responds, looking directly in her eyes for the first time.

She chooses to ignore the sarcasm and carries on. “Let me ask you this, do you think you deserve the peace prize?” She is basically saying, you fag fucking whore, do you think you should be the one to have been placed alongside religious and discerning people.

Again he looks her straight in the eyes and says, “If I say yes, I sound arrogant, and it is reported that I am trying to justify my acceptance of it. If I say no, then it is reported that I am admitting guilt. This is a question for the Peace Prize Committee to answer.” He opens his mouth as if to say something more then closes it just as quickly.

Bangkok-

8.

The next few days Tod couldn’t recollect all that had taken place. The other news media did not have their scoop and Hurtle and the network had made a killing selling the rights to the story and footage.

Soon the streets of Bangkok were swarming with camera crews setting up bases to share the story that they broke. However, in this game the winner was the first to break the story. Hurtle basked in glory as he arrogantly marched around the hotel deciding who to speak to and under what circumstances.

The onslaught of media had not been good for business in the Soi, which made its money through anonymity and in the end the Commissioner of Police was quick to ban the live broadcasts ‘from the scene’ and instructed an overall ban within a 500 meter limit.

Hurtle was already working on the next scoop but again he was lucky, as he had sources looking for the ‘boy’ who was hired by Cunningham. One source specifically had located the ‘boy' in the province of Isaan, where he was from, and was trying to talk him into doing an interview.

Hurtle was clucking around, frantic to keep a can on the possible interview and he would have the sources on speaker phone, with an interpreter shouting orders and getting mad because it was taking so long. He was worried that with time the other networks would beat him to it. Tod knew what really worried him though was that the sources would defect to the other side and offer the rights of the story to the highest bidder. For this reason, he had sent the local Thai producer with to ensure that there were no nasty surprises.

Six days after the story broke and chaos ensued - they had a breakthrough.

Tod was sitting with Hurtle discussing one of the less frequent updates, when the phone rang and Hurtle put in straight onto speaker.

“He’s agreed to the interview,” the voice said.

“Fucking brilliant!” You could see the glee in his eyes.

“But, not so easy. It comes with a condition.”

“Fuck! I knew the little Fucker was going to do this. So what the fuck does he want? A fucking suite at the Ritz and a million dollars?” The glee had quickly turned to exasperation.

There was silence on the other side of the phone.

“Yes, I am fucking waiting! What does the wanker want?”

Again a silence ensued followed by the sound of a deep breath being let out.

The voice was calm, “Please write this down.”

“Well, just tell us for fuck’s sake.”

Tod motioned to Hurtle, showing the pen in his hand and the open notebook.

“He is worried about his family finding out that he used to do this kind of work. So we must guarantee that we will not show his face either on camera or take any photos of him.”

“Fine. That one’s fucking easy.”

“He also want to do the interview in Bangkok and not here.”

“We can have him on a plane in an hour.” Hurtle was already pulling his laptop closer.

“He wants to do the interview with no people in the room.”

“What does that mean?” Hurtle spat.

“No people in the interview. Only him.”

Again Hurtle visibly showing his annoyance banged the table and said, “That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Obviously there has to be multiple people involved in interviewing him. Tod, the cameraman and me.”

“No! He will only agree to the interviewer and himself.”

“Okay, whatever!” For Tod’s benefit, Hurtle made the sign for being crazy by lifting his finger to his head and spinning it around wildly.

“And afterwards, he can leave without any questions.”

“Does he mean that he won’t be on a fucking panel interview with all the rentboys, or on a fucking dance show, or …?”

Another sigh, “No, just no other ‘boys’ or his Mama-san from that time.”

“Deal. So I am working on the tickets as we speak. I need his name for the booking.”

“Another problem. He insists that I book his ticket at an internet café in front of him sending the confirmation mail to his e-mail.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

Tod again signed to Hurtle a thumbs up and mouthed “Agree.” On the pad he had written:

He immediately pays with the network’s credit card and the ‘boy’ gets the booking to his e-mail. That way we will never know what his real name is.

Another thump on the table and Hurtle then screamed, “Just fucking do it. When will you be here?”

“There is a flight out later this afternoon. Where we are is quite remote and will still need to drive to the airport.”

“Get here and fast! With that he hangs up.

This is Hurtle at his worst. “I am going to get another hotel room somewhere else for the interview. We need to be fucking discreet. Those fucking hyenas from the other networks can’t sniff this out. They have been spying on us ever since we broke the story.”

That Place-

9.

The fatigue of the flight catches up on him. He sinks into a chair at the back of the bar. Tonight, he is one of two customers. It is a Monday with few staff and a small number of ‘boys’ dancing on the stage, without any energy or enthusiasm making small talk which each other.

To his right is the Mama-san who recognizes his face and does a victory performance every time she sees him. It is a strategy but it is also an affirmation for him and something, which strangely makes him feel welcome. The ritual drink is ordered and the Mama-san yells as loudly as she can across the expanse of the bar, “BBBEEERRRRRR.”

Tonight she laments the changing face of the bar scene in Bangkok. “Too many bar,” she protests. The hands are extended into the ether and beat the air. He smiles at the action. He wonders if she thinks she is reclaiming space this way.

The music is tranquil for a change and not the loud thudding. He is pleased, as doesn’t have the energy to compete with the noise. He smiles at her, nods and interjects with basic statements and laughs. With time the conversation dies and they just sit listening to the music and watching the bored faces of the ‘boys’. He feels himself drifting into sleep and is about to pay and leave when the Mama-san jumps up to greet a new customer.

“Welcome,” she bellows and minces over. The man does not even acknowledge her and makes his way to the front of the stage within a meter of the ‘boys’. The Mama-san looks confused and is not sure what to do. The silhouette of the man is in full view and he looks over each ‘boy’ carefully - up and down, but then at their faces for the longest time. He does not move from his position but his eyes do all the work in contrast to the lifeless scowl on his face.

The Mama-san who waits patiently moves after five minutes and steps forward and asks, “You want ‘boy’?”

But he does not respond. There is silence and complete disregard for her existence. Although her mouth is open no words come out of it.

Another minute passes, then another. He points directly at a stocky ‘boy’ in the back and commands, “That one.” The ‘boys’ on the stage have stopped their lethargic movement and stare at him. The Mama-san takes out her pad to write up the bill. She does it quickly and without looking at her, he pulls out a bill. “Tell him to meet me outside.” He is gone quickly.

The energy in the bar has changed. The ‘boys’ are restless and he does not want to stay anymore. He indicates with his hands for the bill.

“You go? No ‘boy’?” she asks.

“I am tired.”

He pays and exits the bar as the ‘boy’ who has changed to go with the client walks outside.

He hears the ‘boy’ say, “My name Lek.”

“Don’t talk,” is the response he gets.

New Jersey-

10.

Cunningham’s interview of yesterday is the focus of allegations into his use of male prostitutes from Kuala Lumpur to Bangkok. So far, there has been no official response from the Peace Prize Committee. We wait to now that this information has surfaced whether they will defend the choice, or revoke the prize.

He watches, no longer in disbelief but with numbness.

The house has been silent ever since Charles temporarily moved out. The interview was too much. The return of the press outside had also taken a toll on their relationship. The press never left and were camped 24 hours outside. The lights on to ensure that the reporters were lit up. What made him happy about this, and there was nothing else was, that it would piss off the bitch next door. They hated each other and used any opportunity to upset the other.

When they had fought the night before after Charles had watched the interview, it had been very different to any other. No more mudslinging, no more defending thoughts, just a discussion around the dogs of all things. Who was going to get them? To make his point he had said they needed to be split – one for each of them. This was not going to be a custody battle; he wasn’t interested in sharing them over weekends. At first he had pleaded for this not to be the case.

Charles had started packing his suitcases - packing all of his clothes, cd’s and personal effects that his parents had given them. In the past, this kind of threat had been used in a fight. A dramatic exit but without any belongings, returning an hour later to carry on fighting. He thought this strategy would give him an advantage. Charles had won, that was for sure.

“Come on, we have been together for 23 years.”

“Well, you should have thought about that when you fucked half of the world.”

“Please …”

“I am packing. Leave me alone.”

“If you are going to take the dogs, then take both.” It was the only thing he could think of saying.

There was no response to this statement. He didn’t know if he agreed or not. Suitcase after suitcase were closed, zipped up and placed at the front door. After that, there was no more talking.

The dogs were put in the car along with everything else and then he was gone in a flash of lights.

He should have asked where they were going – a hotel, an apartment or friends house?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

Bangkok-

11.

Tod's eyes took some time to adjust to the dimly lit room. He made out a sofa, the bed and the ‘boy’ sitting in an armchair to the right. The ‘boy’ was shy and raised his hands in greeting and Tod had returned the courtesy.

He walked over to the sofa and gently asked, "Can I sit?"

The ‘boy’ nodded and he sat down.

The ‘boy’ had a young face. He must have been in his middle twenties and there was an element of wariness about him, as he preferred not to make direct eye contact. Tod smiled and he smiled too but still did not look level at him.

"I am thankful that you agreed to this,” he said, realizing for the first time since the story broke that he could say it with conviction.

The ‘boy’ did not say anything but nodded his head in acknowledgment.

"You agreed to being interviewed and have spoken to our Thai producer about some things. I would like to confirm these with you." The ‘boy’ now looked serious and the smile was gone - in its place earnestness.

"I speak and say some things and he agree. No want problem," the voice was worried and the words came out quickly.

Tod made sure to move in his chair to cause the ‘boy’ to look at him. It worked and looking directly into his eyes said, "Everything you want we have agreed to. But I want you to please go through these requests one more time."

The ‘boy’ hesitated and his face was somber, his brow furrowed when he looked to Tod and said, "My English not good. I try ..."

"Take as long as you want and remember that I can call the Thai producer and put him on speaker phone. We can speak that way if it will make you feel more comfortable."

The ‘boy’ took a few seconds to process this and then looked at him again and said, "Okay, okay ..."

"You want me to call the Thai producer?" Tod asked.

"No, no," his hands rose as he said this. "I tell you, but maybe not clear."

"No problem," Tod said, thankful that there wouldn’t be any interruptions. "I have the notes from him. Can I maybe read them to you." Tod pulled out his notes from his backpack, as well as his reading glasses. "You requested that there are no people in the room during the interview," he looked up at the ‘boy’. "Does that include the cameraman?"

"Is he Thai?" the ‘boy’ asked.

"Yes," Tod said, "he works for us."

"No. No Thai."

"Okay, so it will only be you and me." He let out a deep contemplative breath as he tried to work out how this was going to be possible. "I will have the room prepared, with the camera ... it could be on and ... We will work something out."

The ‘boy’ moved uncomfortably in the chair and Tod decided to speed things up. "We will not show your face, so the camera will only film behind you with a shadow so that there is no way to recognize your face. You can also leave at any time." He looked up again and the ‘boy’ nodded.

"I hope that my notes are correct?"

"Yes," was the response.

"I have many questions to ask you. Some will be very personal, if you don't want to answer say 'no' and I will move on to the next question."

"Yes," again.

Tod was relieved and let out another sigh.

"We are going to do the interview here in this room, so we will need some time to set up. There is a coffee shop in the hotel. Why don't you go and order something to eat and drink and I will come and fetch you once it is ready. Thirty minutes?"

The ‘boy’ nodded and slowly stood up and walked out of the room, as if he had done this before.

Tod busied himself getting the cameraman who had been waiting in the adjoining room with Hurtle. Hurtle was once again on the phone acting important and he didn't care, and said, "He's agreed to the interview but no one can be there. Not even the cameraman."

Hurtle eyebrows went up with anger, and he quickly snapped, "Gotta go. Speak later." The phone was dropped onto the table while he looked at Tod. "For fuck's sake! So just how are we going to do the fucking interview?"

"I guess we could leave the camera rolling and then do the interview and stop once he has left. Or you can show me how to start and I can do it and then stop when he leaves?"

"Well that is a possibility." Hurtle said, as his face showed he was scheming. "We could then maybe get a shot of his face which can be used later if we need to. Okay like that."

"Let's respect his wishes. He trusts us,” Tod said in protest.

"What the fuck has come over you? Who cares about his fucking trust Mother Teresa? We will have the footage by then."

Tod walked out of the room, after motioning for the cameraman to follow and slammed the door behind him.

He did this before Hurtle could say anything more. He was not going to decide how and where to set up the camera.

That Place-

12.

It is early in his day, although late in the afternoon and he makes his way to his usual breakfast spot, one that serves breakfast all day. He struggles to wake up and orders coffee after coffee. After eating he thinks he should go back to the hotel and sleep some more, his body protesting. Walking back, the activity in the street is already in full force and he dodges people and goods, puddles and dogs lying lazily in the pathway.

“Maasssaaaagggee,” extends to him and it’s a lady’s voice. He is programmed to ignore it. Maybe he should have a massage instead of an extended sleep, which is going to leave him disoriented and grumpy for the rest of the day. At least if it is a woman he won’t have to worry about the ‘happy ending’ and potential of falling in love with a ‘massage boy’.

His first experience with a ‘massage boy’ was by accident. There were many advertisements for gay massage and he thought that this meant the masseur would be naked and he could have a look. How wrong he was. It was a massage to start off but then quickly became an intimate session, which included being touched all over his body as well as a sensual masturbation that left him really relaxed. He later discovered this was a ‘happy ending’. And a ‘happy’ ending it was. The masseur was tall and handsome and had magic hands and he would stare at him throughout the session.

Back on the street he was still thinking about whether to have a massage or not. He walks over and looks at the menu offered. There are both male and female masseurs. This is not a gay massage so he starts to like the idea more and more.

“I would like a massage.”

“Boy or girl?” she asks.

“Does it matter?” he responds.

“Boy or girl?” her face is confused.

“Well as I said, I just want a basic massage,” he curtly responds.

“Boy strong. Girl not so strong,” she retorts.

“Well I like soft massage.”

She stands up and leads him inside the spa.

He is offered water and the formal spa menu, everything he was offered at the gay massage where he liked to visit. He laughs not thinking the two would emulate each other so much. He selects his normal - a Swedish massage.

She leads him up the stairs to the therapy room. There are two floors of therapy rooms and he starts to relax, this place is a legitimate spa. The setup is slightly different to the ‘others’ as it includes a shower inside the room.

“You shower.” She points to the towel and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

He quickly undresses and it is now that he misses the two ‘massage boys’ who would wash him, all naked together gently touching each other. He washes off the soap and dries himself off and while he does this she re-enters the room and oblivious to the fact that he is stark naked prepares the oils, and cover for the massage bed. She continues as if he is not there.

He covers himself with the towel and as quickly she rips it off and points to the bed. The embarrassment is overwhelming and he wants to cover himself in shame.

“Lie down. Head touch bed.”

Maybe things are done differently in terms of normal massage in Thailand. He obeys the order. She covers his back with a sheet and slowly starts to massage his feet.

There is silence and he relaxes. Her technique is not the best and he can’t help compare her to that dreamy muscular ‘massage boy’ who worked on him - every now and then his naked body touching his.

“Turn over,” she commands.

“Um, okay. What about …” but then resists asking the question and turns over exposing his genitals in the process.

She continues working and then his worst fear! “Can I massage ‘friend’?” At first the confusion, but then she gently touches the tip of his penis and he instinctively removes her hand from it.

Was he that naïve he thinks. “Um,” he says, “no thanks, just normal massage.”

It does not end there and as much as he protests she keeps asking in a voice, which starts somewhat authoritative to one, which eventually resembles Minnie Mouse on crack. “You like, you like, playyy with specialllll friend.” This was his favorite time during ‘gay massage’, when the two ‘massage boys’ and him could play.

He keeps protesting as she pulls his nipples, tickles his stomach and eventually touches his ‘special friend’ again.

“No thank you,” he chokes. Is this his first straight experience?

“You no like me?” she feigns disappointment.

“No, you are hilarious,” he says.

“Shower,” she says and smiles, before exiting the room.

With his clothes back on, paying for the massage and reflecting, he gives her a generous tip in front of the others. “You are amazing,” he says loudly.

That place – with all of its sights, tastes and most importantly touch.

New Jersey-

13.

There is nothing left in the house- both physically (including food) and spiritually (they had devoured all of him).

He has stopped looking at Susan’s sms’ and has allowed the battery to drain on the phone. The bell has not been reconnected and even if she has tried to see him in person, she would not have been able to.

He wanders around the house walking from room to room; he is losing it. If he is going to survive he needs to escape all of this. He needs to leave and go somewhere; somewhere where nobody can identify him; where he can be anonymous; where he can have a chance to think.  An idea comes to him of where he can go. It is trying to plan it that will be the real issue.

He has never done this before, so he doesn’t know if each of the activities will work or not, but he is going to try – this is all he can do.

It started with a phone call to the airline.

“Hi, this is Dr Cunningham’s secretary, Michael.” This is something he thinks about as he dials. “He would like to use your airline to fly to Singapore. I need to know if you have a VIP protocol in place that he would be able to use to ensure that his privacy is guaranteed.”

“One moment please, while I transfer you to customer service.”

They probably don’t; or don’t think he is important, which he is not.

“Hello, Michael. This is Penelope Tan from the customer service desk. My colleague has informed me Dr Cunningham would like to fly with us. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Not sure if you know who Dr Cunningham is?”

“Yes, we do know. Have you booked tickets for him yet?”

He has not thought about the obvious. “No, not yet. He first wanted me to confirm whether it was possible and then to book.”

“Well maybe I can run you through our protocol?”

“Yes, please do.”

“We can send a car to collect him. We do not use a noticeable luxury vehicle but a SUV, which has semi-darkened windows. We would suggest wearing informal clothes, dark glasses as well as a hat or cap. We then transfer the guest to the VIP area of the airport, which includes passport formalities done in the VIP lounge. After this, once the plane is still empty we board the guest. They are seated in the first class seating area, normally at the back left or right. We then start regular boarding. A similar service is done in Singapore, although we need 24 hours notice to do this. The guest is transferred from the plane to the VIP section for passport formalities. Once completed, we transfer the guest to their hotel in a pre-arranged vehicle. We will also liaise with the hotel to ensure they are able to transfer the guest accordingly. It does however normally mean through the service entrance. Sorry, I know that is a lot to take in but just wanted to ensure you of the process that we have in place.”

“Thank you … um …” He can’t remember her name. “What does this service cost, so that I can inform Dr Cunningham’s team?”

“Oh, yes. It’s included in the cost of the first class ticket.”

“Right then,” he says. “We will then look into it.” He will have to check the price if he is going to go this route. “Shall I call you back, once I have more finite detail?”

“Yes, please do. I will give you my direct number.”

He writes down the number and reads it back to her making sure it is correct.

“Thank you.”

“It’s our pleasure.”

It is probably way out of his price range, but he thinks he will look anyway. He opens his laptop and clicks on the airline’s website. He punches in the details of the trip - two days from now. He selects First Class and waits while the circle turns round and round calculating the price. It is astronomic. More expensive than he thought it would be. How is he going to pay for this without waiting to have money released from investments?

The thought comes to him, if he transfers the money out of his mortgage and into his credit card, it will clear immediately and he will be able to have money for the ticket as well as a hotel. He is lucky that the house is registered in his name and that he has paid additional amounts in every month. And up until a few days ago he was really close to paying it off. At least this way he can get the peace he wants, even if it means dealing with the consequences later.

Within a minute, he has made the biggest transfer of his life. He watches as the money decreases from the one account and with one click becomes available in the other. He breathes out and logs off.

He then goes back to the website and once more enters the details of the required ticket. He processes the transaction until he sees a confirmation pop up on the screen. There he has done it. What the hell has he just done though? The ticket price I exorbitant. This is where another part of his brain takes over - there will be no more thinking about this.

He also thinks it best to book a hotel, this way he can ensure there is sufficient coordination between the two parties. There is a website he usually does his hotel bookings on. The transaction is quick as he already has a profile. He then makes the call to the direct line.

“Penelope Tan. How can I help you?”

This time he writes down her name, he doesn’t want to forget it as the operation unfolds. “Hello Penelope, it’s …” Now he can’t remember the name he had given earlier. Was it Morris or Melvin or Michael? He could not remember. “It’s … um …”

“Is that Michael, Dr Cunningham’s assistant?”

“Yes, it is.” How did she know that?

“I see that your team has made the booking to leave in two days. As you know our flight leaves in the morning at 11h00, so we will need to plan around this time.”

Again, he wants to know how she already has this information about the booking? “Yes …” he responds, to show that he is still there.

“So normally VIP guests are fetched an hour before the flight, not two hours like the other passengers. Please let me know where we should collect him - the Institute or home?

He has not thought about this. His house was the obvious place not to be picked up from. He quickly hatches a plan in his head. He needs to divert the press away from here and he thinks he knows how.

“From my …” he quickly realises his mistake and can kick himself, “from his residence. He … we, will possibly point the press somewhere else.” He needs to stop talking.

If she had noticed the error, she did not make anything of it. “I have noted that. I will be waiting at the VIP entrance and will manage it from there. What number should we use to contact you on?”

“Let me find out from Dr Cunningham as to what number he would prefer.”

“No, I meant your number.”

“I will give you Susan his other assistant’s number. She moves everywhere with him.

“I only see one ticket booked. If you can give me the details of Susan.”

“She won’t be going with. She will take his calls and see him off from the house.” He is completely flustered and the more he speaks the more the story becomes entangled.

“I see. Then if you could give me her number.”

He quickly recites it to her. The experience is causing him to overheat and he needs to lie down. This call has taken all the energy out of him. “Thank you.” He doesn’t know what else to say.

“You are welcome.”

Bangkok-

14.

The ‘boy’ was sitting at an empty table. "Did you manage to have something?"

The ‘boy’ looked confused.

"Did you eat something?"

"No," came the reply.

“I am going to call upstairs so that they can put the camera on. They will then leave so that there will be no one in the room.”

There was still a lack of trust. The ‘boys’ eyes reflected this.

There was silence for the duration of the walk to the elevator and room. Outside the door he turned around to the ‘boy’ and looked him in the eye, "There is no one else in the room. The camera is on, so please sit down in the chair and if you walk around the sofa it will not get your face."

The ‘boy’ understood and Tod opened the door.

Once they were both settled, Tod indicated to the ‘boy’ with a nod that they were going to start. He realised that he had never even asked his name. What had come over him? Was it the experience which haunted him, the Bangkok heat, the fact that he was gay or this story which got bigger and bigger?

He picked up the script he had prepared as well as the questions. He looked over to the ‘boy’ and nodded. The ‘boy’ nodded back.

"What would you like me to call you?" he asked.

"Joe."

"An English name?"

"Some have English name?"

"Right," he said. "I will call you Joe then."

"Could you tell me how long you worked at the bar?"

"Four years."

"That's a fair amount of time," Tod reflected. "Why this long?"

"I come university in Bangkok, so need money."

"You were a university student?" Tod's voice couldn't hide the surprise.

"Yes, I study."

"And you finished your degree at the university?"

"Yes."

"What did you study?"

"I study about how work with people in country, help them …” There was a pause as he searched for the words. “Many people, I work with many people."

“Community work,” Tod surmised. “I think you mean community or social work.

The ‘boy’ did not know how to respond.

“Right … How did you come to work at the bar?"

"My friend take me there. He know about bar. I visit and ask for job too. Make more money than working 7-Eleven.”

“So are you gay, do you say your sexuality is gay?”

“Yes, gay gay.” He touched his chest when he said this, which Tod thought was unusual.

“So you went there as a gay man knowing that you would be working in a bar that caters for paid sex with men?”

“Not only man, sometimes have sex with women too.”

Tod was confused, “But you said you identified yourself as gay.”

“Customer pay. Man pay, man get sex, woman pay woman get sex.”

He heard his voice talking, but his mind was processing, “Right, right.”

“Many ‘boy’ who work at bar, are ‘man’ not gay.”

“Yes, I understand that there were no woman working in the bar.”

“No. No,” his hands rose in frustration. “English not good.”

Tod quickly focused back, took the cue and said, “Please take your time.”

“Gay is bottom, ‘man’ is top.”

It then dawned on Tod what his questions had raised and how this would probably have to be the first thing that was edited out. Talking about women made no sense in relation to what the ‘boy’ had said.

“I see,” he said. “So you went with your friend to the bar. And what did you have to do for your job interview?"

"Not understand ..."

"To get the job did you have to do anything?"

"No. Mama-san meet with us. Look at our look. Like look. They tell us what to do and to talk to other boy about what to do.”

“Mama-san is the person who is what in English we call the Madam, but not sure what the male version is … um … pimp? Well the person you work for? Right, then the Mama-san took over things.”

Tod was starting to worry where this interview was going but he also needed to remain consistent and was worried that he had not confirmed some key points. "I am right in saying that you sell yourself for sex. You got paid to have sex?"

"No." As the ‘boy’ said this, Tod was starting to panic.

"I’m sorry … um … Well then what?"

"Not only sex, also talking, drinking."

"But ultimately you also offered sex?"

"Sex, yes but not only sex."

"I see, so you were also offering companion services." Tod felt like he only said it to save face, something he was quickly learning about.

"On one night how many customers did you go with?"

"One ... sometime two."

"So in the four years you must have met many men?"

"Yes, but sometime customer want one month."

"So, you went for one month with just one customer?"

"Yes."

"But still there were many customers, right?"

"Yes."

"So how are you able to remember this one?" As the words came out he quickly added, "And in that I am referring to Barry Cunningham."

"He was a good man."

"Do you mean he was kind to you?"

"He was good man, good. Many time visit bar and good man."

"Maybe you can explain to me what you mean by good."

"He had good heart," the ‘boy's’ face was serene while he was talking. "He listen. He care."

That Place-

15.

The Soi is quiet. As he walks into it he looks around, something which he does not normally do. He is considering how little has changed in the time he has visited. One bar might have opened and another one closed but the fundamentals of it all, were comfortingly the same.

He hears the familiar, “Masssaaagggeee.” He smiles and shakes his head and then he sees him. It is Chet, one of the ‘massage boys’ he had fallen in love with - the naughty face, the soft intimacy during their sessions, which included long periods kissing.

He walks over and sees Chet busy checking his phone and not looking up.

“Hello Chet,” he says.

Chet looks up surprised. “Hello!” This is followed by a hug.

“When did you come back?”

“Two months now.”

“What happened to your hair salon?”

“It not work out,” he says, looking down.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he replies, saddened by what he hears.

“I lose everything.” He is still looking down, “All money I save, I use. Not many customer.”

He clucks in return.

“I see you yesterday but you not see me.”

He is surprised but then he knows he does not make eye contact and always walks with a determination to the restaurant.

“You should have come over,” he replies, thinking why didn’t he?

“No, you look so busy.”

“Sorry.”

“You want massage?”

“Not today but how about tomorrow?”

“Sure, work here now.”

As he feels awkward about what he has heard, he says, “I am going to eat.”

Chet smiles in acknowledgement.

He continues to walk and the determination is back as he is now thinking about what has just happened and he feels a deep sadness. Why was the universe so unfair, especially when people try so hard?

He is about to sit down, when he walks back to the massage shop.

“Chet, can I at least buy you some dinner or a drink?”

“No, I next turn for customer.”

“I see,” he says.

He smiles, turns around and walks back to the restaurant.  It is while he is drinking his customary cup of coffee, that he thinks back to the beginning of it all.

After that firs time, after that terrifying moment with the flashing lights; the drag queens; the Mama-sans’; the ‘boy’ he had returned to Bangkok two weeks later. So mesmerized by the experience he felt an addiction coming on.

After landing he quickly checked into his hotel eager to walk through the streets. It was then that the rain began to fall after a short coffee stint to Starbucks. The closest place he could escape to was the Soi and he saw that the only open business was a ‘gay massage shop’. He was warmly welcomed by a cute ‘boy’, not Thai but Cambodian. He was led up the stairs and all of the ‘boys’ that worked there lined up. He was not sure why? This was not a ‘go-go’ bar so surely it didn’t matter who massaged you. Then a manager-type came out and asked which ‘boy’ he wanted. He pointed at the ‘boy’ who had led him up the stairs. The manager-type was not finished though. “Good luck, take two boy. Four hand massage. Good relax!” This was followed by a wink and a naughty smile.

He agreed and the ‘boy’ was joined by another. Upstairs, there was a shower and the ‘massage boys’ undressed him before removing their own clothing. They soaped his body and did the same to themselves. He tried to act with modesty and not look although he really wanted to.

The massage room was not private - the top was open and various cubicles had been cordoned off - which meant you could hear what was happening next door. There was the smell of incense in the air.

“Lie down.”

He did so on his back.

“No turn around.”

He smiled and decided to surrender to the experience.

The ‘massage boys’ gently massaged his back and worked their way down. He knew they were also naked as their genitals hit his body every now and then. This excited him.

“Turn over please.”

He did but there was way of hiding his half erect penis.

There was no comment and they continued to massage his arms and legs. When they were finished they sat next to him and slowly started to move down his stomach until they gently massaged his genitals. One sets of hands on each testicle. His hand was soon feeling their erections. So this is what a ‘happy ending’ was. Eventually they were all masturbating and when he came, they stopped even though they hadn’t.

He felt so relaxed he didn’t want to stand up, it was expected and they let him lie there for a few minutes while they gently moved their hands over his arms.

“We shower.”

He found himself back in the shower being soaped again and thanked the ‘massage boys’ once he was clothed and back at the manager’s desk. It was then that he saw the notice, which read: ‘Massage 650 baht and minimum tip for ‘massage boy’ 900 baht’. He smiled realizing that the service offered to him was not for free, paid and the ‘boys’ took him downstairs. The rain had stopped and as he stood in the doorway the one ‘boy’ said, “My name, Chet,” he pointed to the other ‘boy’. “He Nom, he from Cambodia. Big cock Cambodia!”

“Hi Chet, nice to meet you,” he said in return, also laughing at the extra piece of information that had been shared. “Hello, big Nom.”

“Next time come, visit here. Make you happy.”

He reminisced of the experience and how much he had enjoyed it, partly because it was new and partly because the ‘boys’ were so cute. And return he did, every time he came to Bangkok he would spend one night in a bar and the next day he would visit the ‘gay massage’ shop. Chet would always welcome him back like a long lost friend and sadly big Nom had returned to Cambodia.

Over the next few visits, he spoke more and more to Chet and soon found out that he was studying during the morning to be a hairdresser.

“I open shop,” Chet said. “Then no longer be ‘massage boy’.”

“I understand.” This life was not easy and he was glad that Chet could see a way out of it.

Whenever he returned after that, he would track Chet’s progress through the course until he qualified and proudly announced, “I open shop next month, last month as ‘massage boy’.”

After all of the progress reports and knowing what the goal was, he was sad that he would no longer see him. It was a new path in his life and it meant that he would leave this work behind him - another moral statement.

Back, now he was back. After believing in his future prospects, studying to be something else, he was back to being a ‘massage boy’. Why was he so upset about this? Why was he so vested in this? He didn’t know. But there he sat staring at the passing carts selling food and he thought life is so unfair.

New Jersey-

16.

His hair-brained scheme is all he has left and he hopes it will work out. The chances ...?

It had started with the sms to Susan:

sorry i have not responded. finding it all a bit crazy. i want to do another press conference. can you organise for tomorrow morning. same as last time.

There was no doubt that she was worried as well as angry with him. She had responded:

sure. but think we need to talk afterwards

He had not responded to this initially but then thought if this was going to work he needed her help.

thanks

Next he had called a transfer service and enquired if they had a driver that could drive a car to a specific point and leave it there? He also described the kind of person he was looking for, features that most closely matched his own. They had thought it was a hoax and had nearly hung up. It was only once he had explained that he was the assistant of someone ‘famous’ that needed a diversion that they started to listen. It was going to look like a delivery or something like that. The fact that he had negotiated the price and agreed to pay the driver in cash ensured the confirmation. He specified the time that the driver be dropped off; the car would need to be driven in through the electronic gates, the drop off would take place and then straight out again. He hoped that this would make the paparazzi think it was something else.

Finally, he had scrounged around the house for a hat and dark glasses, which looked cheap but he didn’t care, he had packed and then spent the night tossing and turning without getting any sleep.

Now he is sitting waiting for the driver to be dropped off. He has let them know to hoot three times and he will open the gate. Waiting at the door and making sure his silhouette is not seen, he hears the three sharp hoots. He opens the gate and the car drives in, the driver disembarks wearing a pizza delivery outfit. What the hell is going on? In his hand he holds a carrier for food and walks to the door. Does he open the door or not? In the end he opens the door and the driver walks in.

Seeing the look of horror on his face, he driver says, “You said it was supposed to look like a delivery. Don’t worry I have other clothes in the carrier. Now open the gate and let them out.”

Feeling immense relief he opens the gate and closes the door behind him.

“Hi, thanks for coming,” he says, while looking over the man for the first time. He does not look like him at all. The only thing they have in common is height and hair color. He wants to say something but it is too late and the plan will have to go ahead as agreed.

“Howzit,” the man responds.

He just smiles and leads the man to the kitchen. He hands over the money which has been placed in an envelope. The man opens it and carefully counts the cash. He doesn’t talk he only smiles.

“So I am going to explain what you need to do, and I need you to do this exactly as I say. Understand?”

The man nods but says nothing.

“I am going to give you the keys to my car. Inside the car you will find a remote control to open the garage door. You will then reverse out quickly, close the garage door while you drive away. Drive as fast as you can to the following address.” He hands him a piece of paper. “You know where this is?”

Again the man nods.

“I don’t care if you go through red traffic lights, kill people on route, just drive like a bat out of hell.”

This time the smile is filled with a glint of something.

“Once you get there, there is another red remote control in the car with two buttons on it. You use the right one - the boom will open allowing you access inside the office park - you use the left one and the gate will open to the parking area. You then go and park in the basement. There will be a lady waiting there. And then …” he struggles to say this, “I want you to say sorry.”

The man watches in amused silence.

“That’s it.”

“Anything you don’t understand.”

“Nope,” the man responds for the first time.

He looks at his watch and knows the car from the airline will be arriving in five minutes. This part of the operation will need to begin in three minutes. “I am going to walk with you to the garage and show you the remotes. Once I say go, you go.”

They walk in silence to the garage and in the dim light the man gets into the car. He looks again at his watch. He picks up the remote control for the garage door and shows it to the man. The man nods. The second hand goes slowly round and the suspense is killing him. He walks to the entrance of the house and as he crosses the threshold gives the thumbs up. The garage door opens as he closes the door behind him. He makes his way into the kitchen and watches as the paparazzi in shock, reel from their present positions and race after the car. This time round because of the ‘press conference’ there are only a handful and so he has managed to clear them away from the house.

He gets his suitcase and is about to leave when he realizes that he doesn’t have his passport with him. Where the hell is it? Panic, panic and more panic as he rushes around aware that he is running out of precious time. Running from one room to another, he opens his desk and sees it lying there. As this has been a shock he quickly checks to see that he has his wallet and other important documents. He does, so makes his way back to the door not bothering about the alarm. The front door closes behind him and he opens the electronic gate where the car is discreetly waiting for him. So far so good.

Bangkok-

17.

Hurtle was going through the footage screaming, “This is all over the fucking place. I should have been there. I fucking knew it.”

“I’m sorry,” Tod replied, but he knew that Hurtle was pissed and he had done a lousy job.

“A fucking hooker could have done a better interview than this.”

“Oh wait, a fucking hooker did do the fucking interview,” he snorted.

Tod felt his breath constrict. Hurtle knew about the previous week, he had been caught out. An underage girl – what would the network say?

“How did you find out?” Tod said, the back of his throat dry.

“By watching the fucking footage, fuckwit.”

Tod felt confused and then realised that Hurtle was referring to today’s interview and felt really stupid. He was losing it. Like a little child overwhelmed with stuff, he couldn’t stay calm and be rational. It didn’t change the fact that Hurtle was pissed at him.

Trying to hatch a plan and resolve the issue, he said, “I could do it again. Call the Thai producer and ask him to bring the ‘boy’ back.”

“And now he’s a fucking ‘boy’! Are you in the colonies?” The sarcasm was thick in the air.

“That’s what he called himself, a ‘boy’.”

“Well Matey, that is what those Southerners called their people, so I guess it’s apt.”

“Fuck the name,” Tod retorted. “I can get him back.”

Hurtle was pacing, tapping his phone screen with his nail.

“We are going to cut and edit it, and you are going to do voice overs.”

Tod was about to protest but knew he had lost this round.

That Place-

18.

The night is humid and the perspiration is dripping off him. He is seated at the restaurant drinking an iced watermelon drink and not his usual coffee. There is an air of melancholy in the Soi.

He doesn’t feel like going to the show at the bar, nor does he feel like a massage. Tonight he feels suicidal because he doesn’t see his purpose anymore. The advertisement on the website had said that Nembutal was easily available in Thailand and yet he couldn’t find any. If he was going to commit suicide this was going to be the only way to go. Lulled into sleep and then after a few minutes the body slowing down and finally stopping. He had even put an ad out requesting suppliers to contact him.

The year before he had done the same. He was contacted and was elated because he knew he could be free. The drug was not Nembutal, instead a medical liquid laxative - he had been glued to the toilet for two days, having carefully written suicide notes to his family but not to Charles. His body rejected all food that it had stored within it and after feeling drained and not able to leave his hotel room, he knew that he had been duped.

He was not angry; he had no energy for this.

The day before he got the drug, he decided to live out his sexual fantasy, thinking it would be his last. He had paid for two ‘boys’ and not for his customary one. He had done everything that he had ever fantasized about - fisting, spanking and pissing on them. The ‘boys’ were clearly shocked by the requests he had made, and he had to keep telling them he would pay more and more. In the end they had relented but were uncomfortable throughout the session.

He had paid them even more than he agreed; he wasn’t going to need money anymore. Where there had been faces of disgust and un-comfortableness these were replaced with joy at what had been placed in their hands. He did not feel guilty, well that was not technically correct, some guilt but had justified his actions because of the fact that he was going to die the next day.

Then the letdown, the deflation of his hopes.

And here he sits again a year later, frustrated that he cannot get even a single response to his current ad. He is so desperate, he has even asked one of the ‘boys’ from the bar, but he had quickly shaken his head and said, “Don’t do drug.” He decides it is futile trying to explain that this wasn’t cocaine or marijuana but something that helped you die.

And so he sits, staring into space. His hope disappearing once more into the humid air of the night.

New Jersey-

19.

He feels for the first time that he can relax sitting in the first class cabin, processing what has happened. Chaos is behind him and he is moving towards calm. He can’t believe that everything has worked out and yet it has. This was the stuff for movies, not for real life. Everything had fitted into place and just when he did not have an idea of how he was going to handle something, the solution had popped into his head.

His last worry was that someone would recognize him, one of the other first class passengers. When boarding did commence, he made sure to read the magazine and half cover his face. The seats were like little cabins so only those passing by were able to see him but he needn’t have worried, as there were only two other passengers in the first class cabin.

What is it to be numb? To no longer feel? To no longer connect? It has to be the feeling he was currently experiencing. He has left behind his work, his house, had lost his partner and the dogs. Even the dogs, he thought he was going to miss them the most. But there is no feeling left that allows him to do so.

He has no plans once he gets to Singapore but that is not a worry anymore. He would be, he would try and find himself again.

Bangkok-

20.

Tod wanted to understand more. He needed to make peace with this story. Things were not making sense. Yes the guy paid for sex but no one had described him as a demon. The words, ‘he was a good man’ return again and again and he was confused.

It was during the taxi ride that he started to think about what he had experienced the week before. The story, the person, this country, the gayness. That Soi with the bars overflowing with decadence, alien experiences, emptiness.

The streets of Bangkok were never quiet; there were always people on them. The neon, the lights, the animals roaming the streets, juxtaposed with the 7-Eleven’s, the tuk-tuk’s and soaring buildings made of steel and glass. He would never understand it all but then he didn’t have to.

He knew when they were approaching the Soi. The last time he had been there, he had been to the show, which had left him uncomfortable but had realised why. The naked men, the men dressed as women, these things were not part of his life, his context. Seeing these things, seeing the effeminacy, seeing the simulated sex between men, this was going to be uncomfortable. He knew he didn’t want to go into one of the bars but he needed to walk down the alleyway once more, needed to look around, needed to understand.

After he had exited the taxi he stood for a few seconds at the entrance to the Soi - the music was pumping, the lights were flashing, people moved about. He hesitated and thought maybe he should not go, but he could not explain it, his mind was being rational and telling him not to go, his body was telling him differently and he started to move slowly like a somnambulist. As he walked down, people touched him, spoke to him, tried to hustle him into bars. Men walked by with fake blow up penises in pink and green, some handed out pamphlets with half naked men. He did not react, or respond, he continued to walk slowly. Although outside was frenetic, inside he was calm.

The customers were mostly older men, some really old. They were surrounded by young men, ‘boys,’ but in their faces they were still lonely and there was melancholy.

Tod was outside the cafe where they had first met the Mama-san and he felt his legs walk him to a table at the back of the seating area. He ordered a coffee and sat back in his chair to watch. An explanation an understanding was required. At the end of the first night he understood the mechanics of it.

The next two nights he returned and sat at the table and watched for up to three hours at a time. He was like the old men that sat and stared blankly into space. There was a lot of noise but very little talking at the tables. Around them activity bustled, the ‘boys’ were alive and moving and laughing and joking. Community, there was some kind of community. Scouts tried to get customers into the bars to watch shows. They would physically tug some, make jokes with others, but try whatever it took. The Soi was different around show times as then straight couples were also seen walking around. They peered around with tourist eyes, looking an abnormal amount of time at things, staring included looking at him sitting in the chair. Their eyes judged, or maybe not, but he was amazed at how they looked at him.

There were girls from Australia loud with bravado; there were men from Japan, serene and focused. This place did not even feel real, an imaginary place. Unlike the bars for straight men across the road, this Soi was a place of its own and unless you entered it you would never know what lay beyond.

It was on the second night that his body, not his mind, told him what to do. He paid for his drink and found himself moving slowly in reverse back up to the entrance of the Soi, across the street and towards the ‘Pussy Palace’. He couldn’t stop walking as much as he wanted to - he didn’t want to do this, but no matter what his mind said, his legs wouldn’t listen.

He was seated once more on the bench and the Mama-san greeted him like a long lost friend. After initial small talk, he ordered his drink in order to keep her busy, as it was not her that he was interested in. There on the stage, there she stood not making eye contact with him.

“Please can you ask her to come here.”

“Which one?” the Mama-san asked coyly, as if she was in no way an accomplice before.

“The same one,” he said, without looking her in the eye.

“Good choice,” she clucked. “She very popular.”

The Mama-san screamed at the top of her lungs in Thai and her hand was extended with only the fingertips pointing downwards and moving around. The girl hesitated but then walked over. This time she was not smiling. The Mama-san smacked her on her butt and then clucked as she forced her to sit down next to him.

Tod couldn't look at her said, “Hi, how are you?”

“Good,” she replied without emotion. “How about you?”

“Good, thanks,” he said mechanically.

The Mama-san was in his face again. “Drink, drink for the ladeeeee.”

“Yes, of course,” he said.

She spoke to the Mama-san who again screamed out something in Thai. During this time he did not look at her, nor did he say anything more. She did not say anything either, the sound of the music and bass punctuating the room.

The drink arrived and the Mama-san reappeared, with a drink in her own hand and insisted they all say, “Cheers, for luck.” The glasses clinked together, they all took a sip and then the voice spoke again, “So you look for good time?”

He smiled awkwardly but did not say anything. This had been a terrible mistake. What could he do?

“I will take her,” he heard himself say.

“Good,” was the response and the Mama-san was quickly up to organise the check.  She yelled, “Girl go change, waiting 2 minute.” The Mama-san returned with the check and he pulled out his wallet to pay. Again she clucked as he left the money in the folder and she quickly walked away. There were no other customers in the bar and he was being looked at by all of the girls. That loneliness that had followed him from the other side of the road infused here. The Mama-san returned with the girl who had changed into her clothes. He folded the bills and placed them in his pocket and stood up. It was while he walked out of the bar that the sound of the Mama-san soared up, “Have goooood time.”

They were on the street and he turned to look her in the face, “I am sorry for the way I acted last time.”

She looked confused.

“Last time,” he said more slowly, “I was not good to you.”

She didn’t look at him but gave a nervous smile. “Good, good,” she said. It was that ‘good’ word again, which meant so many things in this country.

Tod looked at her once again and said, “I would like us to eat something together? Is this okay?”

She looked at him, “Yes … yes …”

Tod did not know that he was going to eat, but he was on autopilot and whatever came out, he followed.

It was once they were seated and she was sipping her water that he looked over her young face, her deep brown eyes, and her beautiful skin. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

It was worse than he had thought.

“I am old enough to be your father.”

The smile was innocent and again she said nothing.

“I don’t want to do anything more with you.” Then careful she did not misinterpret what he had said, “Not because you are not really beautiful … It’s just that I wanted to say sorry.”

Again she looked confused but she touched his hand. “No need say sorry.”

“No, I need to do it.”

Their food arrived and the next minute was filled with food being moved around the table. When the silence had settled, he smiled at her and said, “Please enjoy your meal.”

“Kapunka,” she said, and slowly began to eat.

The rest of the meal was in complete silence but he felt a tremendous weight shift off him, and his body and mind were once more reunited. At the end of the meal he carefully prepared money for her. He counted it under the table so as not to bring attention to himself, and gave it to her by placing it into her palm as he touched her hand.

Again she smiled and said, “Kapunka.”

He stood up and walked out onto the Soi. She initiated the hug and she squeezed him tightly. She then raised her hands up in traditional Thai greeting and said goodbye.

Once more alone in a taxi he was on his way through the streets of Bangkok.

That Place-

21.

He is listening to an audiobook on Adam Smith while watching half naked men, flaunting themselves at passers by. What would he have said about the sale of your body in exchange for money? What is a fair transaction?

Looking around the Soi he realises that he is trying to justify himself. What a dickhead he is. Trying to act as if all of this doesn’t matter, and yet it does.

New Jersey-

22.

The airhostess comes around to take his drink and dinner order. There is a menu, not those horrible foil boxes that you get in coach. He looks over the menu but can’t decide. Isn’t it ironic that there has been so much decision making over the last few days but he can’t select a meal. In the end he simply points and the airhostess confirms he is having roast chicken with a medley of vegetables. He smiles back but does not say anything. After the food, after the wine, the exhaustion not tiredness envelops him. He feels himself descending into a tunnel. It is black and dark and silent.

For the first time in weeks, he lies back and falls into one of the deepest sleeps ever.

Bangkok-

23.

It was the last night in Bangkok and Tod was sitting at the café. It seemed the natural place for him to be. He noticed some of the customers who were regulars, who could be found there on most nights, who were part of this life and mostly he noticed that these customers were still looking lonely and empty.

It was late after 11, when he looked over and saw Hurtle walking into the ‘boy’ bar. He was about to text him to find out what he was up to but then decided against it. He didn’t feel like explaining why he was sitting in the cafe across the road and knew this would be a point of interrogation and subsequent ridicule.

He ordered another coffee and stared out into the street and then realized that he should probably go before Hurtle came out. He regretted ordering the coffee and looked around to cancel the order but the waiter was not outside. Next to him he noticed a middle-aged Asian man looking back at him. "Hi," he mouthed.

"Hey," was the response, but the accent is American.

Tod had never had to engage in a conversation at the café and this made him nervous but he heard himself say, "Crazy street."

"Yip," the man replied. "That it is." Tod hoped that this was the end of the conversation but he was wrong.

"First time to Bangkok?"

"No," Tod replied." Been here once before."

"I come twice a year," the man explained. "Love this place. Feels like home to me."

"Is that so."

"There is something in the water," he chuckled and then laughed until it dissipated into silence.

The coffee and waiter appeared at this time and he hoped that Hurtle did not come out before he had finished it. He quickly poured in the cream and sugar and stirred.

"Been to the new show at Big Boys?"

Tod looked at him, "No, haven't had the opportunity."

"You should. Crazy show they have these wild moments. Wild man, wild."

Tod was getting more uncomfortable and he drank the coffee as quickly as he could. He nodded to the waiter and made the sign for the check.

"Going to a show tonight?" the man asked.

"No, tired. Just going to go to bed."

The check arrived and luckily the waiter was standing in front of him as he saw Hurtle leaving the building with two 'boys'. He wondered what he was up to? He quickly paid and decided to follow at a distance. This was so typical of Hurtle, following a lead and then keeping everyone in the dark. Tod was booked on the early flight to Singapore and he knew he would probably get a call informing him that things had changed at the last minute.

As he exited the Soi he noticed Hurtle walking ahead with the two 'boys' following behind him.

He saw them weave between the crowds up ahead and then change direction as they moved towards a quieter street. It was then that he realised that Hurtle was entering a ‘pay by the hour’ hotel with the two ‘boys’ in tow. He made sure to stand in the shadows and watch as Hurtle paid for the room not before he touched each of the ‘boys’ buttocks and then slide his hand into the one ‘boy’s’ trousers.

Tod took out his phone ready to film what he saw. Hurtle’s hands continued to prod around the back of the ‘boy’s’ trousers as he pushed them towards the elevator. He stood transfixed unable to do anything.

Actually it was none of his business. Before long he was in a taxi and hotel bound.

Part 3

Singapore-

1.

The arrival into Singapore is as Penelope Tan explained. He is ushered off the plane and into a mobile trolley, which whisks him off to the VIP area. It is not a lounge like in New Jersey; this one is an entire area shielded from the other passengers and includes various individual smaller seating spaces and a bathroom with showers.

There is someone there to meet him. He smiles and says, “Professor Cunningham welcome to Singapore. My name is Albert.”

He smiles at Albert and politely says, “Hello, Albert.”

“If I could please have your passport. I will ensure that all formalities are taken care of. In the meantime can we get you some coffee, or another drink if you prefer?”

“Coffee, thank you.”

He is shown into one of the private booths and Albert disappears.

How the ‘other half’ lives, hidden and always running away from the rest of the ‘masses’. He might have paid for it but he doesn’t like it. This is not him and it never can or will be.

The coffee arrives, there are also some pastries on a plate and before he can say thank you, he is alone.

He sips the coffee and feels the warm liquid in his mouth. While randomly selecting a pastry he thinks back to a holiday in France. Roaming the French countryside in an old Citroen - stopping in the morning for croissants and coffee and enjoying the banter in French with the locals. Charles with his sophisticated accent, and him with his ‘I learnt French using a tape’ accent. The taste of coffee and a croissant on the palate.

Albert is back and almost stands at attention in front of him. “Professor Cunningham, now that all the formalities have been taken care of, I thought it best to run over the transfer to the hotel. We have sent your passport to the hotel, so that you can be checked in and they will return it to your room. We have a car waiting and you will be able to access it directly from this area. Once you arrive at the hotel, you will be taken through the service entrance, to the service lift and then onto your floor. The hotel has confirmed that they will be placing you in the penthouse suite, which is located on the top floor. Do you have any questions?”

He didn’t. Everything was so well explained that you didn’t have to think. Where were these people trained that they were so precise?

As he stands up he says, “Thank you once again, Albert. It is much appreciated.”

“It is only our pleasure, Professor Cunningham.”

He is shown to the waiting car and strapped into the back seat. Before he can say good-bye the car is already in motion and the door has been closed.

Having visited many times, the drive from Changi airport into the city is familiar and he is able to identify landmarks. It was the times, in this city that no one has discovered. He is thankful that he is here and that there is a code of discretion. The hotels he had stayed in, the men who had visited him, the experiences that he had here.

As they drive over the bridge and into the Marina area, he looks over to the hotel that he had the most memorable experience in. He was Indonesian, handsome, a muscular body and filled with a softness - the touch of the man’s skin against his, the scent of his body, the fingers gently nudging him. That memory no one can take away. No one has access to it.

How do you explain this to people? The simple joy of being touched – being stroked in a way that did not judge you; did not consider your looks; did not consider if you were fat or thin; did not consider if you were Asian or Caucasian; did not consider if you were somebody of significance or not. And the sex, the beautiful sex as his body ignited. It was consensual. It was right, wasn’t it?

The car pulls up to a small road; it is the back of the hotel. The door opens and there is another face, “Welcome to Singapore, Professor Cunningham. I will be assisting you to your suite.”

He notices that no name is used; clearly there is a difference between the airline and the rest of the ‘role-players’ in this charade. He walks towards the elevator, which is close to the door. There is not another soul to be seen. As this is a tall building, the ride up to the top floor is long and silent.

The elevator opens and he is ushered through a door and into the passageway of the hotel. It is now that he sees others, not on the same floor as him but in the atrium which extends all the way up through the hotel. They are small and he notices how frenetic their movement is. This is in direct contrast to a calming music – which is piped through the hotel not loudly but quietly in the walls and floors.

There is a door in front of him and the lady opens it with an electronic key. She walks through the suite explaining the various amenities and equipment. He does not concentrate on what she is saying until he hears, “Sorry, as your personal assistant is not with you, is there anything else I can assist you with?”

He is confused, then realises this is linked to the story he constructed and still has to play out. “No, thank you. You have been very kind.”

“One last thing, would you like our staff to access your lounge without announcing themselves?”

What does that even mean? He can’t ask? It is something that ‘VIP’s’ would know. “Yes. Thank you.”

“In that case, please don’t hesitate to call on us. Enjoy your stay.”

He is still confused by the last statement and wonders what he has agreed to. Whatever it is, he can stop it if he doesn’t like it.

He looks out the windows; the view is over the whole of Singapore and as he looks identifies hotels along with the experiences he has had at them.

When he opens the balcony door, the real temperature can be felt rather than the icy cold of the suite. He walks to the end of the balcony and looks down. It is far away. He is elevated high above the ground below. There is a small table and chairs and a telescope neatly placed next to each other. There is no need for the telescope; all he needs to see is what lies in front of him.

Now that he is here, he is awaiting the thoughts to come into his head of what he is going to do. There is nothing - no voice, no idea - just silence. That is okay he thinks as long as there is quiet, he can rest and recuperate and be.

He goes inside and looks for the numbers on the phone to call room service for a coffee. But there is only one extension and one button. He pushes it hoping that it will connect to something. “Mr Cunningham, how can we assist you?”

Discomfort at the efficiency. “I would like to order a cappuccino and a … don’t worry just a cappuccino.”

“Certainly, it’s on its way.”

Not even two minutes later he hears the door lock grind, as these electronic door locks do. The staff member glides in, not looking around, and places the cappuccino on the coffee table. There is a quick exit, followed by the ring of the phone. He sound startles him. Should he answer it?

“Hello.”

“Mr Cunningham, your cappuccino has been delivered.”

“Um … yes … thank you.”

“You are welcome.” The phone goes dead.

This will need some time to get used to. It is a bit too much but then perfect as he can be alone.

He fetches the cappuccino and walks back to the balcony. It is while he is sitting there that he decides what he is going to do.

The cold air floods him as he opens the door. He fetches a pen and paper from inside and returns to the table. He makes a list of all the hotels he has stayed in. Over the next few hours or days he is going to try and remember all of the experiences with men, in all of the countries. He is going to describe the men - their looks and nationalities and stories. Smiling, he now knows that he has some purpose.

Singapore-

2.

"He is here", Myrtle Chang exclaimed excitedly, as she spotted him exiting the customs area.

"Hi, Myrtle," Tod said, as he pushed his trolley laden with luggage towards her.

"I am serious."

The realization started to sink in. "Is it an actual confirmed siting?”

"Twitter is abuzz with the news that he was spotted and there is a photograph to prove it, okay! He was on a flight bound from New Jersey to Singapore. There is even this really funny picture of him - okay that was not the correct word – a selfie. Let's start again … It’s with one of the airline crew. It's one of those selfies, where not all participants know they are being photographed and he looks like a deer that is about to get killed as he looks at the menu. It’s from the galley looking back, so he had no clue it was being taken.” She chortled in a really sweet way unlike Hurtle's cackle.

Everything about Myrtle was better than Hurtle and she was really professional and efficient. Myrtle covered Singapore and Malaysia independent of Hurtle and six months before he had been lucky to work with her on a story about Singapore billionaires and their hidden stash.

"Why did he come here?" Tod was confused.

"To meet you," Myrtle said, before breaking out into a new fit of laughter.

Tod managed a smile and then had to think about this one. Surely, it did not make sense to go to a region where there were rumors circulating about you - but then come to think of it Singapore had not been mentioned.

"I really wonder why?" Tod said to her. "We need to get an interview. Myrtle there is something here we need to uncover. What do you think it is?”

Myrtle had stopped laughing and looked at him intently. "I am working on it. Have looked at all the escort services online that cover Singapore and have contacted a few. Waiting on them to come back to me."

"Good," he said. "Where is he staying?"

"Not sure yet but as soon as I know I will use every connection that I have."

Singapore-

3.

The pages are strewn all over the room. He has written and torn them out and written some more but he cannot trust his memory, it will not allow him access to all of the experiences. It is hiding some of them. His brain is hiding them.

Fatigue has set in. He has dozed off to sleep on the floor amongst the papers.

He is standing naked in a room; there is a man there with him. He smiles and the man smiles back. Then there are more men walking in and soon there are hundreds of naked men in front of him. No one says a thing, no one moves.

Slowly he comes out of the dream and looks around. Where is this room? He is in a strange room. The room does not matter. He knows now what he must do. All the experiences need to be put in order. The hotel name is not important anymore, the experience of what happened with the ‘boy’ is. He once more collects the papers and feels his body burning - he is so hot and he doesn’t know why? Water, he needs water. After quenching his thirst, he starts to fumble with the pages.

The order. The order is important then he can know what he did and who did what, and …

He has not gone out in four days. The plates of food have disappeared and he has ordered and drank more coffee than he would in a month. He doesn’t care. No one is watching him. He is answering to himself. VIP, he is a VIP.

Hours go by, more frantic writing; more images popping into his head … some are only of penises and no faces. After he has written some of the experiences and there is some order, some logic in his mind and on the floor, he once again drifts into sleep.

They keep saying that he has won a prize. But I didn’t enter he says. You have won the lottery. He laughs; it is a laugh of sarcasm. The lady hands over the money, it is all in cash and there are lots of banknotes. He is being covered with bills and he can’t breathe and shouts at her to stop. But there is no longer a lady, only a drag queen in her place licking the money and then throwing it on him.

He is a rock star, everyone wants him to sing. He doesn’t want to. They are outside his trailer at the concert banging on the door, telling him to come out. ‘Fuck you,’ he yells and then the door breaks and hundreds of fans come in.

He is talking to people, there are lots of flashes and he is talking about himself. He is talking about being a person, who is not good. The words come out but what he says and what he thinks is not the same thing. The words are words, his thoughts are thoughts.

It is a Soi, there is the bar and he is drinking coffee in the restaurant across from it. There is a man next to him. The man hugs him and gently massages his leg. He likes that feeling, of being touched, of the gentle massage. ‘I love you,’ he says. The man says, ‘I love you too.’

He is now in a different place, watching a drag queen dance with his testicles strapped back to mimic a vagina. ‘I don’t like vagina,’ he shouts. ‘I have a cock is the reply.’

He is now in New Jersey, he is in the community park, he is naked and is in the community park, he is being chased by a snake. Not just any snake a giant snake that keeps opening its mouth and showing its teeth. The snake is getting closer. It starts to eat his buttocks and he can feel it devouring him. He tries to scream but no sound escapes.

He is now in a quiet place. He is calm. There are only a few people here. It feels safe and he can breathe. He notices how he breathes, each breath in, the act of inhaling, each breath out, the act of exhaling. The consciousness of when to take the next breath. When one notices that one has to inhale and is conscious of it, then it is much harder to breathe.

Why are the people staring at him? He is naked again. He is naked and there is blood all over his stomach and genitals. He tries to touch himself to find out where the blood has come from. He can’t find the source of the blood. He starts to panic and is pulling at his skin but this causes it to break and parts of it fall off. This should not be happening. He lets out a scream, he needs to alert someone, he needs to be helped, he needs to be in a hospital.

When he wakes up he is completely disoriented. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. It is hard to process thoughts; his head is throbbing and his body is scorched. He crawls to the bathroom; he turns on the water in the shower, grabs his feet and lying like a fetus rocks slowly as the cool water runs off him.

Singapore-

4.

Myrtle showed him the various tweets and pictures doing the circuit. The first thing that Tod noticed was that he looked terrible - there were huge black circles under his eyes, not even rings, and his whole face was sunken and hollow, as if he was undergoing some major treatment for a serious illness.

"Look at what he looks like," he said to Myrtle.

"I know."

"It's like he is really sick?"

"Yes, and people are speculating that he has AIDS, or some sexual disease and is dying ... Read some of these comments."

He scrolled through the various comments she wanted to show him and he read what people were saying and it was harsh. He wondered how much of this stuff landed back in Cunningham's own social media programmes. How he felt reading about himself like that.

"Okay, now onto the local source that you are going to meet next. He is the man who found an escort agency that Cunningham used while in Singapore. Using escorts here is a criminal offence and in part so is being gay. Supposedly, he stayed at the hotel that made Singapore famous!"

"That famous hotel. Are you sure?" he said in disbelief. "How could he have afforded it?" This part of the story was dubious and the pieces were not fitting together. It seemed random, out of place. What still perplexed Tod was why Cunningham was in Singapore? Why would he come here?

"Yes, they have the records."

"Who, the hotel? They gave you his personal details?"

"No, the escort agency did."

"Oh ..."

"So run this by me again, he came to Singapore like he went to Bangkok but here he used an escort agency, as there were no go-go bars. You feel it is because Singapore still considers gay sex a crime, punishable under the penal code and that is why gay people are underground or more discreet here?"

Myrtle nodded and then added, "But of late there has been an increase in male sex workers coming to Singapore from China, Malaysia, Indonesia and Thailand. They come and offer 'massage services’ and then you know what after that."

"And you think he came here because of that? Then why the escort agency? See my dilemma?"

"Well I don't know why he came," she said, "but that is my hunch?"

"I am sorry Myrtle, I am confused ... this story does not make sense."

"Why?"

"He travels around Asia visiting countries to have sex? He has a regular gay partner, he can have sex with anyone in the US, he can rent in US if need be. Why go through all of this trouble?"

Myrtle looked at him puzzled with her head cocked to the left, "Good point. Why was he given the peace prize? Also doesn't make sense?"

Tod sat back on the sofa and took in a deep breath. Myrtle continued to look at him.

"You know Tod, he may have wanted to be alone. From what I have read about him and his weird behavior in the last few days, he doesn't want to be in the spotlight. I saw this interview with a psychologist who analyzed his body language, speech and reactions and thought he was an introvert, who had been forced out into the world and now had to take on a role that he could not handle. Who says that he didn’t regularly escape his everyday life and come to Asia to be alone?"

"Myrtle, then why did he need to hire people to be with him?

"I agree, he paid for people to be with him but only for a short time. H wanted intimacy but didn’t want to deal with the rest. This is the oldest profession in the book and as you and I know it is kind of calculated by the hour, so it was perfect for his needs."

"Wow, I never thought about it like that."

"He knew that they were going to be with him. Intimacy, which I think he craved but then they would leave and he could be alone once more."

"Myrtle, I am going to share something with you and I don't want you to think I am crazy or judge me."

"Sure, whatever you say is safe with me."

"Well, I am not gay but I ended spending some time in Bangkok on the gay street. It helped me to understand what kind of people go there. I went to a cafe in the middle of it where the go-go bars are and ended up sitting there and watching people go by. I did it for up to three hours at a time. It was not stressful, it was not seedy, in fact there were some regulars and me that just kind of ordered our drinks and sat. I ... maybe he felt it too. I think he liked to be alone and yet surrounded by people. He wanted to be in a place where he did not know anyone, where he could be completely anonymous but he also had ‘friends’ at these bars. People remembered him. He could go in and out as he pleased. It’s similar to using the escort service here in Singapore. Instead of going to the ‘go-go’ bar he could have the escort for a short time and then be anonymous again. It is only know that we talk about it and you mention that he might have wanted to be alone, that I put the two together. Maybe you will think I am mad?"

Myrtle smiled, "I don't think you are mad, it kind of makes sense to me. The more we talk about it, the more I try to understand this story. We sit here and have this discussion and my thoughts are all over the place. There is more to this story than any of us can understand."

"I want to interview him while he is here? There are so many things I would like to ask him."

"Oh don't worry, there are things that the whole world wants to know."

Singapore-

5.

He is afraid to fall asleep as the dreams – those dreams – terrify him. However, he struggles to stay awake and orders more and more coffee. No matter how hard he tries, he slips into the nightmare.

Around him are lights, lots and lots of lights. There is a conductor on the stage and there is a man dressed as a violin. They ask him to play the violin but he says he doesn’t know how to.

Play the violin, play the violin, play the fucking violin. He picks up the bow and looks at the man in front of him. He is no longer dressed as a violin. His penis is erect and he places the bow onto it and plays. The sound is majestic and he likes it so much that he plays with more and more force until eventually the penis snaps off.

Singapore-

6.

The interview was not going to be face to face. The agency was based in Hong Kong and they had agreed to an audio Skype interview. This was going to be his first Skype interview with the subject completely hidden from view. He wondered about the authenticity of this. It could be anyone in the world saying whatever they wanted. He wanted to speak to Myrtle about his concerns but would wait until after the interview.

They had set up in his hotel at the business centre, using the boardroom for absolute privacy. Myrtle had in her super-efficient way prepared a brief – which included the source, how she had located him, the information that had been verified and a list of questions he could use if he wanted to. All the uncertainty about authenticity started to disappear when he saw what she had uncovered. Once he was settled in, she handed over the file and quietly sat so that he could read its contents.

She had insisted on seeing proof that he disclosed his name to them. They had forwarded the e-mail in which they had asked him for a name to call when the 'escort' arrived; the hotels had controlled access to the floors. They would call the guest to notify them of their visitor. Therefore, he would have to give the correct name and room number or he couldn’t use the ‘escorts’ services.

Written in an e-mail to Myrtle, the agency indicated that from a pseudo account, confirmed his first and last name, as well as room number. There was a condition attached to getting the actual copy of it. Once the interview was underway, and they had been paid the agreed fee, a scanned copy would be e-mailed immediately. Not until then.

"Surely he could not have been so naive? Why would he have disclosed his identity? And in a country where prostitution was illegal … and he could be imprisoned for having gay sex." he asked her.

"I don't think he was thinking on those terms. If he found the agency, he must have felt comfortable that this kind of thing was allowed. Without disclosing anything about what we are working on, I asked many gay friends about this and they said that there is a ‘don't ask - don't tell’ kind of attitude in Singapore. One of my friends who is openly gay and an activist here, went on to say that many hotels are protective in terms of security about 'visitors' male or female and that there are mechanisms in place to ensure that guests are sufficiently protected but also that the process is discreet. I am sure based on the kind of hotel that he stayed at there must have been some protective measures in place. I have a further theory that those kinds of hotels don't want any trouble and are sure to protect what happens inside the walls from the police. It is not in their interests to have a scandal. Also you are not going to stop or even deter the oldest profession in the world, so I guess this is all thought out."

"Myrtle, did I mention how much I love working with you," he said, looking at her in awe.

"I like working with you too, Tod."

"I guess he was a nobody at that time so mentioning his name wasn’t going to have that many consequences."

"Great point," Myrtle said. "Didn't think about that, and you are so right he was actually anonymous."

Myrtle’s phone beeped consistently during their discussion. She assumed that it was the network with their usual crap. Her face drained of color once she did check it.

“They know where he is. There is an unconfirmed source that has linked him to a hotel in the business district. It makes sense, under the radar. No one would have expected it.”

“What do we do?” Tod blurted, aware that the decision had consequences.

“We can’t stop now. This is important and I don’t see them getting hold of him. If he hasn’t been out and spotted so far, it’s not going to happen in the next few hours.”

“I agree but what if …”

“I will get the person we use on a freelance basis to get down there with herself and a camera.” With that Myrtle was on the phone cajoling the freelancer into doing this for her. The big sigh at the end of the call confirmed that she was now covered.

“At least if there is footage, I can do the live feeds in an hour. Let the network know now, so that there are no questions later.” Tod was quick to respond.

Myrtle had not even pushed the button to hang up to her boss when the screen of the computer had lit up and started flashing as a ringing sound was heard. Tod hit ‘record’ and started the interview.

"Hello," he said, at the computer screen.

"Hello," the voice came back cold and mechanical.

"We are recording on this side, so we are going to go ahead and ask the questions and you can respond. Myrtle mentioned to you that you could send the e-mail with the evidence directly to her. Payment will be made once we have got through about three quarters of our questions."

There was no response and he looked nervously at Myrtle, who made a rolling motion with her hands which told him to get a move on.

He looked down to the set of questions and the brief overview she had written for him. "We are joined today by a gay escort agency that operates in various cities in Asia and specializes in Asian escorts for men. They have agreed to provide some background to the world of escorting in Singapore where Cunningham is believed to have hired an escort.”

“How long has your agency operated in Singapore?"

The voice came back, "We have worked in Singapore for the past ten years."

"And why did you think it was viable to open an agency here?"

"There was a need for gay men to have opportunities to have sex with other men in a private way. And, the concern for gay men in the Chinese community is that they might meet a family member or someone that knows them at a gay bar. Businessmen, visitors and locals all need to have access to this kind of service. So discretion and privacy are premium."

Tod considered what he had heard and although the man had a slight accent, his vocabulary and spoken English were really good.

"I see," he said. "Maybe if you could briefly explain the process one follows to make a booking, drop off the escort, ensure payment, so that we can understand what is involved?"

There was a brief pause, “We have a website on which we advertise the various cities we operate in. Currently we work in many different countries and there are many ‘models’ that work for us. You select a ‘model’ and then contact us by phone or by e-mail. We then organise directly with the ‘model’ and we send the ‘model’ to the residence or hotel. All of our ‘models’ do ‘outcall’ not ‘incall’.”

In his head, Tod listed the various names associated with people involved in the sex industry – ‘boy’, ‘escort’ and now ‘model’.

“So in ‘outcall’ you mean you don’t have your own premises? And I assume you have an office in each city?” Tod clarified.

“No, we have no premises and no offices. The ‘models’ work for us and we don’t have an office.”

“And I am right in saying that the headquarters of your organization are in Hong Kong?”

“Yes.”

“Let us now go on and talk about the subject of Cunningham which you say has used your agency.” There was hesitation and Tod had many thoughts spinning in his head and he motioned to Myrtle that he was going off script. She gave him the thumbs up.

“Yes, he used the services of one of our ‘models’ in Singapore.”

“How can you be sure and how can you prove this?”

“We have an e-mail in which he confirms in writing that he wanted a ‘model’, the name of the hotel and the date.”

“And you are sure it is the same person?”

“Well there is no way to be sure. We have a mail that has the same name. In it he said that he wanted a very specific ‘model’ with the tattoo - it was unique, one which looked like a dragon and was tattooed from his shoulder down to his nipple on his left side. He wanted no one else and in addition he wanted him for the evening, or to stay ‘overnight’ as we call it. Once a ‘model’ is dispatched we make a note so that we know what kind of service is being offered, how long it will be and how much money we are expecting in terms of commission. This allows for a quick collection on the ‘models’ return. In the end he paid the ‘boy’ and let him go after two hours.”

“But am I right in being skeptical because surely it is not in your interest to disclose details of clients. I mean people use your service and I am sure they want some discretion, right?”

There was a silence on the other end, then the sound of a throat being cleared. “That is all. I have nothing more to say.”

The line went dead. Tod had expected some resistance; he had not expected the call to be terminated.

“Should we call back? Or maybe you should e-mail them,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Sorry.”

“Just give me a minute,” she replied.

There was something brewing in her head. It didn’t change the fact that he had deviated from the script for the second time in a week. He couldn’t have cared about Hurtle but he respected Myrtle. It was this kind of stuff that got you fired for if local producers reported it to the agency.

“I think we keep it,” Myrtle said, looking calculated. “This is going to help the story not deter from it. It was a good question. The fact that he hung up interrogates the reliability of the various role players in this story. Up to now, we all have made assumptions. Yes, you got your interview in Bangkok but it was one side of the story. Here we get some more but it remains one version of events. The reaction tells me something. You hit a raw nerve definitely hit a raw nerve. Because you called them on it?”

Tod let out a prolonged sigh.

“Think about it Tod, if every place we trusted to be discrete then started blabbing, we wouldn’t trust anymore. Most people don’t believe the news anyway because we, the manufacturers of the news, don’t know what is real and what is not. Is it a reality show or not? Is it scripted or not? Do they sell their clients out, or not?”

Tod thought more about this. “But are we not disclosing their identity as per your agreement with them? They don’t want people to know.”

“Come on Tod, put two and two together and you will see there were not many agencies to begin with. All it takes is a Google search and you can work out who it is. Please this happens everywhere.” Myrtle was passionate and her hands moved around excitedly. “People pay for sex.”

Tod felt a pang of guilt all the way down to his stomach, and flashbacks to that night.

“My own husband used a sex worker. I found out and then the choice was for me to leave or stay?”

“What did you choose?” he asked. “Sorry, that is very personal.”

“No, it’s life and the sooner we realize that we can play moral-moral; or use religion; or use our ethics and values; or just accept that we all pay for something in some way and decide if we are better or worse off than others.”

“Amen.”

“I said to him that he needed to be careful and wear a condom. We stopped having sex a long time ago, and loving each other even further back. In our culture you don’t get divorced. So you make it work. I am not a saint. I have had an affair and I don’t regret it. If I am honest with you, it was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Wow, Myrtle, you astound me,” he said, looking in her fiery eyes. “I respect you even more for your honesty because I don’t know many people who could be.”

“That’s it! We don’t want to he honest.”

“Have you noticed in all of the interviews with Cunningham, he never once said he didn’t do these things. He simply threw a question back or made a statement about morality. I feel like I have learnt from him. This isn’t a kiss and tell story - this is a story that was never meant to be told and we don’t have the right to tell it.”

“Don’t we?” Tod asked.

“I know this is our bread and butter and how we make our money but I didn’t like what I saw in the Bangkok segment. How much of it was balanced and considered all sides? You defined the gay area, you defined what goes on there, the shots from the camera that indicated the sleaziness of the bar, the interview with the madam, or whatever the local term was. All of this said something. Then you interviewed the guy that slept with him. I felt the honesty in his voice only for it to be cut and put back together to suit the story. I can’t prove it but the sound gave it away. The story had to be changed because that’s what sells.”

“I …” he interrupted, and then shook his head.

“Tod, I am not judging you or blaming you. Sorry for the outburst but this has been boiling in me. I don’t care if I get fired, or if you tell them what I feel. I want to tell both sides of a story.”

“So do I,” he heard himself saying.

“Shit,” Myrtle exclaimed, “we need to get our asses down to that hotel.”

Singapore-

7.

He doesn’t remember switching the television on, but it is on and he is staring at the screen.

It is his picture once again; he can see himself on the screen. Why is he on the screen?

And in breaking news, it is now confirmed that Barry Cunningham has fled to Singapore and is holed up in a hotel there. He has not made an attempt to leave it since he arrived. Eyewitnesses on the ground have confirmed that the hotel has been closed to the public and only checked in guests, showing their room keys have current access.

It is the place he has been living in that he sees; it is the place where he is now.

A story now confirming Cunningham’s use of male prostitutes in Singapore possibly explains the reasons why he is there.

Why do they keep on talking? Why?

We will keep our viewers updated on any movements in the story. And now in other news …

He has to see for himself, he has to open the curtain a little bit and see for himself. This is an elevator, and he is going down, he is falling down, and then the doors open. Where are the curtains? He desperately needs to see the curtains. There is a door in front of him the door can be opened. He peers outside – it is the street but there are no curtains. He walks down the alleyway but where is the community park? Where are the people? Where are his curtains - all he can think about is the curtains?

If he walks a little bit he might be able to find them. Walking around the corner he know something is terribly wrong. Terror, there is terror as he sees them, the demons, but there are no curtains to protect him. He turns back to the alleyway, he turns back and runs, he is running and there are doors, and he is confused because where is the passageway, they mustn’t see his silhouette through the door. They mustn’t.

There is a passageway but it looks different. There are too many doors, which door should he open. He tries one after the other but the doors will not open. He must open a door; he needs to open a door.

He can see the elevator on the other side of the passageway, when did they get an elevator. He must get in the elevator and open the door. The curtains have disappeared and cannot protect himself anymore. The elevator is his last hope.

Slowly he walks towards the elevator, they mustn't see his silhouette against the glass.

Singapore-

8.

The interview aired the following morning and he knew that Myrtle had managed the entire thing - the story has been sold to the network, the angle accepted and when he watched the insert that was eventually constructed he was impressed.

The focus had already shifted to the hotel in Singapore now flooded by the media. This had resulted in a restriction of access to it and only registered guests were allowed in. In true media style, rooms were booked so that they would have access inside, a clever strategy on the side of some networks. They were not allowed to broadcast or shoot scenes anywhere inside otherwise they would be removed. Live feeds from inside hotel rooms were being broadcast and the hotel was unable to pinpoint exactly where these were coming from.

Some of the media had camped outside the hotel and Myrtle has assured him that they didn’t need to go through this charade; she could get them inside and had a way of doing it.

"So, you have heard I am sure that there are more press surrounding the hotel than for the winner of Singapore's Got Talent," she joked.

"Well I guess there is a story to be told and people can smell the blood."

She showed the way with her hand as they walked down one of the streets, "It's humid here."

"That it is," he said, and wiped a bead of sweat from his face.

"Not far, don't worry.” She surveyed the street so that they could cross it. “Just thought it would be better to arrive together and look like tourists."

"I am in your hands, oh great magician of the town."

She laughed and continued to walk. In front of them they spotted the crowd of media people that had congregated on the side of the street, next to the hotel entrance.

“I need to quickly check something.” She peered carefully over the crowd. “There she is.”

“The person who is going to help us in?”

“No the freelancer,” she doted. “Really good work she is doing too.”

Tod had seen some of the live feeds and she was doing a good job indeed.

"We are going in the back way so that no one will notice us," she said.

He was amazed as they walked into a shopping mall and disappeared up and down some escalators and pushed through a door, which took them directly into the hotel lobby. The hotel had taken no risks and even in this odd entrance there was a security guard that requested the room access cards to prove that they were guests.

Myrtle smiled at the man and said, "We have a booking for tea at 10-30 under the name of Myrtle Chang." He didn't let them through but smiled and asked them to wait. With a two-way radio he confirmed that there was in fact a booking for Mrs Chang and only once he had done this did he let them past. Myrtle continued to smile throughout the wait and when they were out of earshot said with a naughty look on her face, "We are in mwaaahhahahahah."

“I thought only registered guests were allowed?”

“Unless you come here every opportunity you can to have tea! Well at least that’s what I told them.”

He laughed and looked around for the first time. The hotel was an interesting one with a huge internal atrium. If they had come in from the main entrance they would have had to come by elevator to the lobby which was suspended in the middle. The lobby housed a restaurant but also had restaurants leading off it, and this was where they were heading. What took Tod by surprise was that the doors of all of the rooms faced the internal atrium and somewhere within spitting distance Cunningham was hiding out. Myrtle made her way to the hostess in the lobby and they were shown to a table for tea with a reserved sign. Many of the tables were empty and he guessed that not many people had thought about this option.

Once they had sat down, ordered their traditional English tea and were out of earshot she started to explain. "This is a five star hotel and it has the biggest internal atrium in Singapore, famous for its architectural accomplishment. Looking around, security is definitely looking out for people wanting to 'disturb the peace'. I don’t see those ‘guests’ that have checked in and are broadcasting from their rooms being allowed to roam around freely. The hotel can't stop business from happening, so they are going to have to ease this at some point. I wonder how long he will remain here? Or the inevitable, when they will ask him to leave."

"That is a good question." He looked at her, "Something I am sure someone named Myrtle Chang would be able to find out."

"Well, lets say I am working on it but it’s not proving to be easy."

"Somewhere in this space is the person we want to talk with, to interview someone who everyone wants to dissect and humiliate.” Tod murmured.

While he was talking Myrtle had been scanning the atrium and said, "I thought we would see more security on a specific floor, even outside a specific room but I can't see any abnormal activity. I have now looked as much as I can from my vantage point. I am also trying not to arouse too much suspicion but I don't see security except for the entrance points."

"Myrtle Chang," he said, "you missed your calling as a CSI."

She laughed at him and their tea arrived with all the trimmings. Here in the colonies life could be good.

Like Myrtle, he scanned the atrium looking for any anomaly but he could not see anything and continued to do this at varying intervals. Myrtle checked her smart phone regularly but after they had their tea and had spent enough time there, he knew that this visit had at least got them inside but that would be it for now.

That Place-

9.

How do you fall out of love with someone? How do you surrender your feelings if the person is only paid to please you?

He stares deep into the eyes of the ‘boy’, the ‘boy’ who has spoken to him about his life, unlike any other ‘boy’ he has met. It is filled with meaning and carefully chosen words.

The ‘boy’ simply says, “My name is Oh.” It is a familiar name he has heard many times before. Maybe he had even met an Oh before.

“Hi, I am B,” he responds.

“Nice to meet you B.” The automated response.

And then he starts to ask the odd question, thinking it will go as it normally does with the ‘boy’ not being able to answer, which would then lead to them going back to the hotel.

However, this is different, every question has an answer. He is able to draw out information, a story and is jubilant.

He wants to ask every question he can. Before he blurts out what he wants to ask, he realises he needs to pace himself, or the ‘boy’ might clam up and not share anymore.

“Why did you decide to do this work?”

The ‘boy’ did not answer the question immediately and instead looked ahead. He realized that he had gone too far.

“Sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, okay …”

He felt really guilty and didn’t want to carry on. But then the ‘boy’ spoke.

“I come to study. I come to try study at the university but cannot. Stay with friend who study. He is very clever. But I not. I cannot stay because too stupid. Then don’t go back to friend as not feel good. You know Lumpini Park?”

He does and says, “Yes.”

I sleep Lumpini Park two week under …” he struggles to find the word, “bench.”

He looks at him as he says this and can’t imagine anyone doing that.

“I have very little money. I buy food every day only one time. I walk every day around here. I see many bar and many ‘boy’ working there. One day I ask ‘boy’ what he do working there. ‘Boy’ say he is ‘money boy’. I ask what is ‘money boy’. He say ‘boy’ who go with ‘farang’ and have sex. I not understand. ‘Boy’ get angry with me. I ask another ‘boy’, and ‘boy’ explain one more time. I don’t think men do this. Then I see ‘boy’ have nice clothes, have nice phone. I come back and ask another ‘boy’ how do I work there. He is kind ‘boy’ and he take me to bar. Mama-san not want to take me, say I not good body and not good face, too thin. I beg Mama-san and say I have no work, no home, no food. Mama-san kind and then say will give me food and when I can, I can work there. I eat food and soon I okay and Mama-san say I can work as ‘boy’. I start and then I work here from that time.”

After hearing this story, he is in love. He looks dreamily at the ‘boy’. He can’t take him back to the hotel only for sex. He wants to hold him, touch him and look after him.

He comes every night to ensure that no one else takes him. Even going as far as withdrawing money he has saved into a savings account to ensure that he can do this. Each night they talk about something different. He hears about the ‘boys’ hometown, his family, being gay and how it is really seen by his family. Living as a ‘money boy’. Every conversation makes him fall deeper and deeper into the vacuum of love.

Then reality strikes. He knows he has to go back, back to his world, back to work, back to a loveless partnership - all of this awaits him outside of this Soi, outside of this place that feels like home.

He looks at the ‘boy’ and is aware that they have never had sex in all the time he has visited. They have only ever touched each other’s arms, legs and shoulders. He realises something different in himself. This is a new phase for him. He doesn’t have to move about looking for sex here anymore, he is content.

He touches his arm, slowly making a circle with the movements of his finger. Then he moves his nails up and down the arm gently.

Too quickly, he is on the way to the airport, he is checked in, security then   passport and then he knows it is over.

He feels the plane take off, he feels the engines thrust and soon they are in the air way above this world. The flight is the vessel taking him back to his hell; back to return to the world of mortals, to be someone who has responsibilities. The plane begins its descent into New Jersey, he doesn’t want to look out of the window, he doesn’t want to accept this fate. The wheels connect with the runway and once more the sound of the break and then he hears, “Ladies and gentlemen welcome to New Jersey, the local time …”

Singapore-

10.

“I just need to pop off to the toilet,” he said to Myrtle.

“I will get a glass of water.”

“That’s a good idea,” Tod said.

He doesn’t feel that they would get the scoop they had hoped for. Cunningham was not going to show himself, he knew they were all there, some inside, some outside.

Tod looked around for the toilet, he was always amazed at how much money hotels spent on the place where people peed and shat. This one looked like a marbled shrine to a deity. There were gold and mirrors and it smelt of lime in strong contrast to the streets of Bangkok, where there was none of this, where people survived on so little.

He found the cubicle and did his business while whistling a song that he had heard. After he had washed his hands, he looked at himself in the mirror. He stared at the face of a man, a weather beaten face, wrinkled around the eyes and stubble that was going grey. Bloody hell, he was getting old.

The cold water on his face felt good and he dabbed his face with one of the hand towels. He dried his hands using the electronic dryer and then leant over the basin to collect his thoughts. He was tired.

As he made his way back to Myrtle, he noticed a man was walking towards him. This guy was really old as he was walking very slowly. He didn’t know why he did this but he never made eye contact with someone walking towards him until they were really close, then he would smile or says hello.

As he got closer, he made eye contact for the first time. What he saw will forever haunt him - it was Barry Cunningham - or to put it more correctly, what was left of him. He was now a somnambulist but one that muttered as they walked. All that was missing were his outstretched arms. What would Myrtle say when he got this scoop. He reached into his pocket to get his phone; he was going to record this. Then he looked again.

This man, this person, deserved what he had always wanted from others - dignity. He didn’t know what to do? He smiled at him and said, “Good afternoon.”

Barry looked at him for the first time, “Good afternoon, yes … good afternoon.” His eyes peered at him with caution and were glazed. “You are not one of them. You are not one of them.” He gently rocked from side to side as he said this. Then he carried on walking past, it was a slow shuffle, but it was a walk.

He waited and watched him make his way down the passageway and towards the elevator. He got into it but did not push a button. He simply stood in the elevator waiting for nothing.

Tod walked to the elevator and asked, “Where are you going?”

“I am going home.” He pointed all the way up.

Tod pushed the button for the top floor, assuming this was where he stayed and stepped out of the elevator.

As the doors closed he said, “Enjoy your trip home.”

“Thank you.” It was the response, which was heard as the elevator carried him away.

That Place-

11.

He finds himself balancing on the balustrade of the balcony. It is difficult to keep balance on it. He doesn’t need to look at this world anymore. His eyes are closed and he sees a film playing onto his eyelids.

He is standing holding a man, he is standing with his arms wrapped around a man, he is so handsome, he gently squeezes his back, and he is whispering into his ear … It is soothing, it is musical, he feels content, he knows he is loved. He releases the man and standing facing each other, they look into each other’s eyes. His eyes are filled with possibility. And then the words he has been longing for - I love you.

He melts, he dissolves into himself, he disappears within him.

He is.

They are.

He is back on the ledge. There is a slight breeze; even though it is hot the wind punctuates the air. He does not open his eyes. He does not want to.

“I am not who you think I am …” he whispers quietly.

He is walking down the Soi, he is smiling and people are smiling back. Some greet him, others simply look. That doesn’t matter, he is home. The smells, sounds, tastes and the touch of skin on skin.

He is coming home.

He jumps off the balustrade and into the light below.

He is going home.

He is descending into the light; he is falling into the arms that will catch him, the hands which will gently touch him.

He is going home.

0.

Press Release: For immediate release

Statement from the Peace Prize Committee:

It is with regret that we hear about the untimely death of Dr Barry Cunningham. The Committee extends its condolences to Dr Cunningham’s family, friends and colleagues.

Let us remember the words of Dr Cunningham-

Dignity is a choice, but it is a choice which can change your life.

To have dignity and to be able to give dignity,
is what humanity is about.

For it is in giving that we set ourselves and each other free.

As a result of this death prior to the official awards ceremony, the rules of the committee have to be considered, which note that only a living person may be awarded the prize.

Although the prize was awarded during Dr Cunningham’s life, the formal ceremony has not taken place.

Therefore, in honor of his life, the Committee has decided not to award the Peace Prize to anyone else this year.

About the Author

Jay J. Carr is a writer, director and social activist. As a gay writer he is interested in issues of sexuality, the body and performativity of gender. He is a storyteller that travels the world in search of the next inspirational tale. He lives in New York.

www.jcarrwriting.com