Best of Asian Erotica, Volume 1

Two Men and a Plan

We are not the products of our circumstances, but we are surely the sum of all the stupid choices that our parents have inflicted on us.” Shun told me this when he took me to my first client.

“And there is nothing we can do to undo this damage — not you, not me,” he added emphatically.

Shun liked to spout pop-psychology babble like this, off the top of his head, given any opportunity. He spoke freely, without any fear of consequences, and he was not afraid of offending anyone. Least of all me.

How he derived all these sage-sounding maxims that he liked to toss around so much was well beyond me. But he did tell me once that he enjoyed reading the works of writers like Douglas Coupland and Chuck Palahniuk because, according to him, they tell truths — “dark sickening truths of our depraved times” — that other writers are incapable or unwilling to write about.

How true that was, I did not know. I hated to read. Beyond the textbooks and all the assigned reading materials given out by my lecturers and tutors each week, I barely had time for other forms of reading, nor did I read for leisure.

I considered it a waste of time. I had better things to do.

“And treat this client well, you hear? Big fish like him are hard to find, especially since he’s paying top dollar for a virgin like you,” Shun said in jest, throwing a snickering look in my direction.

“Fuck you,” I replied caustically.

“I don’t think so tonight, my dear. He-” Shun emphasised the word, while pointing to the hotel door in front of us, “will be fucking you tonight.

And do everything he says. He says fuck, you fuck. He says suck, you suck.

He wants to rim you, by all means, spread your legs wider and let him rim.

Don’t say no, don’t ever, or we’ll lose him. Remember, it’s easier to retain an existing client than scout for ten new ones.” Shun grinned at me and gestured for me to knock on the door.

I hated him when he spun out this kind of tough talk, like I was the novice and he was the professional. As if this was my first time fucking or sucking or rimming. Fucker. But on a deeper level, I knew that I did not want to disappoint him nor be angry with him for long. I hated this mixed feeling, this anger combined with an eagerness to please him and do what he said. I hated to admit it because I knew exactly why I reacted in this way. Because I knew that I had grown to like Shun a lot. Damn it, damn me.

“I’ll pick you up when you’re done, or when he’s done with you. Give me a call later,” Shun said, flashing me his killer smile and nudging me again to knock on the door.

Before I could say anything more to him, he had turned and begun to walk away, down the quiet corridor towards the lift. I stood and watched him saunter away from me. He turned the corner and disappeared from my sight.

I stared at the room door — 235 — and gathered my random thoughts.

This was not my first time fucking another guy, so why was I feeling this way? This dreaded sense of inevitability? Had I made a wrong choice here?

And if so, why did I agree to Shun’s idea in the first place?

I took in a breath, and felt the sharp intake of air lifting away some of my anxieties. I knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately and I entered the hotel room.

I was cruising in one of the toilets in the university hostel where I was staying when Shun first saw me. Right away, my sight was on him, this handsome and darkly tanned man, muscular in an athletic way. My lust went into high alert instantly, mounting all my senses into full force. Of course, I had seen him around on campus; it was hard not to notice him, with his clean-cut good looks, which no doubt attracted attention from women and men alike. Well, gay men, in any case.

Being in such close proximity with him, in the toilet, I grabbed my chance. I tried to arouse his attention with an obvious look of lust and longing.

He was washing his hands, but I could tell he was aware that I was looking hard at him, getting his attention. He glanced in my direction and caught my lingering stare, my intentional body signals. He did not look surprised or puzzled by my actions, nor did he walk away with an unhidden disgust, as some would when faced with people like me in the public toilets or changing rooms. Instead, he walked over to me in a fume.

“What are you looking at?” he asked angrily. He stood inches away from my heated face, his words coming at me with unbridled force. I looked away guiltily, cursing inwardly for trying to hook the wrong guy. But Shun pressed on, his angry words building up to a crescendo.

“You make me sick! All day long, hanging around in public toilets, in school, at the pools, anywhere, waiting with that cock-hungry look, eager to suck on any cock that comes along the way. You pathetic fuckers — get a life!” His words came out in a torrent while his intense gaze continued to remain on me. My body began to tremble visibly, as my own words choked in my throat. I wanted to say something, anything, in return, but I did not. I was scared somehow. I did not want to be caught like this and the shame of being trapped in this awkward situation only ate at me relentlessly, building up to an unbearable degree.

I quickly gathered up the courage to walk briskly away and head for the exit. But Shun stopped me abruptly on my way out and demanded to have my details. “Give me your hostel room number; if not, I’ll report you to the dean,” he threatened. In the heat of being caught, exposed and threatened, I did as he told me. I gave him my hostel room number without a second thought and left the toilet hurriedly.

That night, Shun knocked on door and I let him in. He fucked me without saying a word and I became his secret friend.

Naturally, I wanted to ask him about his outburst during our first meeting in the toilet. But I kept quiet as I was afraid of upsetting him and did not want to appear too forward, lest he drop me after a few fucks. Basically, I had to acknowledge he was a great fuck and there were not many like him around, at least not in the university. The weekend sex in town always seemed so far away, especially with my schoolwork and projects with looming deadlines; to have Shun nearby for a quick fuck was more than I could ask for.

So after that first night he fucked me, and the night that followed, I let him have his way with me, whichever way he wanted me. And he came every night for the whole week, always around eight, when my roommate was in the library poring through his school texts or assignments till late at night.

Shun kept absolutely quiet throughout the fucking. And I followed his lead and kept quiet. I did not want to spoil anything between us at this stage.

“Sometimes you really make me sick. Always hanging around some pathetic toilet, waiting for some cock to appear.”

We had agreed to meet for lunch at the canteen after our lectures. Shun majored in Mechanical Engineering in National Technological University, where he was in his final year, while I was in my second year in the same engineering faculty, taking Computer Sciences.

Shun was in a good mood that day, going through his litany of complaints about me. This was four months after we first met in my hostel toilet.

“You can never stop, can you?” Shun asked in a tone that preempted any reply from me. Not that I had anything to say in return. All that he had said was true, in some sense. I cruised for sex and I sucked cocks. It was simple as that, and Shun knew and was able to exploit it. It was hard to change one’s nature, and Shun knew this well.

And he knew where he stood in the gay food chain and wanted to remain there, among those in the upper echelon, feasting and preying on those below him. A vicious cycle of man-eating-man within the gay world.

And he knew how to make the most of his looks to give him what he wanted, in any circumstance. He refused to be the product of his circumstances, a fate and state that he abhorred, because, to him, “… it rules out the possibility — or certainty — of free will and the stupid choices that made us who we are.” And so he stuck to his self-made logic and beliefs.

“Since you are always so cock-hungry, then learn to make use of this desire for your own advantage, to gain something for yourself, not just swallow what comes along the way.”

I gave him a blank look and a disgusted cluck of the tongue. Shun saw my look of contempt but ignored it completely and continued, “What I’m saying is this: since you are still young, only twenty-three and not bad-looking, you can use these god-given attributes and your superb cock-sucking skill for some gains, to reap the benefits of your youth, so to speak. To keep it simple: Let sex and money go hand in hand, that’s what I’m saying.” I was not surprised by his suggestion since I had known for some time that Shun had been a rent boy for a while — since his junior college days, in fact. While Shun did not spell out exactly what he was doing, he had dropped strong hints about this “freelance job” he had which allowed him to pay for his school fees and some “small luxuries.” From what I could gather from our conversations and see with my own eyes, he was being way too humble about how lucrative this job could be. He was earning tons from his so-called freelance work, as far as I could tell. Shun did not hesitate to pay for the meals we had, the movies, the clothes and bags that I wanted, my school fees, my allowance. He relished being “the provider,” he told me once after we had sex, “unlike my father, who ran away with his mistress, leaving nothing for me and my mother.” When I tried to inquire more about his family background, he grew very still and quiet, lying like a stranger beside me in the dark. And that was when I knew never to ask him again about his family. I would let him tell me what he wanted to reveal, if he chose to, but I could never ask him for details or any questions of that sort.

“So you want me to be like you?” I said mockingly, enunciating each word slowly.

“Yes, and I’ll be your mentor or something. Your daddy pimp, so to speak.”

“You? So what’s in it for you? What will you gain?”

“Fifty-fifty for the first few times. After that, seventy-thirty, you seventy, me thirty. How’s that?”

“Sounds fair. But how are you going to find the clients?”

“That’s for me to worry about.” Shun smiled at me disarmingly, as if hoarding a common secret of which I had no knowledge, and I was briefly agitated by his cocksure attitude.

“In case you are so blind and haven’t noticed, living in that little world of yours,” he pointed to my head with wry off-handedness, “there are plenty of rich old faggots around who’re dying for some companionship and a quick fuck now and then. And we’ll give them just that, a good fuck. Their money for the sex we give. A fair transaction.”

While I disagreed with Shun on many occasions, what he had just said made plenty of good sense. In a way, he dared to put into words what went on in his head and was able to justify his actions with his own concocted motives and convictions. I would have failed to see — or maybe refused to acknowledge — these basic human needs of love and sex. Clear knowledge was not something I wanted to hold onto, I found it too cumbersome, a burden. But the fact that we are all lonely and always craving for some form of companionship, to the extent of being willing to pay anything for someone to love, to hold even for a short while, all these rang true to me.

I did not answer him; what could I say to what he had just told me? How much of it was true, how much of it was fabricated by him? I did not know. I had never paid for sex nor had I been paid for sex. Most of the sex I ever had up to then had been the anonymous, cruising-in-the-toilet kind. Of course, I was vaguely aware that there was a dark, seedy side to the sex trade, but I was never that curious to find out more. But Shun knew that world well and was willing to share his knowledge with me. He wanted to be my friend and pimp.

So I listened to him like a young protege learning the ways of the world.

Shun kept his word and let me keep the money I earned, after the fifth time he introduced me to a new client. Though at that point, I was not hard up for money, as I had developed a steady flow of regular clients that patronised me. After the initial meeting, they would come back to me for more and I would always agree to every request. Why say no to good money? I reminded myself constantly, and slowly I was convinced of the validity of what I had said.

“Keep the rates fixed,” Shun reminded me for the first few times. “And don’t change them at all. It’s in the best interest of both you and your clients.” Within a few months, I was already getting the hang of the trade, of what needed to be done or was expected from Shun and the clients that he introduced me to. Shun would scout out prospective clients: some were his old clients, some he found through his ingenious means of contact, which he kept hidden from me. Given the secrecy that governed this kind of sex, still banned in Singapore and subject to criminal prosecution, I was genuinely surprised and mildly curious how Shun managed to find these contacts.

He once told me, when we were having dinner in a shopping centre food court in Jurong after our economics classes, that guys would often approach him in gay clubs on the weekends and chat him up. Slowly they would express their interest in knowing him more, some blatant or bold enough might even suggest some action for later. Of course, Shun would assess each person according to his own criteria, which were quite simple actually: he must be rich; he must own at least a Lexus, Mercedes or Porsche; he must live by himself in some District 9 or 10 apartment; and he must hold a high senior-management position in some big-shot company. These criteria were non-negotiable, he said, otherwise one might compromise and lose out in the end. Shun reminded me countless times that I was in it for their money, not for some fucking relationship or friendship.

“They do not care about you — that is why they’d rather pay for sex than invest their time and effort in finding somebody to build a reasonable relationship with. These people do not have the time for such things and that is the reason why we exist. We provide them with the one-stop centre where they can purchase companionship, sex and cheap feelings for a premium price. It is a fair deal.”

As he said these things, Shun’s eyes would often glint with a self-satisfied concentration, as if he had set everything in place and nothing would go wrong. To him, our freelance work was based on a supply-and-demand fulfillment of human needs. The nature and practicality of what we were doing could be set down in simple workable rules and a positive mindset. The ABCs of the gay sex trade, so to speak.

Shun was amoral, and he lived by what he believed in. “Nothing is impossible if you put your mind to it,” he would say, spouting a dead wise man’s often-repeated, dead-of-meaning axiom. But he also had his own salubrious blend of half-fucked ideas and self-thought-out rules of gay life.

I told him once, “Maybe you should write a book, be the voice of our generation, start a new sexual revolution here in Singapore, break new fucking frontiers for us disenfranchised and delusional faggots. Perhaps people would take note of us. We would be the mainstream and they, these normal heterosexual fucks, would finally be sidelined and marginalised, a sideshow of freaks preserving their straight traditions and way of life.” But Shun just shot me a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about look, as if I was the biggest idiot in this world and my words were all one-cent coins — useless, worth nothing.

“And why the hell would I do this? To tell the big fucking world about what we are doing? The bloody reason why we are able to do well, to get the clients we are getting now, be paid obscenely for our sex, is because we — our deeds, are kept hidden, away from the public eye and this secrecy grants us greater value. Because we are scarce, ‘at a premium,’ we are always in demand.”

“Don’t think too much about what you’re doing. And cut the Pretty Woman crap about not kissing on the lips, okay? It was embarrassing when I called Gabriel to check with him and he told me about this. When did you devise this romantic-crap stuff? Too much movies in your head.” Shun and I were heading for our morning lectures at the university and he was admonishing me on what I had done wrong during the latest weekend assignment. Walking up the stairs towards the lecture theatre at eight forty-five on a cloudy, lazy Monday after a tiring three-tryst weekend, I was far from being awake or alert. But I listened anyway, nodding my head to what Shun had to say, paying what little attention I could muster.

As I listened to him, I looked around at the other students walking alongside us, heading for their respective classes, carrying their haversacks and files of notes, looking fresh and bright eyed. Some were munching on their breakfasts of buttered toast or freshly cut-up fruit, fiddling with packets of coffee or iced Milo; others were talking animatedly on their mobiles, checking on after-class gatherings with their classmates, making lunch appointments with their friends. I wondered what kind of lives they had, what after-school activities they might pursue. Did they, too, have secret lives they kept from their close friends? Did they have sex three times last weekend and earn almost three thousand dollars from it? Would they share this secret with anyone, if they had the chance to do so? Would they be ashamed?

As I stole quick glances at their faces, I realised how far I was from their way of life, their seemingly normal lifestyle of blind dates, late-night movies, furtive kisses, crushes or cramming for tests. I would never be like them, and I was half relieved and half scared by this fact. Half relieved because I did not want to be hiding from what I was, from my sexuality and my needs. Half scared because I was heading nowhere and was fearful of being ostracised by my peers, my family and the whole damn society.

Like any pimp worth his salt, Shun wanted to make sure I got the machinations of this trade into my head, and so he kept drilling these words into me, until I could repeat them word for word. By then, I was already onto my eleventh rich client.

“Just be careful in what you do or what the client wants. Always wear a condom and insist on one if he wants to fuck. Be persistent and show that you are in control over this matter. And never give in to bareback sex. Trust me, you don’t want to die from AIDS at your age. It won’t be the best experience of your life.”

I nodded like a puppet and agreed with what he said. “How long?” I had wanted to ask him several times before, but could not drum up any courage to do so. “Why did you go into this line? Was there no other way?” But I knew he would not entertain my questions.

His secret life as a rent boy was known only to me. “Why me?” I wanted to ask. Did his friends know anything about this life at all? Each time I saw him with his classmates or close friends, in the canteen or library or at the swimming pool, he would look away, ignoring me completely. He would feign that nothing was out of sorts and carry on the conversations with his friends, joking and laughing with them. And every time I would be hurt by his careless actions, no matter how hard I tried not to think about it.

But when he was with me, away from his friends, he displayed a completely different side of himself: a serious no-nonsense Shun, in control of himself and me as well. How could I ever confront him with this disparity?

His eccentric behaviour? He had every reason to back away from me, to head back to his normal life, to have anything and everything he wanted — great looks, peer admiration, good grades, and an attractive personality. What did I have that I could give him? My mouth and my ass? He could have that from anyone, anytime, so why me?

Slowly, Shun began to share other aspects of his secret life with me.

About the middle-aged banker who wanted to keep him as a toy-boy and almost bought him a condominium and a car. But Shun turned him down flatly “because he has a wife and two kids, and there are too many fucking complications.”

And about the creative director of a US-based international advertising agency, who wanted more than just normal sex: “He’s such a pervert and jerk, always asking me to do this and that to him, pull off the S amp;M acts on him.

But it’s hilarious, some of the things he’s asked me to do.” Or about a rich Indonesian-Chinese guy, who claimed to love him and wanted Shun to be his boyfriend: “You should be there, to hear him say the things he says. Taken straight from some trashy magazines or C-grade romance novels. Lovable, but too clingy.”

Where Shun got some of this clientele, I did not know and really did not care to know. But it bothered me to no end, to know that he was with these strange men, let alone having sex with them. And so I didn’t ask him anything about them.

I should have seen it coming sooner or later. Shun was planning to leave me on my own. We had been good friends, but our friendship was not something that could be carried along in our own separate lives. It would be incongruous, even absurd. Of course, by then, I already had a small but growing pool of clients generating a steady flow of comfortable income.

“Do you know what I’ve been doing? Teaching you everything that I have learnt through my mistakes, bad experiences and weird encounters?

It’s not about the money. It’s about strengthening your guts and mind.” Shun looked straight into my face, saying these words with a controlled demeanour, his eyes intensely lucid. “When I first saw you in the toilet, all I saw was a pitiable creature, crawling around on his fours, looking so helpless and lost, and I was so angry. ‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’ I wanted to ask,

‘Being at the mercy of the next person who comes into the toilet and gives you a sympathetic fuck.’ And I wanted so much to grab you there and then and give you a sound beating.”

I bit my lower lip so hard, it began to bleed slightly. Was this true? Was I so helpless? But I did not want his sympathy, and I hated his pity.

“But why me? I’m sure you can take your pity to someone else. Why me then? Am I your personal charity case?” I shot out vehemently, tripping over my own words, and as I heard them coming out of my mouth, I could feel the helplessness of it. I stared at him as coldly as I could, in silent defiance.

“I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’ve chosen you. I just did,” Shun replied, as he stirred his cup of mocha latte continuously, absent-mindedly, as if to blend his words into the murky mix. And he remained silent, his thoughts far away from mine, a world apart though we were sitting face to face in the Starbucks outlet in the university. The white noise of chatter and laughter from nearby tables drifted over in wisps. A young female student laughed heartily at the next table. A fly landed on Shun’s hand and he waved it away.

“I have an important client tonight who is organising a small orgy and wants the company of young men like us.” Shun looked into my face for any changes, and seeing no expression, continued with his proposal.

“He’s paying four thousand dollars for just one night. I want you to come along with me, we can split the money equally. Anyway, it’s good money.” He stirred up the dregs of his drink with his straw, took a sip and pushed the cup away rudely, as if it was an abhorrent object he’d just discovered. I’d already taken part in several orgies by this time, so I was not squeamish about his request. But I wanted to refuse him, for the very sake of saying no to him, to deny him my dumb submission for once. But something in me, a pure rush of impulses, wanted to give in without hesitation. There was no reason to refuse him but there was no reason to acquiesce either.

“Come on, tell me, are you interested or not? If not, forget about it.

Forget what I just said.” With that, he pulled back his seat and stood up. My heart leapt to follow him.

“Okay, okay, I’m in. Just tell me where and when. I will be there,” I said.

“I will call you later,” Shun replied casually, before grabbing his bag hanging from the seat, smiled at me and left the table. A heavy feeling overcame me and, like a ship’s anchor dropped into the depths, I was submerged and sunken.

The man answered the door almost immediately, as if he had been standing behind it, waiting anxiously for our arrival. He extended his hand solicitously and welcomed us.

“Hi, you’re finally here! We’ve been waiting! My name is Ben.” With that, he gestured us into the spacious living room of his bungalow. “For a while, we thought you guys were lost,” Ben said as he led us into the room. Which was almost impossible, I mused inwardly, since the bungalow stood apart from the rest of the houses along this stretch of road in the obsequiousness of its lavish facade. No one with eyes could miss it. In any case, Shun and I took a taxi from our hostel. Along the journey, we hardly talked to each other, except to ask the perfunctory questions. Shun looked out his window at passing streetlights, at people waiting at bus stops, at the traffic, hardly acknowledging my presence, while I stole long glances at him from time to time.

But upon entering the house, Shun quickly reverted to his amiable, almost businesslike self, a stark contrast to his other self, five minutes ago.

He took the initiative to answer all the questions posed by Ben with an old-school-friend candour.

The house was sparsely decorated and furnished, with Postmodern paintings hanging on several walls and a large faux-fur carpet covering the living room floor. A few men sitting on the couch looked up as we approached. There were three of them, smartly dressed in polo shirts and pants, drinking red wine, their faces slightly flushed. Like Ben, they were in their late thirties, professional looking, cultured and very loaded. The last bit of information was supplied by Shun when he called me that afternoon to inform me of the details of this orgy. All of them stood and began to introduce themselves. After which, one of the men, Chris, offered Shun and me each a glass of Pinot Noir.

We sat and began to chat. Shun turned to talk to the guy closest to him, a music company vice president named Tim, while I made chit-chat with Chris, an art gallery owner. While we talked, Ben and his live-in boyfriend Stan pulled away from us and began to whisper to one another animatedly, after which Ben turned to address the rest of the group.

“Guys, since we are all here, I don’t think we should waste any more time,” Ben remarked with a wink before adding, “Let’s go up to the room, shall we?”

With that, he grabbed hold of Stan’s hand and began to lead the way.

Chris, Tim and Shun stood up promptly and followed the two men. I held back momentarily, as the effects of the wine hit me. Shun looked back at me cursorily with a baleful frown. I got to my feet unsteadily and joined the group, my head pounding with spikes of brightness.

The bedroom was on the second floor of the house, at the further end. It was dimly lit with the warm orangish hues given off by two aluminum-cast table lamps. Stepping into the tepid room, I felt a rush of claustrophobia, as if the space had suddenly shrunk and was pressing in on all sides, pushing all of us together into this confining place. I drew in several inaudible breaths and oriented myself, trying to get a stable bearing. Ben and Stan had already stripped off their tops and were sandwiching Shun in their embrace, nudging him to take off his T-shirt, assisting him gently. Shun allowed them to strip him without any resistance. Meanwhile, Tim and Chris had surrounded me and were doing likewise, tugging at my shirt, undressing me as they moved their hungry hands over my body, as if appraising something they had just bought.

While they were undressing me, I looked over at the menage a trois of Shun, Ben and Stan. By now, all of them were naked. With Shun between them, Ben and Stan were pressing their erections against his slender, muscular body, as they kissed his face and shoulders voraciously, like hunters savouring their prey. Shun seemed to luxuriate in their passion, perhaps even enjoying himself; I couldn’t tell. As Shun kissed Ben full on his lips, he looked over at me piercingly. And with that look, I knew instinctively what he had been trying to convey for so long. He belonged to no one, not even me with my attraction and attachment. He refused to be claimed by anyone; no one should own him in any way. He chose to be free and his freedom created a wide chasm, uncrossable and unbridgeable.

A new wave of pain inundated me, numbing all my faculties and rendering them temporarily inoperative. I was devastated and dazed. But I had no time to think right then, with the hands of Chris and Tim all over me, caressing eagerly. I shut down my mind and gave myself over to them.

I sought out Chris’s mouth from the tangle of our bodies and kissed him hungrily. I did not hold back this time.