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She Painted Up Her Face



A lot of time spent in Thailand is spent in the hotel room, or a bar, agogo or otherwise. At least for those of us not lucky enough to live there full time. Sometimes my trips all seem to blend in together with each other. Same hotel rooms, same faceless lady, same activities, same conversations. A sameness draws all the memories into a generic hodge-podge that haunts my dreams back in farang land, the west, the land of no sanuk. Although I can never quite make out the lady's face in these night time, sleeping, sexual dramas.

I've had so many ladies there in Thailand that I can only remember the faces of the few who stood out, who impressed me, with either their beauty, or their wonderful attitude and personality. Or their awesome sexual skills. I find this amusing, and sometimes disturbing. Why have relations with women who fade into your subconscious, never to be seen again? Why go short-time with someone you'll probably not remember after a few short weeks time, or days even? I prefer something more memorable. I remember the ones I found interesting enough to take long-time. I got to know them a bit, their personality, their spirit, their mannerisms and quirks, their sexual likes and dislikes. Hell, even their names. The rest seem a waste of time, like a quick jerk off with a female body on the end of your prick, instead of your hand. A human kleenex, discarded and forgotten.

I prefer the human connection over the mindless, emotionless, release of jism into a forgettable someone.

Jesus. What the hell was her name? The one from Rawhide, with the great tits, and tiny tan ass, which was darker where her ass cheeks joined. What the hell did she look like? I'd not recognize her if she spat on me. Or the ones from Thermae, or Nana Plaza, or the massage parlors, or all those Pattaya bar girls. All the Patpong ladies, so beautiful and sexy, all blend together, morphed into one generic, beautiful, yet faceless, Thai babe who comes to me in my dreams and disturbs my slumber. Nit? Noi? Wan? Fon? Sai? Jaeb? Renu? Sow? Ming? Ping? Pon? Oot? Impossible.

They visit my dreams, yet remain faceless, and nameless. I enjoy their nightly jaunts through the recesses of my limbic system, but awaken a bit saddened. My still sleep-adled brain searches for their names. I feel I should remember. After all we made love, or lust, or whatever you'd call it. We swapped bodily fluids in intimate embrace in numerous positions. We laughed and joked, ate food together, watched tv, shared thoughts, and names, in pidgin Thai and English, showered together, and I paid hard earned dollars for the tryst of a few hours duration.

Surely any good sex should be memorable, right? The act is, the names elude me though. The bodies remain intact in my brain circuits; the shape of tits, the tautness of her ass, the curve of her spine in doggy-style position, the rippling small muscles in her back along her spine, the mole on a shoulder, the smooth brown silky skin of her legs, the light fur of her mound, the strength of her skinny arms as she grasps me, the flash of her bright white eyes in the dim light as she moans and ruts away under me, the smell of her raven hair, short or long, or maybe shoulder length, the sound of her tinkling girlish laughter, her giggling cries of ticka chee as we play an adventurous game of hide the tongue in some fleshy, sweet crevice of her body, her growling moans and cries of pleasure, or muffled squeaks from a face buried in a pillow, with her ass in the air as she pushes back trying to get it all in as deep as she can, the smell of musky sweat and pussy juice aroma, the tickle of her fingernails dragged across my back in light, yet ever increasingly painful scratches as the sex progresses toward climax. I remember each individual act, all the specifics, the flavors and smells, the sounds and fleshy sensations of bodies joined. But what the hell was her name, all of them, and what the hell did she look like?

I'm lying on the bed, cigarette in hand, sheet covering my still wet and sticky loins. Her time is up, the money is tucked away in her pocketbook wallet, and she is wrapped in a towel, just coming from the shower. Small droplets of water glisten across her golden shoulders and arms as she sits at the hotel room make-up counter. Her coal black hair cascades down her back as she vigorously brushes out the tangles I put there, while grabbing on to hold on for dear life earlier during our earlier rodeo ride.

Then, she painted up her face, she sat before her mirror. She painted up her face, she drew the mirror nearer. When she was done practicing "the stare" she dressed, and then came to me, gave me a smile and a kiss, and, waving goodbye, let herself out the hotel room door. While I lie there remembering her previous provocative squats.

They all do that. Sit and primp before the mirror. I love watching them do that. It's so fucking sexy to watch. But I can never see their face in the mirror. Just their silhouette, and a smear of lipstick surrounding a flashing white smile as they spy me watching their meticulous preparations in the mirror. I struggle to remember their names. I remember everything but.


Thingfish