Fun Time

FUN TIME

Andy sat on the bed in the backpacker hotel in Bangkok. His friends had
flown home and he was by himself. He was drinking this awful cheap
whiskey that was laced with speed. He swigged from the bottle, hearing
the horns and engines of vehicles in the street below.

The fan turned slowly. He thought of Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now.
The opening credits. The song The End by The Doors. He swigged at the
awful drink and looked at his stiff cock. He thought about his
girlfriend in Manchester who was now seeing his best mate. He had told
her he wanted a break, an amnesty while he travelled for twelve months.
When he returned they would get married. That's what she said she
wanted. Marriage. Minus the going-away-travelling part. He phoned her
on New Years day and she was crying. What are you crying for? he
asked.

Tell me, he said.

So she confessed about his best mate, Aaron. They had got together on
Christmas Eve.

He swigged at the bottle. He went to the window to gaze at the tourists
and the locals, wiping sweat off his forehead. What he hadn't realised
about travelling was the dead time. You read books. You listened to
music. You ate. Mostly, you slept. He could sleep for thirteen hours
easily. Back home that would've signalled manic depression. But here,
it was called chilling out, relaxing. Then he had discovered this
rocket fuel drink that kept sleep at bay. The downside was that if he
stayed awake, he analysed himself and increasingly he followed a
single, obsessive train of thought: had a mistake been made, not
marrying his girlfriend like she had asked?

He thought travelling would teach him about things. Open him out to
other cultures and experience.

Some western girls and lads saw him at the window, standing there with
a hard on. They yelled and cheered. Germans, he thought, raising the
bottle, drinking and sticking two fingers up to them.

There were Israelis in the room next door. As much as he tried, he
couldn't get on with the Israelis he encountered while travelling. He
had stayed at an ex Portuguese port called Diu in India and met a group
of Israelis who he thought were okay, and then he went for a meal with
them and they were groundbreakingly arrogant and rude to the waiter. He
spoke up and said: "You're in their country, show some respect."

They carried on regardless. Complaining about the quality of their
pizzas.

The Israelis next door in the backpacker's hostel were playing trance
music. When he went and asked them to turn the music down they invited
him in to smoke a pipe. That aggravated him too. Their ritual of
passing the pipe, explaining the preciousness of the stone in the
pipe.

This bunch were peaceful until he tried to mention the Palestinians.
Then it turned nasty which, given they were all so stoned, meant the
Israelis waved their hands dismissively and said: You don't understand.
You English, how can you know the truth?

Andy exhaled the smoke and said: You're in America's back pocket.

Grabbing Andy's arm firmly, Abrahim pulled him to his feet and said:
It's best if you go back to your room now, my friend.

He sat on the floor in his room. Had done for hours. The hard on
wouldn't go. His cock hurt but he had set himself a test: under no
circumstances would he masturbate. Not until Saturday at least. Two
days away.

Andy was naked apart from his money belt. He unzipped it and removed
the travellers cheques. American Express.

Ammex, he said to himself. Ammex. He snatched a handful of cheques and
tossed them onto the floor. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

Aaron often said: You're lucky to have a girlfriend like her. She's a
one off.

Andy said he knew she was special. He then explained to Aaron that
having gone out with her for four years, he wanted a break, to meet
different women, so he could be certain she was the girl he always
wanted to stay with.

Aaron said: Does she know that you'll be unfaithful?

Andy said: Course not. It's not a given I will be, I just don't want to
close myself off to experience.

Andy could see it now. The Christmas party. His girlfriend drunk. Aaron
spilling the beans about how Andy was cruising the globe and shagging
whoever he could lay his hands on.

She wanted consoling.

Aaron, the knight in shining armour, was only too happy to be there for
her.

When, several months into the journey, not one girl had shown interest
in him.

Since the 747 left Heathrow, he had missed his girlfriend.

He swigged from the bottle and then picked up a traveller's cheque. He
concentrated, folding the paper, creasing it, flattening the wings.
Pinching the undercarriage, he flicked his wrist like he was throwing a
dart and watched the paper plane fly up and then crash onto the stone
floor.

He made a second. He flicked and watched the plane dive and crash. The
design was correct. It should at least have come close to hitting the
lizard on the wall. After a few more careful attempts he realised the
air from the fan in the ceiling was ruining the flight path.
Turbulence, he said, standing up and heading for the window, taking
another handful of cheques from his money belt.

The street below. A main drag. Shops. Stalls. Bikes. The sky above a
grey fog. He pulled up a chair and folded a cheque and then flicked it
out of the window. He stood and watched it descend. He made a second
plane and aimed at a stall. The plane glided over the stall and landed
on the torn canopy of a shop that advertised genuine Prada
handbags.

He went and fetched the bottle. Had a swig. Flicked more planes out of
the window. He'd been spotted and a few Thais were scrabbling for the
cheques. They shouted at him and he sat and made a squadron of planes
which he launched from the window in quick succession.

Andy watched. Not really feeling much. He rolled a cigarette. Half the
bottle was gone.

He pulled on his Lineker '90 England shorts. His pale blue, short
sleeved, collared tee-shirt. Slipped his feet into his sandals and put
on his soft, round hat. He tapped his money belt. It was still around
his waist.

There was a padlock on his door. He had trouble fitting the key into
the lock. He managed it and then walked along the hallway. An Israeli
shouted: Hey, my friend, you haven't shut your door.

Andy went back to his door, conscious of each footstep, took his
satchel from the bed and hooked the padlock from the inside onto the
outside lock. He put the key into the money belt. The Israeli was
talking to him but he didn't want to talk to the Israeli.

I'm going for a walk, he said.

You should stay indoors, said the Israeli.

I'm going for a walk.

As you please, my friend.

He walked along the main street. Taking a traveller's cheque from his
money belt and folding it, then launching it at a stall. He walked,
making paper aeroplanes, throwing them at Thais, westerners, shops.
Anything and everything. He grinned as he threw them. People completely
ignored him and he gave them the thumbs up, lurching as he headed along
the street.

A Thai woman came up to him. You want some fun? she said.

Andy nodded. Looked at her. Yeah, sure, why not? he said, throwing a
plane.

Your room, she said.

Yours, he said.

He followed the woman into a tenement. A couple of northern lads were
walking down the stairs, laughing. Andy heard one of them say: She was
only fourteen.

The room was a bed and a sink and window.

You got money, said the woman.

Andy had taken a miniature bottle of Southern Comfort from his
satchel.

Yeah, he said.

You get undressed, she said.

Andy tossed his satchel to the floor, kicked off his sandals, pulled
off his Lineker '90 shorts and then headed for the bed. The woman was
kneeling on the bed and Andy saw a pair of hairy balls hanging between
her legs. What the fuck are they? he said.

The man on the bed said: You be quick, okay.

Andy was thirty-two. He had never kissed a man before, let alone fucked
one. He climbed onto the bed and looked at the man's arsehole.

You use condom, said the man.

Don't have one, said Andy.

Extra for no condom.

I pay extra, said Andy. He needed help guiding his cock in. Together
they managed it and he starting groaning, swigging the whiskey,
grinding in and out, going faster and faster. The man made these gasps
as well and Andy rolled his head, bared his teeth and then hunched over
the guy's back as he came, his hat falling onto the bed as he did
so.

Andy pulled himself out. He examined his cock and wiped it dry with his
hat.

You pay, said the man.

How much? said Andy.

Fifty dollars.

Twenty.

Fifty, said the man, who had walked round to an alcove. There was a
flushing sound.

Andy couldn't be bothered to haggle, mainly because he had lost the
ability to count the notes in his money belt. He handed the guy a
fifty. Cheers, he said.

You want to stay? said the man.

Nah, said Andy, pulling on his shorts, not realising they were on back
to front.

Andy said bye and shut the door behind him. He went to a bar. Ordered a
bottle of Tsing Tao. There were a handful of western tourists -men
sitting on their own at different tables, and two Thai strippers
swaying on a platform stage to the song Barbie Girl. He swigged the
lager and tried to roll a cigarette.

He couldn't roll it. He was too wasted.