Say It Right In Thai

Posted in Bruce, hookers, pathetic old man, romance, sad old man, Thailand by expatatlarge on February 25, 2012

E@L has a book of this title in the desk in front of him. Nothing to do with the previous post.

Without wishing to bore you with the maudlin regrets of a superficial, middle-aged, single man, he wishes to bore you with the maudlin regrets of a superficial, middle-aged, single man. Don’t say you weren’t warned.


Say it right? Say it RIGHT?

E@L can never say anything right to women in whatever language of love you suggest. Thai, English, Mandarin, Korean, Vietnamese, Tagalog or Hindi. He is completely hopeless at preventing his hopes of love from being dashed on the rocky shores of lust whenever he opens his stupid mouth. Which is why he never gets to fuck can seduce the women (should there be any) he might wish to.

Even with all silver-tongued the advice from that super-experienced chat-up man, our Bruce, he does not succeed. Because, as when packing his bags for a trip, he gets all anxious and leaves something out, or brings the wrong item. “I find you very attractive, enjoy your company and would like to get know you (or ‘your body’ – optional) better,” as advised by Bruce, somehow comes out of his mouth as, “Let’s fuck like they do on the Discovery Channel,” with gestures and body language to support the unintended effect – of a blank look of terror, followed quickly by drink over the head and either a kick to the scrotum or a standard dose of pepper-spray to the conjunctiva to finish E@L off.

When E@L approaches a lady and is feeling romantic, it’s stand back and avoid the shrapnel as his improvised seductive devices explode. Lines like that might be OK when you are in midst of each of each other and unmaking the bed (or couch, or kitchen table), but in a bar at 7pm with someone you’ve just met? In all likelihood, nope.

Say it right? E@L? Blurt it right out, more like.

So the conversations people like E@L might prefer to implement, after having made fools of themselves time and time again in legitimate circumstances, becomes more appropriate to the expectations of their intended female companions when augmented by the alluring soft plonk of a ping-pong ball falling into a glass, to the crisp slap of a mock-truncheon on various glutei maximi, to the just-audible hiss of a body slithering up-side down on a chrome pole, to the alluring perfume of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes.

When these things turn his thoughts to thoughts of love, out pops the perfect Thai phrase, finally. Here are words that exactly express his feelings and carry no offence, quite the opposite. As the purloined letters of Cyrano De Bergerac did for Christian and Roxanne, these words will have the lady swooning her loins into his loins…

“เท่าไหร่ดีบาร์คืออะไร? Charisma Card(tm) ok, krup?”


Getting married at 19? Don’t do it if you are contemplating getting divorced 20 years later. They’ll remake Swingers all about you. You’ve never done the dating thing as a kid, and now you’ll never scale-up enough chat-up skills before it gets too late for you, you’ll never shrink to the right kind of small talk, you’ll never polish away the rough edges of your wannabe smooth lines.

You’ll be paying someone else to do the polishing instead when and if you make it to E@L’s age.


* How much is the bar fine?

* OK they weren’t “stolen” as such, but purloined is a great word and needs to be used more often, though with proper syntax whenever possible.


Posted in love unrequited, sad old man, yellow fever by expatatlarge on August 15, 2011

E@L has been in two, three, any number of minds of late – and going out of his own. Should he do this, should he do that, what’s to happen if, how can he help here, how can he limit the damage there… a lot of this is family, in fact most, but there are other issues as well, as you might have gathered from earlier posts, that are occupying large parts of his tiny mind.


[Pre-reading: Tolstoy, ‘Anna Karenina’ – at least the first paragraph. T.S Eliot, ‘The Waste Land’. Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way (Vol1 of ‘In Search of Lost Time’). Richard Mason, ‘The World Of Suzie Wong’. Richard Bernstein, ‘The East, The West and Sex’]


Hollow man, lost man.

E@L has been single and loving it for many years now. He has been in Asia over 13 years. It’s usually terrific, you all know that. But swings and dips and high and lows and near-misses and bullets dodged and living alone and sharing apartments and never having even been *offered* a blow-job, let alone a pity-fuck, from our ex-SPG (E@L did get a massage, pajama type, no happy ending) in over three years… all of this demands some contemplation, some life-examination, every so often, as the cleaner’s schedule in a public toilet needs a tick bi-hourly. And the question of whether or not the toilet has actually been cleaned corresponds nicely with whether E@L’s soul-searching provides a good psychological service and cleans anything at all.


As you are aware, recently E@L had fallen somewhat into a lustful, nauseating monomania and watched himself develop a ridiculous attachment to someone who couldn’t, literally, give a fuck (must be a family trait), and came to the point of turning himself into the sort of fool he so regularly lampoons. He’ll call her Odette. Previously, he has been a bastion of common-sense, warning others and himself of what can happen when the blood flows south. He has tried to make his blog a vaccination centre against such feverish idiocy…



Ah, Odette, moans E@L, light of my life, fire of my loins, little brown fuck machine of my dreams.

The mystique of the Asian, the strange and foreign Orient, the exotic East (sorry, that’s tautological – exotic means foreign and orient means East): The girls that the expat man finds are inevitably so cute, so sweet, so quiet, so acquiescent. And for these females, the expat is so rich and so clean (according to some survey or other E@L read about [in the Bernstein book] many Asian women said that they preferred foreign men because they had better hygiene than their countrymen!!!).

Sure, such selfish superficiality is a part of it, but it’s also because the expat man in Asia is, well, in Asia. He is going to met many Asian girls, single ones, pretty one, some on the prowl (on the internet of course as well as the clubs and bars) and their ineluctable charm (specious though it may be – women remain women wherever they find us) will draw him in.

Is it the same for expat women? E@L hates to be controversial [cough, cough, hack, spit] but expat women tend, or have tended in the past, to be expats by default, arriving off the boat in their long frocks and holding hats and parasols, as partners in a relationship – wives, E@L means. The majority of expat women E@L has met in Asia are trailing on the steps of their husbands’ career paths. Sure there are many single females who have come over as expats. Talented, determined and gorgeous they may be, but E@L does not apologize for considering them the minority.

And when the married man runs off with the LBFM of his dreams, he leaves the 50ft Zombie Divorcee with gin-blanked eyes, sun-leathered skin, mind emptied of all except the need for affirmation that can only be assuaged by fucking yet another opportunistic male (any race will do) who cares nothing for the encounter.

E@L doesn’t want to go into to this Yellow Fever thing too much here, but he needs to provide a little explanation as to why the object of his affliction, oops, affection, is an Asian girl.


But is it because of E@L’s long-term single-man, bachelor, man-alone lifestyle that there has been an arguably inevitable hollowing out of his emotion core, that those superficial, ephemeral and economic relationships seem to encourage, that the shell that remains can be so quickly and easily filled with such a stupid and futile set of obsessions?

It happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly – he has only known Odette slightly, but for years – that E@L wonders why it happened at all. Mere proximity? Merely seeing the evidence that she was bi-sexual and she liked to fuck?

And it was strange to see how it affected his perception of her. At first they were merely traveling companions and then becoming more friendly and closer, the girls and E@L telling jokes and secrets, laughing hysterically as they knocked off the last of the Maker’s Mark. (That night of laughter was brilliant fun now E@L thinks back on it. It was that night, after they were tucked up in their separate beds in the lounge room, before his face disappeared into the mesh of his CPAP, that E@L told her, in confused circumlocutions, that he wanted to fuck her. She looked at him, said “Oh, that’s nice,” and turned her head away and went to sleep. He is still not certain that she understood at all what he had been mumbling so drunkenly.)

But then (no, it was well before the night of the laughter) over the days of sun-lounging and partying that suddenly Odette became to E@L, as did Proust’s original Odette to M. Swann, someone to be both desired and loathed, a thing of love and of pain. She was someone else all of a sudden, or she was two people – the friendly niece to his nice-guy avuncular persona getting and giving buddy cuddles and platonic kisses, and then, somehow, a distant creature, untouchable, an unknown mind. Was she torturing him, teasing him on purpose, or was the knife churning in his guts all in his head? Did she know what she was doing to him, or did she think it was still as it was that night of drinking Makers Mark, that the situation hadn’t somehow, mysteriously, morphed into a monster – a green-eyed giant of inexplicable possessiveness and crazy jealousy.

As he watches her attention flit elsewhere throughout a long night and morning (from OT to Clarke Quay, a curious inverse of the usual direction, but that is what happens when you run with females) from a Baron de Charlus or two here, to another girl or two there, he feels absent, he feels nauseous, he feels peripheral. Lust unrequited.

At least E@L is not married to the bitch.


– Dude, you don’t know Brittany Spears!
– Yes I do!
– Well, she’s never heard of you!
– Really? Well who’s signature is that on the bottom of this restraining order?!


And it doesn’t help as E@L watches as his friends, one by one, disappear into so called ‘healthy’ relationships. Not all are happy (at least they are unhappy in their own way), but in his social life recently, E@L has become a third or fifth wheel as these couples do weird couplish things like feed sushi to each other across tables while their dusty toes grope underneath same for sweaty, palpitating crotches. And then they go home and have sex. With each other, or so one gathers from the FB videos and photos.

It has been a long long long long long time but once again, a spark has shot off where a flint has cracked across his stony heart. E@L really has no expectation of anything except being ever more cock-teased interminably here, but at least this game won’t damage him any further, won’t burn him as have the flames from previous flinty times have done (we are talking decades of non-healing wounds here) as he doesn’t take it seriously enough. He has retained a modicum of sense and reality, and the fire of this one-sided attachment to Odette has essentially expired.

But it is a symptom.

E@L wonders if he might start to fall in love much too easily, that the vacuum in his (for want of a less value-laden word) soul is sucking furiously. Unlike the girls in his life.


Ends with a whimper. Not a bang in sight.

The tick-box must be checked – is it cathartic to write about this or not?


(hat tip to Scott in HK for that brilliant photo – been hanging on to it for ages to get a suitable opportunity)

More is Less

Posted in love unrequited, sad old man by expatatlarge on August 4, 2011

Fuck – this post still tells it better than E@L could tonight.

~ Delete revision “Bruce In Clarke Quay” #456 ~

E@L is just saying the same things over, different incidents, same story, just not as well.

Did *I* write that post? E@L asks. He is quite impressed actually, though as he is two bottle of Port Philip Estate Pinot Noir down, anything would sound good. Adelaide – great food, who woulda thunk?


“What, is he a lust-sick juvenile? Is he M. Swann, that tragic character, unprepared to accept such behaviour in principle but unable stop himself from loving the bisexual, flirtatious Odette in reality. Is he von Aschenbach on a Venice beach-chair dying a bit more each minute as young Tadzio bathes, tantalizing and untouched? Is he Humbert Humbert, never restful, still chasing even after having caught the not-as-innocent-as-he-fantasizes Lolita?”


“No matter how cynical the man, how adamantine the heart, how cool the blood, how experienced the player, how weary of the world and aware that up between the legs of each female is, as Charles Bukowski explains quite lucidly, just another cunt, and that deep in the dark hollows of that cynic’s chest is a flicker of light, a dim glow under a bushell of scar tissue that is the possibility, impossibly, of something close to… something like… love. “



Is there really any need for more on this topic? E@L knows that the person who figures obliquely in it has read the previous post, she has been out partying with him and told him as much, and still she has managed not to have sex with him, despite a 5:30 am finish, so why should E@L persist, either in writing on this topic or thinking further on this person, why bother continuing along this disastrous and sad, oh oh oh oh lookatthefireworksMilly oh oh oh endintears oh oh so sad, route? Why?


Maybe the off-chance of a pity-fuck? A four-stroke relationship? But would this kill or merely enrage the demon?

Neither of us will ever know.



Report #345 from The Planet of Sad Lonely Old Men

Posted in anhedonia, coupling, low libido, misanthropy, sad old man by expatatlarge on November 22, 2009

A friend was trying to set me up with a girl back at home recently. Someone to grow old with, she was thinking presumably, for each of us.

What would I do with a girlfriend, apart from the obvious? Me, the quintessential lonely bachelor, fated for an alcoholic expiration round a flaming rubbish-bin under a bridge somewhere decayed and post-urban, with someone? Ya gotta be joking!

Sure, I occasionally get those maudlin flushes of regret whenever I get in that mood where everyone I see is coupled up.

Pairs of ideal lovers shopping for their Ikea (self-constructed, temporary, half-arsed furniture symbolic of the relationship according to ex-blogger in HK, Hemlock), ordering complex frappuccinos together, pushing their spawn around in perambulators that cost more than any car I have ever owned. Grandma and Grandad sitting silently in the restaurant as all unnecessary words have been spoken. I see laughing school-kids holding hands and though I know there is nothing coming except the serial disappointment of adulthood, I smile for their wicked innocence. I watch ironically mismatched couples departing from Nana Plaza at 2am and wonder who judges me. I kick at dogs fucking on the sidewalk, smash the gnats/flies copulating on the food scraps on my desk.

Everyone is paired up. Love is on the streets. In the stars, futility and self-deception, but shit to all that, I’d be nice to see someone smiling at me in a special way. (Someone like Sookie Stackhouse preferably. If you could read my mind, not get caught up the negatives of the external me, oh Sookie, ever since you were playing piano on the misty New Zealand beaches… OK enough fantasy.)

Everyone has someone to fuck, except me, I sometimes feel. Someone they are itching to get away from, no doubt and at the same time, that they can’t bear to be away from in case they start fucking somebody else. But even that sensation of clinging/pushing away, of hatred/possession, of jealousy/forgiveness – the glorious ambiguity that is love… I sort of miss it sometimes, wonder if I am still capable of interesting someone in the correct way, fooling them and myself into a hope it could work for a while, long enough to call it something. The R word. The L word.

I guess it’s because the decade is coming to a close, and the noughties has been a girlfriend-free timezone. No-one special in E@L’s life for coming up to 10 years. Yes, I had several interesting and complex relationships in the 1990s… about which, more never. And there are people who have been interested in me over the years, one or two probably reading this blog, but I have not had the required reciprocal interest in them, nice people though they may be. And I have never been prepared to have a relationship just so I could fuck someone. Am I Robinson Crusoe on this?

I have had heaps of great sex in C21, mind you. Just check my credit card receipts for the details.