I am wearing now the devils sign right in your face. One day later I was marked I decided to purchase my first Flamingo Hawaii shirt, after years of blackness I turned white and now Flamingo, and of course I needed two as usual, though different variation, matt navy blue and white, Flamingo pattern adjusted but pink. This is weird. Is it. Posting this on a website, uploading it to a place called the internet, where a even more weird version of weird seems to exist, this is weird too. – So all is in place. Good to have that reassured.
With a plastic bag in her left, holding her nightwear, she opens the door. I snatch for a fleeting movement the door hanger, librating between lights. PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB! And the door clicks. Nothing. No relief. No regret. Sadness, stronger, closer to functional reality than usual. And I can´t wait to masturbate. And I want to save her, I want to fight the emptiness inside of her, or I want to feel less hypocritical. The knight and his loyal steed left after he jerked off behind the next tree. Her breasts fake tits. Her tattoos tacky asian erotic stereotypes. A heart with no beauty, only another declaration of gender distortion. I still smell her, her cheap makeup, the drooling sweat of a man´s army, dropping their precum on her, like a magic tincture, aroused by the possession of power, the king and his concubines, the drunken looser and her precariously desperate doll. In short episodes the night before flashes. Another guest next to me, not fat, not heavily tattooed, not the foaming red-faced madness in his manifestation of patriarchy, but in an expensive suit though with sneakers in the end, young, successful and punk. He is pointing impatient at girls on the stage. His demands brazen, shameless in its presentation. The man likes his power. Next to his dick his potent pocket, and next to the insanity of his arrogance. His awareness of power, knowing the power of power, obsessed, possessed, of the delusion of control I can nearly touch, but I didn`t want to break his nose. “No, the other one!” He is turning around, looking, expecting a pal next to him, because in the end we are all men, and they are the women, “Who likes fat woman. – No! Not the fat girl, skinny. Skinny, sexy. Chubby, ugly. Ok. Ha-ha-ha. You understand.” His instructions presented with a smile, as he just finished the best and most ordinary joke, a fat girl in a striptease bar. “I like their sense of humor, not a big deal, I love the girls, cute, sexy, know business, but pal, I never ever pay for the night, we are clear ok.” I remember I reacted. – I fold back the blanket. I smell her vagina. Or maybe a perfume. I am looking for my purse. Of course I expect she stole it. Not once in my life wherever I dragged the dark shadows of socialisation across th earth´s curvature, my racist expectations were roughly satisfied. I feel disgusted. With myself, with human nature, with the sick nature of human kind. I find the purse, on the nightstand on her side of the bed, a couple of dollars left, enough if you have nothing. I wish now she would have taken it. To pay me off, my shame, for who I don`t want be and who I can´t terminate. “Drinks for everyone!” Another episode. I remember why there is not many dollars left. “Are you crazy?” The man in his suit talks. “Why would you do that?” Probably american I think. “I have fun.” “We are all here for fun, that doesn`t mean you have to pay for all the cats to follow the tamer. You know how this works right?” Yes, american, I am sure. “Do what works for you, circus clown.” You guys are convinced saving people´s life and installing freedom with blood high up to your throat, I think. Except his observing arrogance making an appearance here and then, no more eposiodes with this guy for the rest of the night. – I told her she can relax, after I haven´t even ordered a drunk yet. “Yes you come with me, only sleep ok, don´t worry.” I was already drunk, felt terrible, left behind (by myself), in need of compensation. And it would make us both probably ok. She ate. She took a shower. She felt asleep. I didn`t. I was thinking about love. Her vagina was dry. She is ecstatically moaning in my ear. I am impressed. All these techniques perfectly orchestrated. I can feel the bags in her breasts. Her vagina stayed dry. “I don`t want.” I don`t know if I wanted or not. But sure it was not what I need. I paid her. She got dressed, stuffed her plastic bag, smiled at me, and I think there was some juvenile relief in her look, or maybe it was more a “What an idiot!” assessment.
The day will just go by, like a dream, to wake up in a cathartic sleep. I chose a coffee shop in a shopping mall to dream. At the neighbouring table a young fancy looking couple with her daughter, maybe around 5 years old. She was in a mood. “Am I an idiot?” And in my head I hear the suit guy laughing, a specific laughter, like a summary of all fucked up values fucking up our fucked up life every single fucking day, because of people like him, who don`t get, that there is nothing to get, except that he is the first fucker on my list who shall be fucked by an army of prostitutes, with the most fat vibrators they can find. I want to meet him now and break his nose. What an asshole. I hope she stole everything from him, including his desinfectant post body spray, his golden plastic card and his biggest trophy, his dick. And I hope she broke his nose. Suddenly the kid at the next table starts to weep bitterly. Like you would not expect from a 5 year old kid, or maybe only from a 5 year old kid. Her parents try to hear what is wrong, she is gasping for breath, her whole body. “What world we live in where 5 year old beings have to suffer such grief and distress. Why the parents don´t hug her.” I want to go over and, but of course I know this would be completely insane, hugging another being which is in pain. “What a world!” Then she speaks. “I… [gasps] am not beauti [gasps], I am not beautiful.”
She left with a plastic bag in her left. Her vagina was dry, her expression empty, like the word LOVE.
“Just cleaned up for you Sir.”Why you said that? How I am supposed to stay in this room now. I don´t want to know that just recently, minutes ago a team of women rallied through here and turned everything upside down with your wimp up their arse. I want to keep the illusion of an untouched live, a virgin life, created only for my needs, perfection.
“This room doesn´t exist , didn´t and will not, do you understand! And don’t call me Sir!!!”
What a show… a mix of jealousness and greed – they lift backpacking into their real world of we-travel-empty-handed, which is more commitment to freedom than writing about on your fancy blog, eat-and-stay-for-free digital nomading… and jealousness and greed – because we pay the price and they fucking don’t and I don’t wanna pay for their trip down the road of individualism – the escapism you sow, and white trash on the street we have back home, I told them to find work and now they sit in front of my bungalow, shit in front of my well deserved holiday I worked so hard for… who gives a shit, seriously. Doesn’t have man other problems than a couple of bums in dirty thumbs or is it just another rage of capitalism – always punks.Still feel odd about white people begging in Asia… but now removing the concept of borders, I don’t give a shit.
Waiting for my ice coffee at a market somewhere in Cambodia… two men on a motorbike pass by, in between them a crocodile, head in a rice bag, tail waving in the wind… a soldier with his AK47 on his bag spoting my ink, nearly drives into a food stall, everyone laughing, not because of the AK47… and finally I forget my change – who hinks about change when it comes to crocodiles and soldiers – and the seller is chasing after me to hand over. This is my Cambodia. I hope it will survive me.
On same days, at night, when roads turn into blades, crossing at junctions into a Cambodian version of Russian roulette, when I shouldn´t steer any vehicle anymore, when I ride home on my loyal not scarless motorbike, only in my head visions of accidents taking place, real time, or just what will happen turning around the handlebars now, hearing the plastic cracking, metal clawing into the tarseal, my flesh skinned down to battered bones – and I drive faster to feel more comfortable.