Seymour Totti’s Foreign Policy

It has been suggested to me, both via e-mails and most recently in the pub, that I lead a rather enviable existence. After all writing about getting laid in the fleshpots of Asia can’t be all that bad, can it?

Now, I see myself as a journalist. A war reporter would not go out and start killing people just to get a story but if he were called upon to defend himself that would be another matter entirely, right? Well it is the same for me, I only have sex in self-defense!

True it is a very dangerous path that I tread and I’m forced to defend myself quite often but I was ill prepared for the Battle of Easy Corner Bar.

Lulled into a false sense of security by the peaceful leafy lanes of old Chiang Mai I broke one of my cardinal rules. Never go to a bar wearing shorts.

I realised I was putting the hairs on my legs in the direct line of fire but I’d visited several bars that evening without incident. The Easy Corner Bar was an altogether more feisty venue with about six or seven girls on the door forming a welcome committee.

Hallo welcome”, they chanted in unison as I neared. I allowed myself to be welcomed. A rather pretty young thing led me to a stool at the bar.

“What you like dink?” She asked over my right shoulder whilst gently pressing her breasts into my back. In the split second it took to say “Heineken” a second girl had snuck in from the right and wedged herself between my knees and gave the hair on my knees a little tug. I decided to ignore it.

The welcome comittee at Easy Corner Bar

“What’s you name?” she asked.

“Seymour,” I replied, “What’s yours?”

“Kai. Where you come fom?” I told her and asked the same. “Chiang Rai”, she said, straining every muscle in her tongue to pronounce the R sound correctly. I looked into her eyes. There was no doubt she had the classic features of the Lanna Thai, lighter skinned than her counterparts in the Isaan region and to the south. And she was a real beauty to boot. It’s a look that is made even more beguiling by its rarity in the more frenetic bar zones elsewhere.

“Ah, Chiang Lai?” I suggested. The Thai language does have an R sound but it seems most Thais find it quite difficult to form so they invariably replace it with an L or leave it out altogether.

Her face assumed a look of intense concentration, her brow furrowed, her nose wrinkled. My dick was as rigid as the beer bottle in my right hand. “Chiang RRRRRai” she insisted. I laughed. She tugged again at the hair on my leg.

“Ouch”, I said and gave the lower half of her ribs a little squeeze. She recoiled and crashed her hip into my boner. A moment of awareness flickered on her face then, quick as a flash she had her hand up the leg of my shorts. Before I even realised it she had rearranged the contents, my testicles now separated by the elastic of my underwear which also ran, rather tightly, across the middle of my dick.

She withdrew her hand quite quickly but had also maneuvered to get between me and the bar meaning I couldn’t put my beer down. She continued to rub her hip into my groin but deprived of blood flow it wilted. This, of course, only made her try harder.

“Where now?” she demanded.

“It’s broken”, I said, “you’ve pulled it off, now I have to be a ladyboy.” This last concept appealed to her sense of humour and she turned her back to me so as to tell all her friends about it. I seized the moment, put down my beer, returned my appendage to its accustomed position and grabbed both boobs. She fell backwards pressing her bum into my already reawakening dick.

She spun around, put both arms around my neck and planted a big kiss on my lips. This, I thought, was cheating. My dick was bolt upright again and she pressed her tummy against it. “I want go your loom”, she whispered afterwards.

“My rrrrroom”, I corrected. She pulled my face into her boobs and grabbed the hairs on my leg again. I caught the sweet smell of defeat. I paid the bill and we walked, hand in hand, into the night to open up another front in my hotel.

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