Another Goodbye Maybe Forever

2000 was the start of a new millennium. My plans for the future were short-term, so I had a good feeling for the next decade. MTV threw a New Year’s Eve bash in Times Square. I can’t recall where I was in New York. Most certainly drugs and drink were involved in the evening’s festivities, but no sex since I had forsworn coupling with white women in the previous century.

I could count the number of Caucasian females with whom I had mated during that period on less than two hands. My first trip to the Orient infect my libido with race-traitor desire. Blondes disgusted me. Redheads were revolting. Freckles an abomination. White women were equally offended upon hearing about my circumnavigations of the globe. The posthumous glory of Magellan was erased by the mention of Thailand. Their eyes spat accusations of ‘child molester’ and ‘whore-monger’. The first was to expected by such ethnocentric harridans and the latter was right on the mark.

I had paid for sex.

More than once.

And with different women.

Foreplay was a discussion of price. Romance was an hour in a cheap room on Soi 6. Divorce was never an issue. I was a sexy man forever unlike in America where ever-aging women sought richer and richer men to fulfill their dream of a Park Avenue apartment and a ‘cottage’ in the Hamptons. This greed corrupted their beauty as completely as leprosy. I liked the young women in New York. They were unspoiled by their older sister’s sins, but they ceased to appeal to my lust.

I thought I was broken, until I hit the Orient.

There I was a man again and I suddenly realized that white women were obsolete.

Many were twice the man I would ever be both in size and ego.

My last sex with a white woman was with a LA screenwriter. Nancy was a bisexual masochist. I exploited her weakness with the delicacy of a East St. Louis pimp. On several occasions I imagined her body a sleek seal in Asian skin. I came within seconds.

In the morning she sulked at the breakfast table.

“You fucked me like a Thai whore.”

“Then it must have been as good for me as it was for you.” I completely her experience by dropping $50 on the table and walked out of her Hollywood bungalow, expecting a knife in my back. She was no Thai whore and I was glad that white women in America had had their sexuality ripped from this body and soul.

They are no longer a temptation.

And my wives couldn’t be happier about that.


I am a little sad, but only because my next flight to Thailand is in two weeks.

The whore-monger lives tonight.

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