He fucks a whore on a business trip to Bangkok. It doesn't mean anything.
      He goes to some bar, she takes him to a room. She undresses and lies down, opens her legs. Maybe she's not a woman, but a girl--thirteen, fourteen--from a small village. He's horny. He puts on the rubber. She closes her eyes. Or maybe stares at the ceiling. He doesn't kiss her. He's probably a little drunk. Maybe more than that. He gets inside her. Maybe he sucks her tits. His hands are on either side of her breasts. Or she's turned over and he can't see anything but black hair, a small narrow back. Maybe his eyes are closed and he's only feeling the sensations in his dick. He's in her cunt, or her ass. She sucks him first or doesn't. There's music, or glasses clinking. Laughter or yelling. Maybe dim lights. Maybe he groans loudly, the way he always does when he comes. Maybe he doesn't come. He fucks her for a while and goes soft; he's too drunk. The girl starts giggling. Or just lies there. Or gets up to wash him off. She's older than he thought at first. Maybe younger. It's hot in the room. Maybe not a room but a curtained-off section of one, nothing in it but a bed and a towel. Maybe it's a cot. Maybe she's pretty. Or has pimples and bitten nails. He doesn't remember. He's back in America. He turns on some music, squeezes my nipples, kisses me. He fucked a whore in Bangkok. I can't see her face. The room is dark. Maybe dim lights. Maybe not a room at all. He puts on the rubber. He pushes inside, begins to thrust steadily. It doesn't mean anything.

First published in, "Caprice"