On a String in Bangkok

That was his form of directness. He had assumed I was available, because in those days so many were. I just wasn’t yet—at least not that week. I think his proposition, though, is what helped weaken me when the Indian doctor put his hand on my cock in a sauna a couple of weeks later, making me come for the first time with a man, and, showing me a much more impressive cock—at least in length—cast a spell on me with his mesmerizing voice that drew me onto the examination table of his home office with its stirrups and cuffs—and its progressively more complex sexual experiences and demands to give up my every sexual inhibition.

The Marine, Rod, just blew it off when I politely told him I didn’t swing that way. A couple of months later, though, when he was cruising the pool at an all-male nude pool party and saw me being fucked, he was a bit more miffed. The party was being thrown at the house of a U.S. Army officer working for JUSMAG, the U.S. military advisory group to the Thai military, who I knew because we were both involved in an expatriate theater group, as was Rod, who was a stage hand there. By this time, I had already been picked up by a big, black JUSMAG major, with a body-builder’s physique and a monster cock. To this day, when I think of well fucked, my mind goes to my black major, and when Rod saw me that day, I was already fucking around, but I was a captive of this major’s cock. One thing about the Indian doctor, his indoctrination program moved fast.