From Siem Reap to Busan
Jan 7th, 2013
Lok-lak, fish amok, holy basil, fried crab, 'happy' shakes. Nothing in the past two weeks could taste as sweet as her pink ring after the last 36 hours. Nine white pills, twenty pink pills, a couple blue ones, and half of everything else of mine that Christ died for was what I needed to get from Here to Her.
Siem Reap to Guangzhou leaves at 11:25AM. I'm having more than a few xannies in my Rum Raisin milkshake (don't ever try this, you'll be too busy tasting regret to get high) because some faceless recruiter tells me that a faceless Office of Education has rescheduled my interview to Never for double applying. It wasn't that I was enamored with competing against troglodytic math-illiterates for a job in a desolate hamlet teaching English to pre-pubescents, two hours away from Her. It was that the difference between Nowhere and Option 2 was an additional 4 and and half hours by bus, then train, then subway. And that's enough to put out a burning love with a pail of gray liquid shit. Not the true kind of love, the crazy kind, but I'm talking about the 22-year old kind, the "You've just come home from spending 12 nights in South East Asia but I want your naked cock inside me, and I will wait past sunrise for the sound of rushed footsteps at my door for that feeling I get when your cum spills deep into my pussy."
But I still have a long way to go. 30 minutes before landing in Guangzhou and the dying Chinese atmosphere is thicker than semen two days after a steak dinner. Fuck where I come from, all that matters is there's a place I need to be. Brett wants a BLT. In China. The most exploitative food service establishment ever to disgrace the already fecal-smeared reputation of airport restaurants confound the adjacent Norwegian family , and I bond over our plight. I bother to because they're Her people and the only connection I have with her right now is a Wi-fi connection through Brett's phone, for mine was stolen days ago. The check comes and I sign it with the same face I make at this waitress, this cunt who is just doing her job, supporting a corrupt machine with the same indifference as the average American infantry. Fuck your sandwich you almost innocent bitch I speak your tongue and I will show you back to your kennel because the Norwegian family cannot.
It turns out that there is rum in rum raisin, and right now it is holding hands with the xannies and doing 90 past my liver. I swallow another five pink ones with Chinese water because I don't realize this.
Do you know what China Southern Airlines' fish option tastes like? It tastes like more Xanax and airplane wine.
Incheon, I fucking hate you. I hate that you ever existed as a land mass, as a possibility, as the smallest quantum particle that an airport could be built on you, you time rapist. I don't even look at Brett as we sprint past all the white families to get to immigration. The length of the run batters my lungs. We are cattled and processed and now ready for Customs. He takes my card, and the sprinting continues. There is a shuttle from the International terminals (because there has to be) to the main airport. The intermission affords us enough oxygen to sprint to the bus information center: It's past 9pm, getting to Seoul station takes an hour, and we won't make the last train to Busan. The next best option is a 5 hour bus ride from Incheon.
"Two tickets to Busan, pl-."
"Ohhh the last bus already left. It's already 9:10PM."
"Oh, wait no it hasn't. It's over there.
"Great, give me two bus tickets."
"You have to buy them over there."
"Go outside, cross the street, and you will see."
I sprint past the street and see people boarding the last bus. I buy the tickets and we board. A single other foreigners is sat towards the middle, so I acquaint myself with her and offer some xannies. I say xannies, but in reality, it was too dark to tell which pills were blue and which were pink, but what post-post-modern hipster that accepts pills from strangers would've given a shit? We talk about our lives so the next 5 1/2 hours might feel shorter. It almost works.
Left in my inventory are 9 tablets of Tramadol, and 30 capsules of Codeine. Both are opiates of equal strength. I press at the packaging until it tears under my thumbnail, swallow a tablet and wait for it to kill the pain. Pretty soon, all 450 milligrams of tramadol are in my stomach, and a couple more valium and xanax as well. I knew this was dangerous, but more important is what I did not know: I did not know that my codeine was mixed with Paracetemol, which although weaker than Tylenol, the leading cause of liver failure in most countries where it is OTC. They package it with codeine to dissuade abuse with the consequence of death.
I also did not know that 450 milligrams of tramadol in four hours is enough to give an epileptic seizure to a person with the BMI of the average African-American woman, let alone a person of my small frame.
The angel of drug abuse must have been watching out for me, because I chose seizures instead liver failure. Even that fate was spared for me, as xanax and valium are both anti-epileptic drugs. Some might call that serendipity.
Our bus stops after four hours so we can wander around the black night at the type of rest area that offers no rest, only unlit half-toilets with iced over shit and no toilet paper. The night is so black that for the first time in Korea I can't see any mountains. I zombie around the premises waiting until time starts again. My eyelids weigh of steel and my next step will find where the sidewalk ends, if not for the rumbling of a bus engine behind me.
We are dropped off at the North edge of Busan, a place I have been but don't recognize. Brett's destination is the South end, mine the East end, so this is where it ends. I get in a cab with the foreigner, and we wait for something to happen.
I don't remember the cab ride, but I do remember Her door code. It is the Thirty-sixth hour. An even forty and the sun will be risen. She is upstairs in the loft, and she is awake. I am more sure of this than my legs as I climb up the steps and find her. We don't speak, there is no "Heyyyyy", there is just the sound of love being made. I reach down and feel wet lace.
I move her until she is on all fours and cup my mouth over her ass and eat. She cries, moans, and I feel heat and wetness spreading down my chin and I don't care I just eat. I eat until I am done and I turn her onto her back.
"Please fuck me," as if she needed to say it. Now would be a more opportune time than ever.
Too bad. Valium has side effects.
A hallucination behind my eyelids bring me a moment of clarity: I am stoned out of mind. One blink brings me back to Cambodia for much longer than it should. I go to sleep detached from my legs.When we awake I make love to her viciously. It's the only way you can after spending two weeks in Southeast Asia without dipping into debauchery.
There is an untalked about sexual milestone that almost everyone skips over with no qualm. The milestone isn't the act of eating ass; it's the selfish enjoyment of it. Not having a broad appeal, I'm sure it ruined the flow of the story for a lot of people. But, this isn't some sexy fiction, it's just my life. I'm not even with this person anymore, but damn that was fun.
Cambodia was my favorite place in Southeast Asia so far, and I have plans to go back by next winter, Taiwan be damned. It's a country in a time of sudden change as the exploding tourism industry has lifted many out of poverty in the last few years. I can not help but think that it will never be the same, that with all its wealth, the tourism will bring all the negative changes as well. Though I support a woman's right to do whatever she wants with her body, I want to visit Cambodia again before it becomes saturated with low-grade prostitutes and their pimps like the the worst beaches of Thailand. I'm looking at you, Pattaya. Currently, Cambodia is even cheaper than Vietnam, but you can't have a decrease in poverty withough an increase in prices. Unlike Taiwan, Cambodia has made me much more grateful for the things I take for granted as an expat in Korea.
I chose to write about my Cambodian adventure in reverse chronological order for no reason other than d I'd like to give it a try. Not coincidentally, I have taken a much more serious fake name to reflect how serious I am about being serious. I will no longer write under F Duckleford, and shall henceforth be known as JiggleBilly.
The next chapter of Tales of Cambodia is set in Siem Reap. Things that happen: We meet a Dutch (Danish? I can never get that right) girl. I drink alcohol (gasp). An accidental surgery is performed.
Thanks for reading. I will return to writing my usual filth soon as well. I have been busy with my new job.