South of Bangkok - beads on your skin.
Soaped and showered against the heat of the evening, you wear my pyjamas. The waistband sits lazily on the edge of your hips and the white cotton top clings in the humidity. The tiles are cool underfoot and we stand shadowed on my balcony overlooking the mosque. In the distance the gas-flares from the oil-fields ignite, rise and die. The windows and walkways of nearby houses glow with television blue and gold while stark jags of fluorescent light cut shapes into mystery. Dark outlines of people, like us, taking the air, having a smoke or talking on their ‘call-me-ups’ flit behind pillars and openings.
Lights from distance apartment blocks twinkle in the mauve-slate sky. The solid concrete balustrade hides us from near view and we lean on the inner rail. My apartment lights are out and our torsos are just dark shapes in the night. On the table, beads of condensation run down ice-crackled gins and tonics and behind us, in our fifth-floor room, the lap-top plays a little of this and that; a murmur of Chet or Adele.
Our pyjama bottoms hang loose. The cold gin warms us and the glass against our lips is stinging-cold. The sea breeze has cleared the smog from ten million exhaust pipes and blows my blue curtain in a pregnant sail into the room. The colder upper atmosphere has clouded over and the temperature slowly climbs again after the early respite from the day’s blaze of sun as the heat of the concrete delta releases with no place to go. In our darkened bower, fingers feel for the shapes beneath the weave. Closer; you grip the round rail and pull yourself against it – it’s low enough to meet your pubic mound.
I stand beside you. The call to prayer in, a language we don’t know, seems loud against the muffled late traffic and for a moment our attention is taken by the rise and fall of the ancient texts, it would be beautiful but for the crackle of it’s recorded pragmatism and the neon-lit minarets. You move gently against the rail and my hand almost rests between your buttocks. I stand behind you. The hum of the road is punctuated; by a pot being clanged against a sink under the corrugated roof an old wooden house, and a buzz of youthful motorcycles on Soi 8. Headlamps from home-bound tuk-tuks take a wave of light down an alley. You move away from the rail slightly to allow me to pull the waistband down. The air feels cooler on your skin. The cicadas, the Platyromia Radha, all sing together by vibrating their legs and wings and they fill the air with extraordinary volume from their homes in the tops of the trees some metres below.
You feel the heat of my penis against you. The Platyromia are not our favoured snack with beer. In their leafy homes they escape the deep fry of the wok and stop their song, as they started, in unison. I kiss your neck and you part your legs by adopting a wider stance. You adjust your height by millimetres; the rail is smooth. There is room enough under your cotton top for my hand. The murmur of the street is replaced, for us, by breath and sigh. We quiver in the heat.
In the room the bed is covered with a large sleeping-towel. The door is closed and we only have ourselves and the sound of the fan. We have left our pyjama bottoms on the balcony. Light seeps beneath and through the flowing curtain and the footsteps of returning tenants tread the hard floor in the corridor outside our room. The towel is cool and inviting. You sit on the edge of the bed and flop back with a slow grace. My knees settle on the tile and your knees feel my hands spreading and opening.
The fan swings through is reciprocating arc. Your cunt, from its sweat and excitement, tastes slightly salty and your clit swells beneath its hood. I love to kiss your lips. You open wider, dilate and pulse. Three fingers fill you and your thighs are running wet. My tongue has glided and entered, circled and teased and now settles to a rhythmic pulse. My fingers slide out of you and you plant your feet upon the edge of the bed, raise your hips and cunt towards me and arch your back.
I adore it when you come, and long for the moment when we sink into the bed, beaded with sweat; my palms smoothing semen on your nipples and neck. Later, as the sun journeys to the morning and the crow of the fowl announce the day, I will lazily and selfishly fuck you from behind, holding hard to your breasts and come deep inside you before sleep enfolds us again.
