So you think you’re a Master, huh? Feh. I know this English guy in Bangkok. Nigel. He’s an old NGO lifestyle parasite and has been polishing his halo in various countries in the “developing world” for ages. Back home Nigel would be just another flat-assed, flat-footed geezer driving a desk in some cubicle and living in a stupidly overpriced suburb. Poor Nige would be taxed to death and paying too much money for lousy blow jobs from young drug-addled eastern Euro whores.
But here in the city affectionately known as The Whore of the East, he’s one of an army of non-profit bwanas being paid solid Western salaries to live in a place with 1980 prices. He’s got a big manse up country, with a pool and lovely views where he keeps his nominal Thai wife and brats. They’re taken care of by a squad of ultra-submissive refugee servants and it costs him sweet fuck all. He claims to have screwed a couple of the maids. “But I brought along good English condoms,” Nigel snorts. “Don’t want to knock up the useless little beggars!”
Nigel tours refugee camps, chairs humanitarian action committees, attends plenty of pomp & circumstance conferences. He’s interviewed by Western media hacks who purr at his grave tones as he describes the unspeakable injustice of it all. He writes earnest reports on the terrible plight of one stripe of refugee or another and lays guilt trips on government apparatchiks back in the “developed world.” They fork over coin to keep the good deed industry rolling and some kids in a shit hole refugee camp along the Thai/Burmese border get to live in UN-approved tents instead of plastic sheets and cardboard. The do-gooder brigades consider it a calling rather than a career, the caring Masters who shoulder the White Man’s Burden of civilizing the savages.
Nigel looks the part too. Tall, balding, gingery beard, the beige semi-safari suit shtick, ugly Birkenstock type footwear. And let’s not forget the utilitarian glasses. His whole vibe is asexual and benign, the kindly non-profit saint just doing his small part. When Nigel’s not dancing the neo-colonial jig, he gets down to enjoying his perving at a price that would drive pimps back home into the poorhouse. One of the doughty Englishman’s favorite kinks is having a couple of lithe young Burmese refugees beat the mortal shit out of him. And he’s got them over a delectable barrel that keeps the little bastards sweet. They shouldn’t even be in the country, let alone have any right to go to the cops or whoever if they don’t like what’s going on or how much they’re being paid.
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Now, there are a few guidelines these illiterate punks must follow. Friendly ol’ Nige pays a nice young woman to carefully explain the rules. If the young toughs disobey it means being sent back to Burma and straight into a secret police torture chamber. Speaking of which – you want some kickass BDSM action? Those guys would rock your world – permanently.
Okay, the rules. First of all, the perps can’t be drunk. There’s too much risk they’ll lose the plot and beat ol’ Nige to death. Definitely not cricket. Also, no blows to face or neck. The guy’s gotta be presentable at the next conference or audience in some bureaucrat’s office. He can’t be hanging around the venerable Bangkok Foreign Correspondents Club and hold forth if he looks like he was worked over at some CIA black-ops prison in Romania. Eyebrows would certainly be raised.
And no major hoofs to the nuts. Nigel admits that’s happened in the past and was no goddamn fun at all. His balls ended up big as Spanish onions and sat on a little plate for weeks, waiting in some Ho Chi Minh City hospital for the swelling to subside while deflecting questions from colleagues. And no serious weapons, blunt instruments, planks with nails in them, none of that shit.
The best part – it’s a buyer’s market. There’s armies of these young refugee dudes hanging about with no work, no pussy and no prospects. As a result it costs around thirty bucks to have them go nuts with fists and feet, and generally trash motherfuckin’ Nige. Although, he does admit to wearing a kidney belt and nut protecting cup – just in case.
As we sit in a fag café on Bangkok’s Lower Si Lom strip, Nigel discreetly pulls up the leg of his beige jungle shorts. Fuck me, how he stays so pasty white in a tropical climate I have not a clue, but his upper thigh is a mass of black, blue and green bruises. Nigel grins like a naughty little school girl and blushes proudly. “You ought to see my buttocks,” he smirks.
He opens a button on his safari shirt and gives me a peak at his hairy man boob. Some serious lacerations and contusions radiate out from the nipple, which is a big ugly scab. “I allowed one of them to use a bamboo switch. Nothing extreme, mind you. Just a little playfulness.” Nigel pauses before doing up his shirt and grins again, really in love with himself. “However, I believe it must be said, my young lads would not be out of place in the fleshpots of your beloved San Francisco.”
