Salty (17 page)

Clive smiled. “You're in Bangkok. Have some fun. We'll have you and your wife reunited in no time. I'll be in touch.”

With that Clive stood, patted Turk on the shoulder, and carried his cocktail off in the direction of a young bar girl leaning against the wall.

Turk turned to Marybeth. She was still staring at the dancers. “See something you like?”

Marybeth blushed and gave him a playful shove. “Shut up.”

Turk laughed. “I wasn't the one staring at the girls.”

Marybeth smiled and picked up her drink. “They are kind of cute.”

Turk was about to suggest they call it a night and go back to the hotel when a lithe Thai woman in a diaphanous silk dress slipped into the booth next to him. She casually stroked his crotch as she sat down, her touch as light and fleeting as a puff of smoke. It electrified him. Turk turned to tell her not to do that again, but the words stuck in his throat. She was a stunner. Her skin was a dark creamy brown, like a perfect café latte, she had big brown eyes and small but sensual lips, and her hair was cut short in an asymmetric bob. Her neck was long and slender, and there were a pair of chic Alain Mikli eyeglasses perched on her nose.

“Hi. I'm Wendy.”

Marybeth smiled. “Wendy? Is that your real name?”

Wendy lit a cigarette. “Do you mind?”

Turk shook his head. “No.”

Wendy exhaled a perfectly shaped plume of smoke. “My real name is Watchara Kunakornpaiboonsiri. But that is too difficult for Westerners. So, I'm Wendy.”

“Wendy's a nice name.”

Marybeth gave off all the obvious signs and signals of sexual attraction as she flirted with the beautiful Thai prostitute; she leaned toward Wendy, locking eyes, and then unconsciously toyed with her hair, licked her lips, touched her breasts, and stuck a finger in her mouth as they chatted. Turk didn't notice; he was looking at Wendy's body. He could see her slender torso and small, perfectly shaped breasts with dark brown nipples through her blouse. Her legs were long, and her hips
and ass were rounded, almost athletic. Turk shuddered. Wendy was perfect. It was as if some evil spirit had drawn up everything that Turk found attractive in a woman and put it in one neat and affordable package. Turk realized he would need all his strength and willpower to survive this evening.

Marybeth reached over and took Wendy's hand. “Wendy? Can I buy you a drink?”

“I would like a glass of tequila.”

Turk was surprised by that. “Tequila?”

“I love tequila.”

Marybeth grinned. “So do I.”

Oh my God! She really is perfect!

Marybeth flagged down the waitress and ordered a bottle of their best tequila and three glasses brought to the table. Wendy leaned forward.

“If you would prefer, we can go back to my room. I have some rambutan there. It's not a lime, but I like it even better.”

Marybeth nodded. “Great.”

Turk looked at her. “What the fuck're you talking about?”

Marybeth gave Turk a friendly shove. “C'mon, Turkey. Let's go somewhere quiet and have a drink with Wendy. What's the problem with that?”

Turk leaned in and whispered to Marybeth. “The problem is that I don't want to fuck a prostitute.”

Marybeth smiled. “Then you can watch me.”

…

Turk had never seen a hairy fruit before. The fuzz of a peach and the fur of a kiwi hadn't prepared him for the spiky dreadlocks of a rambutan. Turk perched himself on a low wooden
stool in a corner of the little room—Wendy and Marybeth sat on the simple wooden bed—and looked at the strange fruit. For all he knew it could be some kind of rodent scrotum.

“What the fuck is this?”

Wendy smiled. “Rambutan. You have to peel it.”

She demonstrated, cracking the shaggy shell and then peeling it off to reveal a soft, translucent fruit inside.

“Watch out for the seed. It is rather large.”

She poured three shots of tequila and handed Marybeth and Turk glasses. Marybeth raised hers in a toast. “Here's to Bangkok.”

Wendy smiled as they clinked glasses. Turk knocked the tequila back in one gulp and then bit into the peeled rambutan. His teeth found the hard, smooth seed right away, but the fruit itself exploded onto his tongue in a tangy sweet-sour blast. The taste was alien; it made his mouth feel like it had just been cleaned with an astringent, but it was also delicious. Wendy was right—rambutan mixed well with the tequila. Turk looked up to ask for a refill and noticed that Wendy was undressing Marybeth.

Had he been thinking clearly he would've recognized the danger signals, the extremely
catalytic environment
, and taken this opportunity to slip discreetly out of the room and wait in the bar until Marybeth was finished. But Turk wasn't thinking clearly. He wanted more tequila. He wanted another rambutan.

Turk stood up—somewhat clumsily, as he had a very strong erection, like a sockful of reinforced concrete, in his pants. He reached over and grabbed the tequila and the bowl of rambutan. Wendy noticed this and held out a glass with one hand; her other hand was busy, her fingers gently teasing
Marybeth's nipples. Turk carefully filled her glass—feeling oddly like a nurse assisting a doctor—and then sat back on the stool. He watched as Wendy took a sip of tequila, then dipped her fingers in it, and let Marybeth gently suck the liquor off her fingers. Wendy then fed Marybeth a rambutan, gently placing the pale fruit between Marybeth's lips.

Turk peeled a rambutan and popped it in his mouth. He carefully chewed on the fruit, slowly detaching it from the seed with his teeth. He watched Wendy pull her dress off over her head. She hadn't been wearing anything underneath, and now the two women were both naked. Turk took another shot of tequila and peeled another rambutan.

It suddenly occurred to Turk that he was enjoying himself. If he let the guilt and shame he felt in disappointing his therapist just kind of slide away for a little while, he could relax. He knew he wasn't going to join in; that was a line he wasn't prepared to cross. But why not watch his friend have sex? What was the harm in that? He knew that Marybeth was getting off on being watched. What was the harm in letting her put on a little show?

Turk realized that while his marriage to Sheila had many positive aspects, it had also made him a prude, a suburban soccer mom baking cookies for the church social. That wasn't who he was. He wasn't afraid of the dark side. He wasn't scared by sex. He liked sex. He wasn't Suzy-fucking-Homemaker; he was Turk-fuckin'-Henry from Metal Assassin. He was a rock star. This was his kind of scene.

Marybeth was moaning.

Wendy was gently running her hands over Marybeth's body, starting at her lips and gently brushing down her neck, around her breasts, over the nipples, across the belly, and
down to her clitoris. Wendy leaned over and circled her tongue around Marybeth's nipples. Turk could see them stiffen, contracting at the touch of Wendy's wet lips.

Turk realized that he had never seen Marybeth naked. He had always thought of her as kind of chunky and unattractive, not the long and slender model type that he normally went out with. But he had to admit that seeing her like this—with her small and perky breasts, her wisp of black pubic hair, her round ass, and skin that looked soft and comforting—he realized that she was actually very sexy, voluptuous and sensual, not long and bony and hard like some women, like Sheila.

He couldn't help staring. It wasn't just the sex on display, either. Turk found himself fascinated by the contrast between Marybeth's soft white American body and Wendy's lithe brown Thai body. Where Marybeth seemed plush, Rubenesque, and luxuriant, Wendy's body was lean and supple. Marybeth's skin was pale, protected by late nights and sunscreen; Wendy's skin was rich and earthy, her nipples a dark mahogany, like Swiss chocolates. It occurred to Turk that their bodies accurately represented the countries and cultures they were from. Marybeth's was soft, privileged, fed on booze and fancy dinners in restaurants, and slathered in emollients to keep young and firm, the product of an easy American life. Wendy's was flexible, strong, resilient, browned by the tropical sun; it had all the qualities needed for survival.

Turk refilled his tequila and sipped it. He didn't want to get wasted; he just needed to do a little buzz maintenance.

He watched as Wendy began sucking on Marybeth's nipples in earnest. Marybeth arched her back in pleasure and
flexed her feet reflexively as Wendy began to follow her tongue down Marybeth's torso, slowly licking her way between her legs.

Turk bit into another rambutan and was struck by the fact that neither woman had fake, phony, inflated, or enhanced breasts. They were both natural, the size of their tits in proportion to their bodies. As Turk watched Wendy eat Marybeth's pussy he realized that so many of the groupies he'd enjoyed over the years, those blond bimbos with their silicone-packed jugs, buns of steel, and teased hair, were actually kind of repulsive. They weren't women—not natural women, not like these two on the bed; they were some kind of freak show by-product of a sick society. A symptom of the American culture's deranged relationship to sex, to fantasy, and to desire. Why were all these women getting their boobs stuffed with plastic goo, their lips pumped full of collagen? Why did they all want to look the same? It was a perversion of the feminine form. Wendy and Marybeth couldn't have looked more different, and yet they were both extremely attractive. Sexy, vibrant, and alive.

It occurred to Turk that maybe he was part of the problem. Maybe it was the fact that those Barbie doll bimbos, the Playboy bunnies with the Godzilla-sized knockers, were exactly the kind of women he was always seen cavorting with. Maybe that sent the wrong message. Maybe he, Turk Henry, was part of the sick society that perpetuated the perversion.

Turk was jolted out of his reverie by Marybeth.

“Turk. Come fuck me.”

Her voice was raspy, her breathing ragged.

“I need your cock in me. Now.”

Wendy stopped slurping and looked at Turk.

“You know I can't do that, Marybeth.”

“Please.”

Turk laughed, embarrassed. “I would if I could. Believe me.”

“I need your cock. Please.”

Turk shook his head and looked to Wendy for help. Wendy smiled. “I have just the thing.”

Turk watched as she reached under the bed and pulled out a box of sex toys. Wendy deftly took out a strap-on harness—a large black dildo jutting from the end of it—and buckled it on. She kneeled over Marybeth and rolled a condom down the dildo.

“I think you'll like this.”

Marybeth looked and gasped. “Oh yeah.”

Turk's pulse was pounding; sweat was sprouting off his forehead. He knocked back the shot of tequila he'd been nursing and poured himself another. Wendy squirted a handful of lubricant onto the dildo and then spread Marybeth's legs. Turk watched as Wendy expertly mounted and entered Marybeth. Marybeth groaned with pleasure, her back arching as she pressed her shoulders into the bed, and squealed. Turk thought he might have to stand up and jack off right then and there.

Wendy began fucking Marybeth in long smooth strokes, pushing the dildo deep into her. Marybeth looked at him.

“Turkey. Let me suck your cock.”

Turk blinked. Although right here, right now, in this room in a brothel in Bangkok, Turk would've liked nothing better in the whole wide world than for Marybeth to suck his cock, he had to decline.

“Marybeth. I can't.”

Marybeth wailed in frustration. “Please. Please. I won't tell.”

Turk's head swam. Why did he put himself into this situation?
This was fucking torture
. His mouth went dry and his body trembled with desire.

“I wish I could.”

“Let me suck your thumb.”

Turk watched as Wendy began increasing the tempo. Marybeth's legs were up in the air, locked around Wendy's slim body.

“Please. Oh God, please.”

Turk stood up and walked over. He took his thumb, parted Marybeth's moist lips, and tenderly slid the digit into her mouth. She immediately began sucking on it full force, like a turbo-charged hoover, as she bucked and groaned underneath Wendy.

The sexual energy being emitted by the two women was too much for Turk. As Marybeth began to have what could only be called a hurricane-force orgasm, Turk unzipped his pants, letting them drop around his ankles, pulled out his throbbing cock, and began stroking it. Marybeth groaned and gasped, but continued to suck on his thumb.

Turk closed his eyes. He was transported by the energy in the room. He could smell the two women—the perfume of their sweat, the juice of their vaginas. He could feel the heat coming off their coupling bodies, humid and animal and real. He could taste the tequila and rambutan in his mouth, delicious and exotic. And he could feel his hard cock in his hand, burning to trigger, stretching to shoot. He opened his eyes and looked over at Wendy and Marybeth. Both women were
looking at him. Watching him as he stroked faster and faster, as if he were giving them applause, props for their fucking, a standing ovation for their performance. As Turk tensed and jerked, Marybeth reached over and delicately inserted a finger up his butt.

Turk shot a gob of come as his entire body spasmed. The semen hit the wall and stuck, slowly dripping down, a salty stalactite. Turk stood, holding his cock, looking at the wall, his body heaving, his mind vacant and clear. That's when it happened. A bolt of inspiration, a gift from the Muses.

For the first time since the band had broken up, Turk had an idea for a song.

…

He didn't remember how he got back to the Oriental Hotel. He remembered leaving the room alone—Marybeth wanting to spend another hour with Wendy—and going down to the bar. He remembered drinking beers with the two football hooligans. He remembered a young woman squatting under the table giving the Manchester United fan a blow job while they all sat around and sang Metal Assassin songs like nothing was happening. He remembered the dancers spinning on the bar, flicking their hips, flashing their breasts, smiling at him.