Out of the Shadows. Senta Holland
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discovered that he was very used to making conversation with first time strangers, even when he was a boy, and that for most of his adolescence he used to show his parents’ post-colonial friends around when they came to Bangkok. So he seemed quite fluent in this situation, making small talk, laughing with me, putting me at ease, welcoming and open, but not too smooth.
But I could also tell he wasn’t as used to dating as I was.
And that was how it would be: he was the one who lived here, who knew his way around, who had done many things I only dreamed of, and he was the one who was a little shy, and unused to things, and had never done many things that he himself was dreaming of.
He led and I followed, I led and he followed me. Not as easily, not as magically as on that first night, but always a little bit.
It was the magic of the power loop.
Looking at him, sitting in his white shirt against the wall, talking about something or other that was the custom in Bangkok, I felt suddenly very happy. This is how it was supposed to be, in other people’s books, mostly men’s, mostly fantasy, flying into a new continent and meet a lover by nightfall. And now it was happening to me.
I was by that time an expert at first dates, and I kept all the precautions. I listened for things that didn’t make sense, I tried to connect his talk about himself and his real life experience as far as I could tell, and I tuned into the feeling between us. I had developed a sensor for the kind of relationship I wanted. I asked him all the right questions, and he gave me all the proper information.
So yes, I listened to the voice of reason, but already I couldn’t hear it so well, maybe because of the night carpet of silvery mosquitoes. Under my bones, my blood was singing.
We walked over to the restaurant through a temple, no monks, no visible sign of religion except the buildings, but many people strolling around in peace and moonlight, and then we sat, outside, under a wide canopy, straight by the river.
He spoke Thai, of course, ‘I grew up over there,’ he said, waving his arm in a mysterious direction that called up visions of tropical gardens and high society ladies drinking gin tonics in the afternoons. The waiters looked astonished, he didn’t speak their language like a foreigner, but he looked like one.
He politely answered what must have been very familiar questions and then turned back to me.
‘My mother was away a lot so I learned Thai from the servants. People are confused when I speak, I speak Thai with a local accent.’
My image of him was changing. He was more relaxed in the semi-darkness, light gliding in from the river, surrounded by a whole table of food to share, exclaiming at the fact that I was vegetarian, ordering fried morning glory for me, asking the waiter to write it down, in Thai.
He looked at me more freely, and more deeply.
‘I have something for you’, he said, reaching towards his backpack and opening its top just enough so that his hand could reach in.
He gave me a fragile garland of jasmine. It was smaller than my hand. I smelled its intoxicating scent. I pressed my face into it and then looked up at him.
This is the way I look up to my Nai.
He looked back, and he didn’t smile. He held his hand out to me and I touched it with jasmine fingers.
Behind him I saw the river and big working boats floating through the night as they had for so many centuries.
It almost felt as if he was a local spirit come to welcome me.
I told him that.
‘No, no, no’, he said.
But I didn’t believe his denial. I had power too.
We ate, a little. We drank, a special concoction, mixed by the waiter on a separate table with precautionary high rims, more than we ate, but again, not much.
I realised quickly that he was very different from me, and from most of the people I knew. The reason why he was so easy to talk to, and why he knew so much about such different things as photography, Thai princes, internet games and the stock market was that he was rich. Not the kind of rich you get when you work very hard. The kind of rich that allows you to be open and genuine. The kind of rich that comes from your ancestors and makes you a citizen of this world. He bore a well-known name.
My own ancestors were peasants who were not even citizens of their countries. And, I worked very hard all my life but I was on a tight budget.
We looked at each other and we talked. We talked.
We talked about sex.
We talked about bondage positions, about impact sensations and the various instruments that we loved and desired.
We talked about blindfolds, about leather straps and ecstatic altered states.
It is the way of the BDSM people.
Talking like this is our tradition.
I believe it was originally introduced by the name of ‘negotiations’ between people who might become play partners, perhaps for a while, perhaps only casually.
Negotiations were and are considered necessary to establish the ‘limits’ particularly of the submissive partner, the boundaries of what could happen between them.
For me, and certainly on this evening with my Nai by the river, it was much more.
It was a way of talking about our identity.
Both our separate individual identities, a much more intimate way of introducing yourself than telling your date a potted personal history, and of course much more to the point.
But even more so we were establishing our common identity.
With every cautious, polite and gentlemanly question we showed each other our most intimate sexual desires and revealed our secret and carefully guarded true nature.
I saw the look of recognition in his eyes when I told him how much I loved to feel the touch of the bonds holding my wrists so tightly behind my back.
He took his fork and wrapped it round a morning glory stem, coated in garlic sauce, and put it down again. He ran his finger along the old seams of his backpack.
This was not just a statement about sexual preference, not just a more precise identification of where we stood within the world of BDSM, although it was that too.
It was finding, against all odds and all experience, someone who shared the dream.
And who might, if all went well, perhaps, possibly, eventually share it with us.
Right now, though, it was all the magic I could take to just see him share my dream, and I his.
And to talk with each other in the ways of the BDSM people.
I sat there, just as ineffectual with my food as he, raised my glass to my lips and put it down again.
I closed my eyes experimentally. He might disappear.
That would be the reasonable expectation.
When I opened them and he was still there I knew that a new age had descended, or perhaps I had been translated into another, unearthly realm.
Transformed into the person I wanted to be.
He made no assumptions. He never touched me except for that one time with the jasmine garland. He said who he was. And he was who he said. Against all attacks, he had preserved his innocence. In the strangest way, he was like me.
And, of course, in many other ways, we knew nothing about each other. When I finally said to him, over the roaring of a defective tuk tuk, so that I had to shout in his ear like a public announcer at a sports event, that I would like to have sex with him that very night, I had no idea and maybe not even any intention of anything beyond that.
Through a cascade of sparkles from the roof of the Royal Palace and hundreds of smoking and argumentative tuk tuks and