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Butterfly:

Asian Adventures Book 4

By Lisabet Sarai

Copyright 2018 Lisabet Sarai



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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, or events is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.


This book intended for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.





Contents

Butterfly

Excerpt: Vows

About the Author




Butterfly


After nine months laying pipe in the Saudi Arabian desert, the dusty concrete towns of northeast Thailand were paradise. Although accommodations were simple, the food was fantastic. The local people were shy but friendly. Our engineering crew was working on a dam near Khon Kaen. Irrigation and hydropower would help enrich the farmers who eked out a living from that salty soil.

Videos and beer were the only entertainment in the little town in Maha Sarakan where we were staying. The beer was good, true, amazingly refreshing after the heat and dust, but my crewmates wanted something spicier. So on our first free weekend, after fifteen days on the site, we piled into the minivan and headed south to Bangkok.

When I’d arrived the previous month, the airport was all I had seen of that loose and lascivious metropolis the Thais call the City of Angels. My first real trip there was a shock after the tranquil boredom of the Northeast. Chaotic traffic, constant noise, mile after mile of grimy cement blocks interrupted here and there by skyscrapers and the graceful eaves of Buddhist temples. Shopping malls emblazoned with designer names glittered next to narrow alleys crammed with food stalls. The concrete pillars supporting the Skytrain loomed overhead, providing welcome protection from the brutal sunlight.

One of my mates, Charlie, knew the city well. He checked us into a comfortable, ridiculously cheap hotel in the middle of a tourist district. Bewildered and dazzled, I followed him along sidewalks crammed with vendors hawking watches, tee shirts and toys, trying to avoid tripping on the broken pavement.

Beggars with shriveled limbs extended their bowls in silent entreaty. Blond, ragged-haired tourists in shorts and sandals, slender Thai women in tight jeans and silk blouses, monks draped in saffron, policemen loitering at corners, their revolvers prominently displayed: it seemed that the whole of the Bangkok was here on this one street. Meanwhile, an endless line of vehicles crawled by us: tint-windowed Mercedes, sooty trucks, and rickety buses with people hanging out the doors. The air was heavy with diesel fumes, frying garlic, and jasmine.

We dined at a quiet restaurant on a side lane, where the young waitress giggled every time we spoke to her. Then Charlie took me off to see what he called “the real Bangkok”—the go-go bars and sex clubs.

I can’t say that I was completely enthusiastic. Yes, I admit that I come from the Bible Belt, but it wasn’t that. I’d been to strip clubs in the States a few times. I found them depressing. Drunks acting crude, dancers acting coy, the desperate smell of dirty money and sexual frustration. Everyone looking guilty as they tried to have a good time.

I’ve been with hookers, too. I didn’t enjoy that much either. It relieved my physical needs, but it left me feeling empty, sour and old.

My job makes it hard to have a real relationship, though. I never know where my next project will be, but I can bet that it won’t be in America’s heartland. So I read a lot, and seek my own five-fingered companionship. I didn’t think I needed what Bangkok had to offer.

We sauntered into the “entertainment plaza”. Three stories of indoor bars and clubs surrounded a central court, which was crowded with open-air bars and carts selling skewers of grilled chicken, fresh fruit, and fried locusts. As we walked along the second-level gallery, bikini-clad girls tried to lure us inside their establishments.

“Come inside, please,” they crooned. “One beer eighty baht. No cover charge.” Briefly, the woman would hold back the dark cloth draping the door, offering a tantalizing glimpse of flickering lights and bare flesh. “Take a look. No charge. Come inside.”

The more energetic of these young marketeers would grab us by the hand, and laughing the whole while, try to pull us in. It was all good-natured, though. We’d extricate ourselves from her strong fingers and thank her. “Not now,” we’d say. “Maybe later.”


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