Phnom Penh Redux- by ganesh

[Central Scrutinizer]

All,

 

Another by the late great ganesh. Enjoy.

 

Cent

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Phnom Penh Redux

 

 

Thursday, May 10, 2001 11:49 AM

 

 

 

Blow, ye winds. Pound down around the town, you cool

waters. Rickshaw men pedal on through the deluge,

upright, stoic. I wait patiently so I can get my

Monday cherry popped. Oh, yes, indeed, yes. Lovely,

the thunder storm horizon-wide rolls up the Mekong

from the south. The playground, the battlefield.

 

I hop on the Rat Beam and ride the five blocks up to

63rd. I?m wearing ?Nam anorak, gift from Luong?s papa,

Lieutenant trung uy Phuoc, one of the finest zips who

ever ate fermented fish sauce.

 

Thien is standing in the doorway. She sees me and

hollers,

--Yo! Cor-bo! Du ma !

 

And I laugh like hell, because she?s laughing too and

has just called me a motherfucker. Thien kisses me

hard and pushes me down on the couch in the dim

parlor. Her friend Mai joins us. The friend is a fine

laughing strumpet as well. Kinky-haired, vaguely

Indonesian-looking. We retire to the short-time room

withal.

 

Oh, yes, mon. The way the ?Nammies go

eyeball-to-eyeball in sex play, Shakti, lila holy

frolic, fey and intense, cinematic: silent film with

moans and chirps over-dubbed, Isis-eye, Horus-paradigm

, sharky regard. The faces are saucy, sporty, ironic,

verging into cruel and mad.

 

( I have courage and my guardian spirits are looking

out for me. )

 

The two naked lovelies bind their hair and we all

squat like a troupe of Asians in the water closet,

tossing dippersful of water on each other and making

ribald comments, without shyness and poised, all beige

and warm in a cylinder of afternoon light in that

point-instant, a vision of simple elegance, they

hand-wash my sex with gentle expertise, cold water

from the huge jar with dragons painted on red clay.

 

Thien I?ve known since ?96 when she worked at the

poor sad whorehouse near Sakura Massage, and during

our last belly-bump the lights went out, happens every

damned day, and a voyeur Cambodian geek shined a

peeping-Tom flashlight on our trans-racial love. She

even remembers that I like to be blown slowly by one

while the other one, the prettiest one, gazes down on

me, a vision of oriental angel desire. The same oral

vivacity, the same perfect oval face, eerie smile,

fingers making delicate circles in the forest of my

chest hair.

 

The playground, the killing field. I make them lie

side-by-side and poke one, then the other. They think

this is cool and giggle, whispering in Vietnamese to

each other until I snort and arch. Mai gets the brass

ring, the hot sticky surprise.

 

Me, I?m more or less normal, I like to get my dingus

gobbled by a pair of raven-tressed trollops who survey

and savor the effects of their dual mouth-massage,

rolling those deep almond eyes up to my marveling

visage.

 

And the libertine layabout has cum again. I?m shocked

and humbled. I totter down the stairs, fly unzipped,

shirt flapping. I rush out into 63 and buy garlands of

jasmine for my sacred temple harlots. They are

scandalized that I haven?t performed the

washing-up-after-fucking ceremony, and push me

adamantly into the water room again where they fuss

over the ablutions. Our fluids mix and drain.

 

 

ganesh

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[MrX]

Hi Cent,

I have seen this piece before. Do you know where by any chance?

 

Widening things a bit; dont you think it strange that so little great writing has come out of the white man's encounter with Asia? (actually can include black people too..just falang really).......maybe the impact is too great....the heat too soporific...the pleasures too immediate...after all much writing thrives on middle-European angst.....