The Party Organizer

Bangkok, 2012

Recently I had the opportunity to share breakfast with one of the most desirable men in Bangkok.  As a gay man, there are two ways to have one’s popularity more or less guaranteed.  One is to have a large penis.  The other is to possess the means and willingness to pay for drugs – not only for oneself, but also for one’s friends. One’s no doubt numerous friends.  This gentleman was one of those enviable few who possess both advantages. 

I assure you I did nothing to merit this grace.  The French musclemen seated nearby shot me jealous looks. 

I do not doubt this stellar gentleman received no fewer than a hundred messages on grindr and gayromeo, on gaydar and recon, while we sat together savoring our coffee and carrot banana muffins.

Our conversation, unfortunately, will not be of interest to anyone.  First, because it is one of the very most common conversations.  Second, because it regards topics that all decent people have agreed to pretend do not exist.

Nowadays, being gay is about getting a gay marriage – and outfitting a home in style.  Straight people have recently decided we are acceptable.  We wouldn’t want them to change their minds now.  Tiptoes everyone!  Assimilate and consume, that is the theme.  The goal is to be tasteful at great expense.

We’ve left our messy and embarrassing past behind us.  Can you remember?  We were homosexuals then.  All that is finished.

Promiscuity is passé, as the editor of a gay spirituality magazine announced to me.  So, too, presumably, are blue jeans, which everyone is wearing -- and shoving down to their ankles at damn near every opportunity.

Drugs, as everyone knows, are BAD, which is why they have been universally abandoned, like white sugar, beef, cigarettes, and television.

Therefore, anything I write is guaranteed to be both uninteresting and unacceptable.  However, just as birds need nests and party boys require tabs of ecstasy – I have a compulsion to write essays.  I have a quota, understand.  Therefore, I will relate our conversation even though it will not be interesting and later everyone will be compelled to pretend they heard and know nothing.

My interlocutor, as you can imagine, was of the cream of Thai society, one of the very best families.  (Oh, to inherit both money AND large genitals – surely this man’s deeds in his past life were extraordinary.  I would rush into a burning building tonight if I were guaranteed to emerge thus outfitted and equipped!)

The face of this gentleman – one of the most desirable in Bangkok – was lightly pockmarked.  His hair was thinning.  He was 45 at least.  Still, he no doubt took some consolation in knowing that the entire city was willing to do damn near anything to get into his pants.  And his medicine cabinet.

The gentleman’s conversation, with exquisite tact and courtesy, was hovering around the fact that I was nowhere near good enough for him.  This was blessedly unnecessary.  I no more expected to be his consort than Justin Bieber’s.  Nonetheless, I did not wish to interrupt his train of thought.  I was glad just to be near him.

He was explaining that he was not available, not at any time in the future and, above all, not this coming weekend.  He was in charge of a party.  “I am the party organizer,” he said.  “Everyone says I am the best.”  He was an acknowledged authority on the best way to have a party.  He was the expert. 

The first thing to consider was the number of guests.  The number must never be even – because then guys just couple off and head to the corners to fuck.  Mixing requires an odd number.  Three is the minimum number – but, how boring is that?  Nine, it is well-known, is too many.  People steal, he explained.  Even people you think would never steal.

Thus, there would be seven people at his party.  Four Thai and three farang.  If he had his way, he admitted, there would be more farang – but his friend preferred Thais and the party was at his house.  He had his own pool.

It would be a magnificent party and he would arrange everything because he was the expert.  The trouble was it was very expensive.  (There was no question but that he would pay for everything.  And that whatever outlay was required was perfectly insignificant to him.  Still, he wished for me to know the details of his munificence.)

He knew everyone already, of course.  He would select, from his hundreds of acquaintances, the very best.  The men, however, did not know each other.  Therefore an icebreaker was required.  Half a tab of ecstasy would do the trick.  But E was appallingly expensive now.  At least a thousand baht a tab.  So, imagine, he’d already spent 4000 baht and the party had just started.

Then there was the main event – the ice.  He’d need two bags.  Actually he’d buy a third and keep it in his car.  In case the party went on long.  Which is the tendency with meth, after all – to go on and on and on.

To come down from the meth, they’d need GHB, at least 200ml, which would mean having enough for this party and the next few special occasions.

GHB, he said, was one of his very favorite drugs.  It was perhaps his personal favorite.  Indeed, I could hear the fondness in his voice, as though he spoke of a beloved grandparent.  The trouble with GHB, he said, was that you had to be a little bit careful, because you could very easily kill yourself.

The first time he did GHB he was getting fucked by two studs in his personal sling.  (He had it imported specially, he said.  It cost a fortune!)  He had a little and oh it was heaven, but then one of the tops poured a little more directly into his mouth.  He didn’t measure or anything, he just said, That looks like enough.

For a few minutes it was wonderful, but then it was like a tornado inside me!  He locked himself into the bathroom and puked and shit, both ends going nonstop.  Because of his medical training (excuse me for not mentioning this before) he knew he could easily die if he lost consciousness and so he kept his eyes pried open with his fingers.

It was one of the worst things that every happened in his life, he said, but, since he didn’t die, he has to say it was great. 

That’s why, when he organizes a party, he always decorates with syringes and makes sure everyone measures.  Not for nothing is he one of the best _____ in Thailand.  As well as the person most to be desired, if you are organizing a party.

At this point the gentleman paused and smiled at me above his coffee.  He waited.  I knew what was expected of me and I obeyed.

“So – these parties of yours?  How does a guy get chosen?  Is there an application process?  Can I interview?  Letters of recommendation?  Admission fees?”

He looked at me pityingly, and with real pleasure. 

I did not qualify.  Of course not. 

These men, I must understand – were exemplary.  They were wealthy and well brought up, they were hung and uncircumcised, fully versatile, charming, downright beautiful.

Taking out his iphone, he showed me their pictures.  He did not exaggerate.  Everyone of them was gorgeous, as well as rich and respectable-looking.  The sort of gay man that gay men want to marry.  And straight people find charming and tasteful.  The absolute right kind of gay.

Breakfast was over.  He had to be going.  He had so many errands to run, so many appointments, so many friends and lovers.  Life can be very busy, especially if you are one of the most desirable men in Bangkok, and have a party to organize.

Meanwhile, I had nothing.  No anxious lovers, no parties to attend, no occupation other than to write about the very most common things, which everyone has agreed to pretend do not exist.

I worried that I might always be one of those negligible persons, who pass beneath notice, awash in the hope that we might be among those permitted to live out, unnoticed and un-chosen, our unimportant lives.  That hope our only luck, our only solace.  That sweet relief.