Perturbing Picturesque Perversions

i believe that photographs are innately perverse, but the one i saw a couple nights ago actually redefined my conception of 'perverse.'

i was walking home from lucky's late one night, and i heard someone shout, "hey! hey, matt!" now i've become conditioned to ignore all pleas for my attention, especially in this, the backpacker's area, because everytime i acknowledge one of these sudden bursts of broken english, i meet someone who wants to sell me something i don't want to buy. but this time i had heard my name called, so i turned and saw a young vietnamese man lit by dull neon lights sitting amongst a group of his friends at an outside cafe. he waved to me, motioning with his hands and facial gestures that he wanted me to sit with them. on my short trip from the middle of the street to the seat he was pulling out for me, i sorted through a catalog of half-remembered faces in my mess of a memory, but was unable to identify who he was and how he knew my name.

"hello."
"hello, you sit and drink with us."
"...how do you know my name?"
"i see you and i say 'hi.' sit and have a drink..."

confused, but thirsty, i sat down on my unfolded plastic throne. i didn't know him, or any of his friends, of which 2 were girls and 2 were guys, but didn't feel the least bit threatened or awkward. the one who had called out to me was definitely gay. the way he spoke, dressed, and particularly the way he shook my hand all informed me of his sexual preference. the other guys seemed straight: one was bigger, heterosexually cordial, and well-dressed; the other was shy, and wore clothes that made me believe he was a xe ohm (motorbike taxi) driver. the girl sitting next to the big guy was kind, friendly, and uninteresting looking. but the girl sitting between the queer and the plain girl caught my attention. she was simply sexy, though she seemed slightly offput by my presence.

i ordered a beer from the waitress standing over my shoulder and then gay canh, who spoke good (but sometimes unclear) english, initiated the standard string of questions: what-ya-name-where-ya-from-how-old-are-you-how-long-you-go-here-how-long-you-stay-here-do-you-like-vietnam-do-you-have-vietmy-girlfriend? when i got to the last question i hesitated and answered 'no,' which visibly excited canh and, in a much subtler manner, piqued the interest of sexy thao.

"why?"
"because i think the vietnamese girls are very beautiful but they only like foreigners for their money."
"i don't believe you... [to the point] who do you like?"
"i like her." [nodding at thao]
"oh yes, she's very beautiful. and she don't care about money. she is very rich, she don't need money, she don't like money."
"saoooo." [everyone laughs because i just called him a "liar," probably the most useful conversational word i've ever learned.]

so after trying to convince them that i was a really good english teacher, worth $20 an hour for private lessons (to which they of course replied "saoooo") i exchanged numbers with thao and obligingly, canh, before they asked me if i'd like to join them at sahara, easily the most disreputable bar in the neighborhood. i said maybe some other time, and stayed to finish my drink. canh said he would meet them there, and moved confessionally to the seat next to mine.

"i am gay. i have a boyfriend. i know you are not gay, but you are very handsome."
"uhhh, thank you... so what's with thao?"
"she has boyfriend, he in china."
"oh."

it's not at all a surprising revelation. many girls here end up meeting some rich transient bastard who can afford to send them money every now and then, just so they have a piece of ass when they're in town. i later found out that she's a retired working girl. again, unsurprising. i check to see how much beer is left in the bottle: just enough for another question or two.

"so where's your boyfriend?"
"he in sydney."
"oh, australian. that's great..."
"yes, he very rich and send me money. he loves me."
"awwww... and you love him?"
"yes, i show you picture..."

as he fumbles around in his pocket, i heard him say that his boyfriend is 17-years-old, in the same way that i had earlier heard him call my name. i can't remember how old canh is, but i know it's something around my age, 22. i think about how something doesn't seem right about it, but before i can prepare myself he pulls out a dangling key chain, and grasping a small, thin, rectangular, clear plastic case between his feline fingernails, shows me the picture of him and his lover.

had it not been for the alcohol that numbed my senses and slowed my reactions i'd have definitely either broke into violent laughter or hysterical vomiting (a picture of which i'd very much like to see). in the picture he carries around with him everywhere he goes a young, gay canh is straddling a resortish lawn chair on a sunny day while his boyfriend sits in his lap... who's actually 70-years-old: bald, pale, wrinkly; definitely not a salacious seventeen-year-old, but a saggy lumpy slump whose massive, shirtless body eclipses the inexplicably elated canh, rolls of fat draped over one another and onto his vietnamese man-bitch.

i have no further recollection of the picture or what i said or how i left (though i know it was something close to 'immediately'), and that's exactly how i'll leave you.