Roadkill in Koh Phangan

Blood runs down her knees. She’s sitting in front of me, her beautiful long legs stretched out, not a single hair in sight. Both knees are covered in fresh, wide, open wounds.

I drizzle the disinfectant I bought only minutes ago over them. With a cotton pad, I do my best to wipe away the sand, clean everything, hold her hand, and talk softly to her. Every time I touch her flesh, I see her magnificent face frown.

The tears from earlier have smudged her makeup. Unintentional smoky eyes, but even under these circumstances, she’s undeniably gorgeous.

A difficult first date - though it already was before the accident.

Secret Mountain

The first time I laid eyes on her was in a small club with a view over the whole island. Her looks hit me instantly: pure eye candy. I just had to say hi, but following the pleasant first impression, the reality of how painful it was to talk to her caught up with me. Short, dry answers. Distant, with a dead-eyed stare like no one’s home. The only thing that prevented me from straight-up walking away was her looks.

For a few minutes, I did my best to keep the interaction afloat. However, in short intervals, random guys appeared, handed her drinks, or kissed her on the cheek, never even acknowledging me. This didn’t feel friendly, but rather transactional, as each of them leaves quickly.

Whether the feeling within me was confusion or disgust, I can't say with certainty, but as soon as I got the chance, I excused myself to look for my friend.

Unfortunately, the seed was planted, and her beauty stuck with me. Every chance I got, I sneaked a glance at her, be it at the dancefloor, the bar, or while talking to one of the other guys. A few years ago, just approaching such a woman would have made me shit myself.

Now I’m here, older, a few drinks deep, and with nothing to lose, as I’m on vacation. Why should I care? The short but difficult interaction already carved a clear picture in my mind. Not one of romantic ever-lasting soulmates, but of physical exhaustion lying on top of each other like perfectly sculpted Greek gods. With each passing hour, that fantasy grew stronger, till at the end of the night I straight up asked her if she wanted to come to my apartment. My friend is with his girl, we’ll get some drinks, put on music… see what happens. The usual sales pitch. It’s a “no”, but surprisingly not an immediate one. This was not the right moment. As I would learn later, I had yet to prove myself.

For now, it was time to leave the club. Time for a very last look into her striking green, slightly distant, but undeniably captivating eyes, whispering, “until we meet again”.

Living Rooms

The next day I show my friend her pictures. He’s as baffled as I was initially, and somehow that makes the achievement of getting her contact even better.

Stylish, sporty, with that slight spiritual edge. No questions, she knows she’s pretty and is aware of the effect she has on men. Her Instagram is polished to perfection. Every picture looks like it’s taken in a new country or villa.

“Damn, how many different living rooms can one person take pictures in?” my friend blurts out.

And yet here I am, typing the first message. Her replies are as if she’s filling out her diary. I’m just some anonymous reader. Half the time, she completely ignores what I say. But after the fifth time asking, she finally agrees to grab a coffee. And just like that, the fifteen-year-old little insecure dickhead inside me, the one who had no idea how to move past his fear, is about to meet a girl who could have been on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

It’s been over ten years, and in moments like this, I realize how much has changed. Maybe all the rejections, all the pathetic nights, the shame, the regret were worth anything? I try not to make too much out of it as my mind keeps going back to the fact that I’m leaving soon. That there’s no future in this, no storyline. Best case, we make out a bit, text for a week, and then lose sight of each other. The doubt is maybe softer than in my teenage years, but it’s never gone.

At the Cafe

Nothing has changed compared to our first encounter. Within a few minutes, I’m fully briefed on her whole life, and we are ready to dive straight into the latest drama. It’s insane how quickly she admits to things I wouldn’t confess even if my life depended on it.

On Instagram, it’s the perfect world. Curated and polished. But behind the curtain, the money is tight, the dependence on other people is suffocating, and every relationship sounds paper-thin. Yet, she’s completely blind to all of it. Talks about looking for “meaningful connection” while drowning in the most toxic mess imaginable.

I sip my coffee and let her carry the conversation for both of us. Her eyes soak up all my attention. Their light color is even more enhanced in broad daylight. Somewhere between blue and green, reminiscent of the peaceful bays, the ones I’d like to visit with her. I imagine us lying there, the sun is burning us alive, our skin gets darker by the second, coated in sweat, I can smell the sunscreen evaporating, leaving nothing behind except for this white, salty scent.

I take delight in her flawless skin, only minimal, tasteful hints of makeup - a natural beauty who knows exactly how to stretch her youth with a few well-placed tricks. I’m just happy to sit here. Shower in the affirmation that apparently I’m having a real chance with her.

At the right moment, at the end of a sentence, I slide in, voicing my fantasy which I was lusting over for the past hour, and suggest we go for a swim. She agrees, and somehow, I’m one step further.

The Fall

Our scooters are parked across the cafe. Mine, a rundown Honda that I’ve rented for 50 bucks a week and am happy if it starts on the first try. Hers, more classy. Looks like a green Vespa, but most likely is a Chinese knockoff. She’s not wearing a helmet, which gives me a second of pause, but the beach is close.

The scooters are the main way to get around the island. Cars are unreliable, can’t get through everywhere, or get stuck in traffic. For me, who’s never cared about them, it also takes away the status. Making life on the island even more pleasurable. No one wears big logos or expensive watches. Doesn’t mean that it's nonexistent. The last telltale is someone's home. Apartment or villa? Luxury amenities or basic furnishing? My date probably being the expert on that topic.

Outside, with multiple walls between the dancefloor and play areas, away from the action, I was looking for a smoke when I got drawn into a conversation with her. The moment I put my arm around her warm skin, everything changed. Still sitting outside on that cold January night, we weren’t two strangers anymore, but there as a unit.

Once we entered through the doors—lulled in by the fast rhythmic beats, the dissociative strobe lights, the naked dancers around us—she handed me the leash to the choker that was tightly around her neck, and I knew. She was all mine!

It’s interesting to relive it through her experience. Her sentiments of security and excitement for the unknown, combined with the escape from reality our relationship was, bring back nostalgia within me. But the further I progress in the letter, the more I begin to understand the different directions our feelings were headed. Her explanations about how invested she became in our conversations, our texts, and most of all, our dates. She desperately wanted to make an impression and make more out of us than just being a liaison.

We get onto our scooters and slowly start driving. On the first corner, she gets a slight lead on me. It's a narrow alley, and I’m not eager to drive quickly here. I keep my distance, watch her hair move in the wind in front of me. All of a sudden, she hits a speed bump. Barely visible, dusted over with sand. Her front wheel skids. For half a second, it looks like she might save it. But she doesn’t. The scooter goes sideways and takes her with it.

Like in a movie, I see everything happening in slow motion. For a split second, her full body is in the air. She stretches her hands out - a mistake. She lands straight onto the pavement. The sound is wrong. A dull, wet slap, underlined by the sand crackles. For a moment, she stops moving. The scooter still buzzing next to her. The shock paralyzes me, but I overcome it just in time to hit the brakes. Only centimeters away from her, I’m able to stop. She lies right in front of my wheel, but is already moving again. Twitching as if she was electrocuted, or just experienced an intense orgasm.

Half an hour later, my mind is still spinning as I keep cleaning her wounds. Some of them look deep. At this point, I’m sure that I did everything in my power. Immediately after her fall, I helped her up, calmed her down, and put her away from the road to rush to the nearest pharmacy. With hands and feet, I explained to the clerk that my date just had an accident, and bought everything from the shelves that seemed even remotely useful. But now I’m at the end of my limited capabilities. I tell her I can take her to the hospital, and after some back and forth, we ride off.

The hospital turns out to be a dead end. She’s not insured and doesn’t have the money to pay a few hundred dollars out of pocket. She tries to explain to me that it’s really not that bad and that it's just not worth the money to her, but I can clearly hear the devastation in her voice. As we walk out, I say, half-joking: “Looks like our only option is to drink the pain away and watch the sunset.”

Sunset

At an abandoned beach club, we’re silently sipping our drinks. The sky is colored in a deep orange mixed with dark red and purple tones.

There are not many words left between us. I accept it for what it’s worth. Wounded, vulnerable, cared for, and yet I heard almost nothing in the way of gratitude. I haven’t done any of this because I needed a “thank you”. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't wonder whether she would have even stopped if it had been me face-down on the pavement…

I look at her, quietly staring into the sunset, and I can't figure out which version of her is real. The polished one from Instagram, with all the villas and foreign living rooms. Is it the luxury lifestyle that she desires? Drained, dead-eyed, one-word answers, until she realizes one can provide for her material desire. Or this one? Quiet and cracked open, mascara long gone. But at the same time, vulnerable and mentally present, sharing her honest thoughts, without expecting anything in return, except maybe someone next to her who listens. I don't know, struggling to tell what’s real and what’s a performance. I'm not sure she knows either.

I want to put my arm around her, tell her it's going to be fine. I try not to hesitate, but at the same time I know that I am leaving tomorrow. She, on the other hand, has no idea. I kept my mouth shut about it on purpose. If I'd told her upfront, there would have been no coffee, no swim, no sunset, no scraped knees, none of this. The idea that honesty gets rewarded died in me a long time ago, somewhere in the long, ugly education of becoming a grown-up.

I sip my drink and watch the last rays of sunlight disappear, and for a moment, it's almost beautiful enough to pretend none of what happened before matters.

After Dark

I get over myself, put my arm around, and gently caress her. She looks at me softly. Our lips touch with little pressure. We move slowly. My tongue glides on her upper lip, and I feel her pushing hers into my mouth.

Feeling her like that puts a smile on my face, and equally, I get one back. My hands move across her breast onto her neck. While I am eager to touch her, I can only do so with caution. All over her side, she has rashes. Her skin scratched. Showing a pink tone. Her knees are a no-go zone. Slowly, the wounds are bleeding through the white bandage.

Am I abusing this vulnerable situation? Might it be she feels pressured just to kiss me back because I’ve helped her? But I can’t stop. I want her. Even with band-aids, with wounds, with a more than challenging character. Her beauty makes me blind. And wouldn’t she say by herself if I’m crossing any boundaries? If there is one trait I think is absent from her character is holding back. At least that's what I am telling myself.

My hand between her legs, making good use of the fact that it’s just us two here at the beach. No need to behave. And she seems to feel the same way. Light moans come out of her mouth when I kiss her neck. An invitation to slide her slip to the side and hover over her lips. She lets me tease her for a few seconds before rapidly pulling away. She looks at me with an expression I haven’t seen on her face before. Slightly shy, gaze lowered, her face tinted in a slight red blush. And then she says what I’d never expected going into that date. “Not here, not now… but I live close by. We can go to my place.”

Her being the one proposing to go one step further… I’m stuck on words. I’ve dated gorgeous girls. The ones where people turn around when they enter the restaurant. Brunettes, blondes, tall, short, eccentric, shy, you name it. And yet, that hesitation, the uncertainty dating back to my teenage years, being invisible to girls, never fully left. It’s the underlying drive to keep going, to never give up, even if there is no connection. Hoping that someday I can look at a person and see who they truly are. Past the looks. Past the shallowness.

Coming Home

We arrive and park the scooters in front of her small house. All of a sudden, a third person pulls up. An older man, dressed head to toe in hippie drag. He gets off his small motorbike and greets us. My first instinct: neighbor.

"Quick, give me some cash!" I hear from my girl.

Caught off guard, I hand her my wallet. A short exchange takes place, and the old man is back on the road. Quick arrival, quick departure. Within the blink of an eye I can't even remember his face anymore, but I recognize the small baggies in her hand, before they quickly disappear into her pocket.

As if nothing had happened, we walk up the stairs before she turns to me:

"Give me five minutes to clean up. I'm never here. It's a mess… Please wait outside!"

I sit down on the terrace. In my pocket I find half a joint and light it up. We're in the middle of nowhere. Around us, a cluster of small houses, all of the same size, most of them dark. The only sound comes from leaves cracking in the wind. I exhale. Where is she usually, if not here? In one of those other living rooms? I'm neither nervous nor excited. What should feel like something warm and romantic right now only strikes me as a technical achievement. Not even an honest one.

After a while, she lets me in. We sit down on a black leather couch, a blanket thrown over it so our skin doesn't stick in the humidity. The room is lit only by a small LED lamp. Everything is tinted in pink. On the table in front of us, a plate and the baggies. I watch her empty one out. The ketamine crystals catch the red light as they hit the plate. A rolled bill on top. Quick passes with a credit card. What's left is a fine white powder.

I look around. The room is barely furnished, the kind of place that doesn't pretend to be permanent. We put on some light house music and, fueled by the drug, start to dissolve into each other. I slide down. Kiss her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, her thighs. I work my way down, settle between her legs, but just as I'm about to get to work… she stands up and excuses herself to the bathroom.

While she's gone, the bitter drip hits the back of my throat. I get up, grab my drink, and walk over to the window. My legs are shaky. Then it hits me. All at once. I didn't want this. I didn't want to do drugs in a country that puts people to death for possession. My head is dizzy, and I feel ashamed that I wasn’t strong enough to resist. I'm here with this gorgeous woman, and the two drinks from the beach were already more than enough. What's the point of numbing myself before getting intimate?

I feel the fear rising within me. After regret follows paranoia. What if this is a setup? After all we’re in a country that puts death penalties on the things we are doing right now. Some elaborate little trap to squeeze money out of me? I stare out the window into the dark, half-expecting blue and red lights to come cutting through the trees at any second.

Then I hear movement behind me. I turn around, and there she is, with nothing on but a thin string. A tight, stunning body, absolutely worth losing your mind over. Flat stomach, the faintest outline of muscle underneath. I take a moment. My eyes move up and down, reveling in everything she has to offer. Her Perky tits immediately wipe out all my doubts. I’m here just for her!

Goodnight

The ket takes away the pain from the accident, but the damage is still very real. Every move needs to be done with care. Her body feels incredible, but true passion never sparks. Be it because of the wounds, or our numbed mental state.

As soon as we finish, the plate gets brought up again. Now I can feel it properly. It pulls me under like a warm wave, and right now, I hate every second of it. I don't want to be dreaming. I want to be present. I want to feel this woman. And yet I’m unable to resist the artificial pleasure, even though I have a much more appealing alternative right in front of me.

My own sensation is mostly gone, blunted down to almost nothing. Having fucked feels neither like an achievement nor a release. I look at her. Beautiful as ever, but somewhere else entirely. She rolls slowly onto her back.

The wounds on her knees have opened again. Blood pushing through the bandages. Now dark at the edges, threatening to drip. She lifts her knee, touches it, studies her own fingers for a moment, then slowly wipes them off on her pelvis. A thin red smear. She looks at me with big, sad eyes. Helpless.

I don't know what to do with that look. So I do the only thing that seems to fit the connection that we've built between us. I reach for the plate again. She takes the rolled bill and goes for the larger one, before handing it over to me. Her red fingerprints are all over it. I take what's left, while she lies flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.

No closeness. The intimacy is gone, and neither of us is going to look for it. I lie angled beside her, positioned just right to watch the blood find its way through the bandage and into the mattress. When I run a finger up her leg it moves like it's been oiled. Red liquid on her soft skin. No resistance. I lift my finger and lick it. Iron and salt. I close my eyes for a second.

When I open them, the rashes along her side have deepened. Slowly, over the course of a minute, parts of the damaged skin begin to break open and bleed. Blood starts tracking down. First her right side, then the elbows, then the left. The impression of half her body being dipped in red paint. Her neck, her breasts, her stomach still unaffected and almost pale against the dark color.

It's beautiful in its own way, and I forget all the bad implications surrounding this day. I get up to stand at the foot of the bed. She lies there. As if she's floating on a red lake, only the high points of her body breaking the surface. Her stomach rises and falls in slow intervals. I walk to the side and, one last time, drag my two fingers from her leg all the way up to her head. A single smooth motion. I stroke her hair behind her ear, leaving a red mark along her cheek. Reminiscent of antique war paint. A fallen soldier.

Her eyes stay closed. Her breathing slows. I stand there. But the longer I stay, the stronger the fear crawls back. A fear of being caught here, mixed with the guilt of leaving the next day. Leaving her all to herself.

Every human sound from outside that I hear causes me to flinch. And even though I’d wish… I’d want… to stay. I know I have to leave. Not knowing if I was just another potential client whose date went rogue, or if I walked past something genuine without recognizing it in time.

Purely a fictional Story!

More projects

MULTISEX - A NEW CHAPTER

Lazy Sunday Morning

When the Rain Stops