Death and Sex.
Those are the our two prime drives according to Freudians.
At the age of fifty-seven death was closer than sex, although I'm flying west to the East this coming Saturday. My wife will meet me at Bangkok airport with my son Fenway. I'll give him a big kiss and her a hug. Nothing more since my one year-old boy is very jealous. same as his father.
"Do you dream of me?" Mem asked over the phone. Her hand is softer than my cell. Her breath warmer than the plastic. Maybe I should get Nokia to construct a cellphone in her shape.
"Sometimes." It was a lie. She had never appeared to me in a dream, although I wished she would, since she is the only woman I want for the past couple of years.
"Do you dream about other women?" This was a trick question. Mem was a jealous woman. Even about phantoms. "You can tell me."
"No, I don't dream about other women." I didn't tell her about my long session with cyber-women on porno sites. "I only dream about you."
"Ko-Hok." She knew men well enough to hear a lie for what it was. "You make love to naked lady on computer. I know you."
"That not same as dream."
"Not dream. Not not dream too. You butterfly same all men."
I wanted to tell her that I was true, but my computer history would never lie.
I'd been with thousands of women in the past three months. some of them even had names.
"I'm true to you. I haven't touched another woman."
"You touch yourself thinking hand is someone else." Her English had improved in my absence. She wasn't going to school. Someone had to be teaching her. I made no accusations.
"No, only think my hand your hand." And this was true. "I only wish I had films of you, then I not have to look at another lady."
"Never. I not do this." She was a good girl now. I was Doctor Doolittle. She was Eliza. It was MY FAIR LADY in Thai. I told her good-bye and went to my favorite pornosite. www.lolastube.com. I clicked on skinny Asians. None of them looked like Mem. Not even close. It didn't matter, because Mem was right.
I am a butterfly.
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