I’m trying to figure out why it’s been so damn hard to write this story , after all, I’ve been at it all day , and this is the umpteenth retake. So around 5pm , out of total frustration, I went outside on the balcony and had a good conversation with my cactus plant as I usually do when things are feeling a bit overwehelming. Sitting there from late afternoon to mid evening with my plant coddled between my knees , watching the day turn to night , I kind of got some clarity on just why it’s always been hard to write about something other than the crazy fun sessions that I do every month.
There’s always been this inherent responsibility to make guys laugh and smile. I’m a recreation, a sort of ‘place’ in your mind that symbolizes fun , excitement, and happiness – kind of like Ronald the clown outside of every McDonalds – you see him and you know you’re stomach’s gonna be happy, right? Ok well, maybe not after your 3rd Big Mac , but initially you were thinking “ah McDonald’s, always makes my stomach happy.” So for you, I’m “ah my Mistress, always makes my **** happy.” 🙂
I get it, I understand men. I’m happy I do understand them so much because it makes it easy doing what I do. I’ve basically had this little utopian world all around me for the past decade where everything I touched turned to gold. Err, well, technically things I’d touch would turn hard first, and then came the gold.
So ya, I’ve hardly writen about the personal side of my life here on my blog , I’ve always wanted it to be a fun thing to read.
I suppose that’s why there haven’t been many posted stories these past four months , there’s been such a derth of sessions that I’ve had a hard time finding fun things to write about. If you compound that with living alone here, and being told to stay in my room by myself for a third of a year , those moments where I’m feeling down can really spiral out of control for an evening.
But the sun comes up the next day , and the next , and the next, and eventually I just got numb to this new life we’re all in. So let’s see if I can toss that numbness aside and keep things lighthearted as I tell you about the month I’ve had so far, it’s been a doozy.
So on or about June 10th I said ‘fuck it’ I’m gonna go have some fantasy fun. I got the idea from a story I read about Korean’s signing up for a ‘make believe’ tour to the airport , where they actually paid money to act out like they were going on vacation … the story said it helped them relieve the stress of suffering through four months of lockdown.
‘Good idea’ I thought, I’m going to go act out like I’m going through with a boob job. Its something that’s been a fantasy of mine for quite some time now, and initially I killed a good two whole days researching reviews to find out which doctor had the best reputation. Do you guys remember Mistress Natty? She was this site’s first ladyboy mistress, a favourite of some of my old time readers.
Natty, when considering where to go for her transgender surgery (ie: guillotine my dick ‘n balls procedure) chose the equivilant of BetelGeuse’s Discounted Ball Removal Shop. It was a grungy place, so grungy that when you went into the place you went down two steps – physically and socially.
I shit you not. I’ll never forget going to visit Natty post surgery, in the basement – and look, we don’t have basement’s on this side of the world ok, so let that sink in how seedy that place was … and there she (he?) was in a tiny square room jammed with as many beds and bodies as it could hold, seeped with the smell of antibiotic oil and four ‘one stick’ fluorescent lights … the kind that are so sickly green you can litereally feel them sucking the will to live out of your soul.
I was not going to go to a place like that. I had Beverly Hills in mind , or Bangkok’s version of 90210 I suppose. So I found an upscale clinic, a very posh one , and 24 hours later I was sitting on the doctor’s bed getting my boobs examined. I wonder, is the feeling of having a doctor examine my boobs the same as you guys having your doctor feel your balls? At least I don’t have to turn my head and cough when he probes my nipples.
I was having fun. Right up until the point he kept coming back to my right breast and was noticeably probing harder, matched with the quite obvious look of concern that had swept across his brow.
“Have you submitted yourself for a chest xtray lately?” he asked.
Straight out I told him that 2 years ago my family doctor had discovered I had a cluster of cyst’s in my chest area that I should at some point get removed.
I don’t know if you guys remember, but at that same time 2 years ago the left lip of my pussy got infected and blew up to the size of a tire , which required barbaric surgery where they didn’t knock me out before cutting my vagina with a knife. My pussy lip cost me 30k , something I’ve never forgiven her for , and I put off the cyst removal procedure to a later date, something I never got around to because the number of sessions and Europe trips were just too frequent.
“I want you to go see this doctor, tell him I sent you” he said as he slipped me a business card and right away the word Ocologist on the card conjured a shot across my nerves that was as sharp as a dagger’s point.
So there I was, role-playing my way through a fun afternoon at the doctor’s office, much the same as a little girl would act out life playing with her doll house , when suddenly life dropped this word cancer on my lap and said ‘here , role play with this.”
And so I did. Because I had two whole days to sit alone in my condo between June 10th and June 12th and contemplate , amongst other things, mortality.
You know how I often crow about how I’ve embraced life living alone, even proudly going by the pseudonym of Lone Wolf ? Well as it turns out, being alone in my condo when one’s mind is running amok is a special kind of hell.
June 12th arrives, a day I’ll always refer to as my very own Kindergarten Cop day …
“It’s not a tumor, it’s a cyst.”
“No miss, it’s a tumor, multiple ones, and on both sides of your breasts.”
At that moment I felt like Noah did when God told him to stop what he was doing and go build an ark. Get the fuck out of here.
When I took an Improv class back in Australia, one of the first things they taught me was a comedy method called “yes, and…” where as soon as somebody gives you a premise, you don’t fight it. Instead you train your mind to instantly accept the news and build upon it by saying to yourself “yes, and…” where upon you submit your own idea and build the premise instead of pouring cold water on it.
There was this older guy in my class , his name was Charlie, which has forever stuck in my brain as I always saw him in my mind as the character Charlie from the book Flowers From Algernon. Except in the book that Charlie is 32 years old, while the Charlie in my class who always sat directly in front of me and one chair to the right was more like 52.
Anyways, Charlie, a lawyer in real life, thoroughly sucked at the game ‘yes, and’ , like he would fail so spectacularly at ‘yes, and’ that it became a laughing point for the rest of the group. At one point, when it was my turn to stand up and present a premise in front of the group, I simply reached up and acted out the process of screwing in a lightbulb on an imaginary ceiling above me.
The next person in line (we were lined up to take the person’s premise and add on to it with a ‘yes, and’ action of our own) , the guy’s name was Mike, and he was an ‘outside the box’ thinker if I ever saw one, walked up to me, … examined my hand motion of screwing in a light bulb , and opened an imaginary oven door … for me to put the pizza … not a lightbulb … inside to cook. So I did, and said in my worst possible Italian accent : “ats a gonna be a nicea pizza whena she’s a cooked”
Charlie was next.
“No, no , no , no , no , no” he said, “what the fuck are you doing?” “That’s not a pizza, she’s obviously screwing in a lightbulb” and he even pointed to the imaginary space above my head where I was indeed screwing in the lightbulb.
“But Mike turned the premise into a pizza, so it’s a pizza now” said our teacher Rebecca.
“It’s a fucking lightbulb , ask her, ask her , she’ll tell you, it was a fucking light bulb , right? right?” he said looking furiously at me to agree with him.
“Actually” I said, while pausing, “I think maybe it was a pizza after all, who knew?” and I shrugged my shoulders.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Fuck you all. You’re all fucking screwey” he said, and he stormed out of the class. That was the last time I ever saw Charlie.
“thirty” I replied to the doctor.
“Pardon me, again? she replied.
“I want to see 30 countries. I’m so close. I’ve seen 28. I’m a girl born and raised in a Thai ghetto , and I’ve somehow managed to have seen 28 fucking countries in my life. I want to see 30.”
The doctor … a she … paused to inhale my comment , then continued with “well, let’s see what happens with …”
“30!” I said, interrupting her. I was having a Charlie moment. With my training , lol all 6 months of it, I should have built upon my Dr.’s tumor premise and played ‘yes, and’ by building upon it and going down she wanted us to go down.
So I’m telling you this because to me it was a really important moment in my life, and I got to see how my brain reacted to fucking awful news. I rejected the premise. Wholly.
“I get to see 30 countries” was my “it’s a fucking lightbulb” moment. And I too , stupidly I might add, stormed out of her office much the same way Charlie stormed out of our classroom oh so many years ago.
June 13th. I had the first tumor removed. It was the size of a hail stone. Did I ever tell you my most magnifiscent moment of 2019? I was walking down a quaint quiet street in Rome where the temperature was cool but by no means cold , and then suddenly it began to hail. I’d only seen it in movies or on television, you see … we don’t get a lot of hail in Bangkok, especially when its 45C in the shade. I remember feeling so very lucky, blessed even, that I got to see hail. So much so that I danced in that narrow little cobblestone street while these rocks of ice were bouncing off my head. Would if I could … had I died from an ice rock hitting my head right there and then … I would have died so happily.
That was the first procedure. There’s many more to be removed , and that’s just from one side, the side they call premalignant. The other side, that’s the side the boob job doctor was so intently examining a couple weeks back , gosh that feels like several years ago now. Ima going to call that side the “get these hail stones out of me NOW side. Because if I don’t , well, I’m not going to be seeing my 30th country, let alone my 29th.
See there’s a problem with getting them out though , I always knew in the back of my mind that I come from a ‘pay to live’ healthcare system , where only the wealthy can afford to live when the shit hits the fan. Each procedure is about 30k , which in normal times – I’m talking the past decade – would be just fine.
These aren’t normal times though, are they?
Except for that session I wrote about a couple weeks ago, it’s been four straight months of lockdown. And I have multiple hail stones that can’t wait for Covid to be finished with before being removed. Time, as they say, is an issue.
Which brings me to my birthday, June 22nd, this past Monday.
Gonna be honest with you , me, a hard ass Mistress, did nothing but cry from the 13th to my birthday, every day, until I cried myself to sleep. Not quite the image I’ve been presenting these past few years eh?
Monday morning , I woke up to my phone’s LED light flashing, so at about 7am I rolled over to pick my phone up from the night stand and flicked down to see what messages the little green light was so intent on letting me know about.
There were so many messages on the notification menu that I had to scroll down with my finger just to see how many.
I didn’t even have to open my mail because I could see the first words over and over again … Happy Birthday.
May I tell you, that was the first time all month I smiled.
So when I mentioned today on Twitter that I had to attend to some email before I could write this story , that’s what I was replying to. Each and every person who sent me an email, I wrote to you in lengthy replies to let you know just how much a simple email made me smile when I needed it most.
Now, the next step.
Might be that I have to move from here.
And damm, I just paid deposit first and last month’s rent in April, remember? I moved to a lower floor after complaining many times that I wasn’t happy with the excessive furniture cluttering up the condo on the 20th floor. I’m gonna lose that last month deposit if I move, all 40k of it. Ironic because that would pay for at least one more cluster removal. Sigh.
Home is where you hang your hat right? This has been home for oh so long, its just soul shattering to think about leaving here at a time where I really need a familiar place to ‘hang my hat’ so to speak.
So what to do, what to do.
I had hopes July would be a return to normalcy, but I saw the guidelines for the next phase of “re-opening” and ya well, you guys won’t be coming here in July. Maybe August , but not unless you’re ok with subjecting yourself to some unreal restrictions. September then? October?
Will I even be around to see October? Gosh.
Pre-sell sessions maybe?
I’m trying to relay my ‘inner-Mike’ , the pizza oven outside the box thinking guy from improv.
I’m gonna look into a GoFundMe page, but I’m Thai and we’re not counted as being human to them, so I’m in talks with setting it up through one of you guys over on the proper side of the world.
PayPal’s not an option as they’ve shut down me, Wael, and even her physically challenged sister’s account.
Also, I guess I should start taking steps to get Mistress Wael ready to take things over in case I’m not around to see 2021. Sigh again.
See? This is exactly why I had trouble writing this story all day. I’m a fun loving girl, I need to write about things so they make you laugh and smile. Spitballing ideas off the top of my head of how to get through this doesn’t make for the greatest of reading does it?
I want to see England.
I want to go back and continue learning German so I can order cheese from that lovely Markthale Neun market in Berlin.
How on earth did I miss visiting Pamukkale when I first visited Turkey!!! Not only do I need to get back there and see that wonder with my own eyes, I need to see as many natural wonders of the world as I can.
But if I don’t. If indeed this is the beginning of the end, I have no regrets.
I’m a Thai girl born and raised in poverty in a ghetto , one who’s gazed over Fjord’s in Norway, looked out upon Paris from atop the Eiffel Tower , has climbed not one but two active volcanos, and had fish swim along beside me in the turquoise waters of Halong Bay.
I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.
But it’s not time to die, it’s time to fight. And hey, if I come through this ok, I have the ultimate choice before me don’t I?
Either go with Mad Max type battle scared boobs, or get the boob job in the place where this ‘fantasy’ all started. I see myself as a Mad-Max kind of girl , no? Ah, we’ll see.
Suu-suu. I do not go gentle …
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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