Handsome, sunny, blue-eyed, and handful fourteen-year-old Ron was an adventuresome, inventive, strong-minded boy. In short, he was a smartass.
He’d been raised by maids and chauffeurs. He was homeschooled and was spending a year overseas, in Singapore, with his Uncle Lyle, the regional manager of an American import firm, to broaden his experience. This was also a “rediscovering your roots” trip for Ron, as he had been born in Singapore when his father, now the CEO of the import firm Ron’s uncle worked for, was the regional manager there. The truth, though, was that he was living on the other side of the world from home for a year not so much to make him more brilliant--which, in some ways, he already was and which was the crux of his unruliness problem--but because his parents didn’t know what to do with him. Better out of sight and mind than under foot and always getting into trouble at home, they thought, in this attempt to rein him in.
For the most part, Ron had always pretty much gotten away with his adventuresome and unruly ways because he looked so angelic. His unruly ways were matched by a halo of golden-highlighted auburn curly hair and the facial features and lithe, pleasantly muscled, perfectly formed body of a young Greek god. And his smile was electrifying. He was always forgiven his foibles at least once by anyone on the basis of his beaming, innocent, “who me?” smile alone. H managed to get away with a lot before anyone realized that he was the troublemaker.
Ron hadn’t been in Singapore more than a week when most everything, including Lyle’s office, was closed for a national holiday. Lyle had said he’d give Ron an introduction tour of the center of the city as soon as he had a chance. This was the chance he couldn’t avoid. He’d already given Ron free rein to explore and was unaware of all the places the lad had gone and the activities he had been engaged in that would make the hair of most every parent of a fourteen-year-old precocious boy curl and curdle.
“This will be a cultural tour,” Lyle said, so they headed down to the Merlion statue in the waterside park at the original landing pier of the island nation. This was to be followed by a visit to the national museum to study the country’s rich and rocky history.
But Ron’s mind wandered at the history introduction Lyle was droning out in front of the Singapore Merlion statue, and his eyes refocused on the grand porte-cochere entrance to the Raffles hotel across the lawns of the waterside park. The wheels of his mind went into overdrive. He’d read somewhere that the alcoholic drink called a Singapore Sling had been invented at the Long Bar in the Raffles hotel.
“What’s that over there, Uncle Lyle?”
“That’s the Raffles Hotel,” Lyle answered. “A lot of history has been played out there.”
“Like what?” Ron asked, his face the model of innocence. “What’s the hotel most famous for?”
“Well, for a drink it dispenses at its Long Bar, I guess,” Lyle responded with an indulgent smile. “It’s called a Singapore Sling. You can get it at bars across the world now.” Truth be told Lyle could use a strong drink about now. It hadn’t been his idea for the boy to be dumped on him for a year, and that was before he learned how much a handful the boy would be.
“Let’s go in. I’d like to see what a Singapore Sling looks like.”
“You’re only fourteen. You’re not old enough to drink one.”
“Well, you could drink mine after you drink yours,” Ron said, with a beatific smile on his face.
“Now that’s a plan,” Lyle said, having no intention of carrying out such a plan.
After his third Singapore Sling, Lyle didn’t even notice Ron slipping out of the booth in the bar and heading for the hotel’s main entrance.
Ron really was curious what a Singapore Sling tasted like, so he walked around until he found a bar on a side street that was enough of a dive that it didn’t care how old its patrons were. Ron hadn’t noticed either that this was a gay bar, and being gay curious himself, he wouldn’t have cared anyway. And, yes, sure, of course they knew how to make a Singapore Sling.
Ron had slung his third Singapore signature drink and was slurring his words and finding it a bit hard to hold his feet on the rungs of the bar stool, when the half-English, half-Singapore Chinese, well-dressed, clean-cut, young lawyer type patron at the other end of the bar quietly moved down the length of the bar and took a position next to Ron. They struck up a conversation, with the Singaporean showing great interest in who Ron was and why he was there--and, eventually, what he really was looking for.
“Do you realize what sort of bar this is?” the man asked, punctuating the question by putting a hand on Ron’s knee.
“Sure, of course,” Ron answered, looking down at the hand and not pulling away from the contact.
Ron wasn’t exactly lost to the world on alcohol--his history with it was part of the reason he’d been banished to this side of the world--but he was naturally adventuresome and had been raised to assume that everyone else there was present to serve his needs and keep him safe in a way that he never bothered to do himself. And Ron had always been open and straightforward in enunciating his “needs” and wants.
“What is it that you really want by coming into this bar?” the man asked.
“Well, I heard a guy could get a full body massage in Singapore and could get a got lay from the masseur,” Ron answered, with a grin. Whether or not he was just being flippant and whether the man was surprised by the answer didn’t really matter. It gave the man the opening he wanted.
Ron’s new Singaporean friend wasn’t the least bit shocked to hear that Ron wanted a sex massage and to get laid. These were adventures the boy hadn’t been able to collect yet. He’d been thinking about that while he was belting back the Singapore Slings and had been thinking that, if there were places like this who’d serve him a drink when he obviously wasn’t of age--whatever “of age” meant in Singapore, then surely there were businesses that would serve a precocious boys in other adult areas of like.
And, as a matter of fact, as Ron and his new friend talked about such matters, the new friend said he knew exactly where that could happen.
“Best massage, best fuck, all clean, a little expensive, so maybe you don’t want...”
“No problem,” Ron said. “I’ve got plenty of money.”
And indeed he had, as the Singaporean had already noted, because Ron was indiscriminately flashing his wad of money around.
But it wasn’t really Ron’s money that the Singaporean man was interested in. It was something far more valuable. The price for a beautiful, sultry, blue-eyed, fourteen-year-old Westerner boy was astronomical almost anywhere in East Asia. There would be no reason for a boy like this to pay for it--he should be paid a high price to give his body away here in Singapore.
“But maybe you want something really special; maybe you’re used to...”
“Naw, just a straight massage and fuck to start with,” Ron said quickly. “Just want to lose my cherry fast. I’ve only got about four more hours before I have to be back to where I’m staying.” Ron wasn’t so drunk that he’d admit to this stranger who was being so helpful that he had an uncle who supposedly was looking out for him.
“Cherry? You mean ... You mean you’ve never... ?”
Ron was blushing. “Maybe someone really experienced first ... someone who’d tell me what to do ... you know.”
How fortuitous, the Singaporean thought. Even more valuable. A meltingly handsome Caucasian boy, not nearly as smart as he thinks he is, and a virgin as well. But, “Certainly, no problem. I have just the place in mind,” was what he said to Ron.
Less than twenty minutes later, and the taxi driver, who was really one of the Singaporean man’s colleagues, had made so many twists and turns in the narrow Singapore roads and alleys so that Ron would have had no idea where he was even if he had been fully sober. The taxi stopped at a wooden door in a salmon-colored stuccoed wall in a narrow back street deep in Singapore’s Chinatown area red light district. The door opened even before the taxi’s motor stopped, and Ron’s new friend bundled him into a high-walled, lushly landscaped forecourt and down a bricked path cut through the center of the vegetation and to a stone-block framed moon gate in a solid deep-red-painted brick wall. The space was in the deep shadows from the high walls and tree foliage overhead. There were pin-point lights flickering in the fronds of the palm trees fanned over the vegetation in the forecourt, but the only strong light was pouring out of open moon gate door.
Just inside the moon gate stood a massive Chinese man in a traditional, light-purple Chinese cheongsam. He was smiling broadly and rubbing his hands together in anxious anticipation. His factotum, who floated around the exclusive Raffles hotel trolling for possible well-heeled customers for Jun Lee’s House of Perfect Bliss and who had come up with the prize of Ron, bowed deeply to the Chinese gentleman and proudly presented Ron for his examination.
Ron was a little confused--in a way that he attributed to the amount of alcohol he had consumed, however--when his recently acquired Singaporean friend introduced him to Jun Lee, told him that Jun Lee would take care of everything, and then disappeared back through the moon gate they had entered.
.... There is more of this story ...