After thirty a woman’s chances with Thai men are getting slim anyway,

slimmer than their waistlines certainly, what with a new crop of 16-year-olds always there looking to move up the food chain. So for the minor adjustment of servicing a hairy smelly foreigner for an undetermined number of years, a Thai woman past her prime can likely secure a better life for her and her family, and maybe even score an inheritance in the process. Love lies hidden in the cracks of a warped existence. There’s something for everyone where the algebra of need meets the geometry of desire. Anything disgusting about it, like the sight of twenty-year-old Thai girls sacrificing themselves to fifty-year-old Western men, doesn’t apply to me. Tang’s not that young anyway, not physically at least. She’s got a loyal devoted, if not ever-present husband, not like a lot of Thai guys with as many wives as they can afford. Every time I try to cheat on my wife, my dick gets infected or swells up or something, unsympathetic magic. I like guilt complexes; it leads the world to an ultimately better place. Of course it works best if everyone is similarly possessed. Tang only gets jealous when I flirt with death; that’s her turf.