Just give me more of that gay comfort thing

Takraw Ball loves a drink as much as anyone.

‘If you invite me for a drink, I can hardly say no,’ he said last time I called.

We drink at a sidewalk shop – ‘the one with the Coke machine’, as it is known to regulars – close to my office.

The last time we drank together, he asked me to take him to his workplace, so he could carry on tossing back the tipple. We headed off on foot.

When we arrived 10 minutes later, we found a man in his 40s arguing with his Thai wife, who had managed to track down his whereabouts after he gave her the slip at home.

The man was known to Ball. I suspect they are colleagues at work.

The man did not appreciate her direct manner, so started struggling with her. He had landed a few light thumps on her body before I stepped between them and appealed to reason.

The couple, who come from the Northeast, had only recently moved to Bangkok.

‘This area has a reputation for drug dealing. We have an infant at home, and I am worried sick whenever my husband takes off with his friends,’ she said.

‘We have no money, but my husband insists on sneaking out at night to drink,’ she added in tears.

Her partner, who works nearby, said his wife worries about nothing. ‘I have stopped taking alcohol, as it causes me problems. Now, it’s soft drink, or nothing,’ he said.

Takraw Ball, who was wobbly on his feet, made a feeble attempt at persuading the woman to go home. He put on a strange Esan accent, as if it would help make him sound more convincing. But really, he was just drunk.

Ten minutes later, the woman persuaded her husband to take her back home on their motorbike, and a measure of calm returned.

Ball could no longer talk sense, and had started vomiting.

Ball’s friend Sorn, who met us at the office, sleeps on the premises, and quickly grew impatient with Ball’s behaviour.

‘It’s late, and we have to work tomorrow. Please take him home,’ he said, ushering me out the door.

Ball was not yet in a fit state to travel by taxi, so I sat with him on the sidewalk until he started to recover. I piled him into a taxi, and took him home.

The taxi driver, a biggish man who quickly offered to match me up with a single girl he knows, was curious.

‘Is he your brother? Friend? Son?’ he said, referring to Ball.

Ball would never refer to me as a friend, as that is too presumptuous. I am older, so I am his run pee (older acquaintance).

My other Ball, the one from the slums, has the same trouble coming to grips with our relationship status. I am more than twice his age, so he can’t call me his mere friend.

‘If you are talking to your slum friends, say I am your uncle, or a friend of your mother, as we are the same age,’ I would tell him, back in the days when appearances were still an issue.

Takraw Ball tells me often that he regards me as an elder brother. I know that gives him comfort, as he is an only child.

His attention-seeking behaviour is designed to help find older people who can give him comfort. He lives with a Lao girl five years his junior, and has recently started seeing another younger woman on the side. Each has just found out about the other, which is causing him problems.

Nan, his girlfriend, says Ball is her first love, and she won’t leave him just yet, despite the fact that he is seeing someone else.

However, if he is not willing to quit with the girl – a student who lives at home with her parents - she will simply give him to her.

‘I am trying to distance myself from the student, as I do not want to hurt her. Nor do I want to lose Nan,’ Ball told me.

I doubt he is ready to give up his sideline girl. Whenever we are together, he spends a good chunk of each night talking to his student admirer on the phone.

‘I have one sim card for Nan, and another one for the student. Nan found out about the other girl when I came home drunk one night. I forgot to switch sim cards, and the student called me early next morning,’ he said.

But if Ball fancies younger women as girlfriends, he appears to desire the company of older men to meet his other needs.

Ball has the most stunning head of hair: lustrous and smooth, like silk. It is one of his best features, apart from his beautiful almond eyes, sculptured lips, and...shall I go on?

I like to stroke his head, once we have had a few drinks and are relaxed.

He does not mind, and in fact appears to enjoy it, as he bows his head to give me easier access.

The night I took him home in the taxi, I kissed Ball’s head as I said goodbye.

The taxi driver, who was watching, thought the head kiss nothing special. ‘Does he live around here?’ he asked.

No. We stopped here for fun.

We watched as Ball staggered across a mercifully empty road, and disappear down a narrow alleyway heading for his apartment.

A week ago, Ball and I met again at our regular haunt. By the end of the night, Ball was again under the influence.

A friend from the slum opposite had invited him to open a new bottle of whisky, even though the hour was late.

I declared I was ready for home, paid the bill, and prepared to leave. Ball insisted on escorting me part of the journey home.

I head back on foot, cutting through a slum alleyway.

Ball took me down about 10m down the alleyway, which serves as a shortcut back to the main road.

Inside the alley, where no one could see us, he stopped, and hugged me.

‘You are so good to me, Mali,’ he said.

I said goodbye, but I could tell Mr Ball was hanging out for a more affectionate farewell.

I kissed his head, just as I had the last time we met. He beamed, and walked away.