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10:37 AM SATURDAY
Well, that didn’t go like I wanted it to.
I turn away from the door to the suite and begin my long, cumbersome walk of shame—naked. Fucking naked. Sammi didn’t even let me grab my pants.
Do I really care right now? Nah, not really.
The love of my life just so happened to forget she married me. Nudity isn’t even nearly as hard a pill to swallow. It doesn’t help that I’m more than a bit hungover, if I’m being honest here.
I press the button for the elevator and put my hands on my hips.
“Bright side: she at least knows something happened this time ‘round,” I say to my reflection in the elevator doors. There were damn too many witnesses to deny it.
I hear a DING and pull my hands back to my side, ready to step in. When the doors open up, I’m greeted by two old ladies and what appears to be a young married couple, most likely in their early twenties.
“Mornin’, folks.”
I give them a nod and step inside. The button for the lobby has already been pressed so I just turn around and face the door, trying to figure out where exactly I went wrong.
Which isn’t hard. I just shouldn’t have gone with all of this with Sammi being so drunk. Time and time again, she’s always had the same result in the morning.
So why would this time be different?
I can hear the couple behind me whispering an argument. My impeccable people watching skills come into play, and I deduce that the woman doesn’t need her husband to cover her eyes for her and that she knows better than to look.
Meanwhile, the pair of older ladies flanking me are not so subtle and are giggling like teenage school girls seeing a naked man for the first time.
I’m not going to lie; it feels good. At least some people are appreciating me—even if they are strangers.
…I might be just a little bent out of shape.
I give the two older gals a wink and flex my pecks for them. The one to the left of me is grabbing her inhaler, while the one on the right is giving the married woman behind us a thumbs-up—and likely checking out my arse, too. I can’t blame her. It’s firm, shapely, and smooth as a baby’s bum.
Once we reach the ground floor, the doors open to the lobby, and I stroll out without a second thought of those around me.
I turn my walk of shame into a strut of confidence, which only makes me cockier about knowing how much better I am than Eggbert. He would never handle something like this so well. That I know for a fact.
Some of the onlookers are undoubtedly enjoying the show. Others—mostly husbands trying to cover their wives’ eyes—not so much. And then some look like they’re about to rush off to the nearest gym and hit the weights.
I should enjoy this moment to the fullest. I’m debonair, attractive, articulate…
Yet crushed by the woman I love.
Yet left wondering just why I keep doing this to myself.
It’s the same thing year after year. I know things aren’t going to be any different, and I still do it.
I hit the streets, and there’s a wave of heat and humidity that hits me like a fucking kick from a kangaroo.
I’m an Aussie. I can handle the heat, the sun, and the humidity. That’s not a fucking problem.
But in Bangkok, it’s like an entirely different beast. And there’s the pungency in the air, but let’s not go into that too much.
I head down by the Chao Phraya River. Maybe I’ll get a nice breeze off the wate—
Nope. Nope. I’m just plain wrong on this one. Instead of something nice and refreshing, I get this really humid breeze that has me sweating more than I want to be.
I can feel beads of sweat forming and sliding down my temples. I can feel each individual droplet sliding down my pecks and in between my toned abs. One particular droplet actually tickles a bit as it trickles down the groove of my Adonis belt.
I’m sweaty, sticky, naked, and glistening in the sun like some Greek god.
I’ve got massage girls calling out to me. Trying to entice me into their shops so that they can help me relax.
It’s a tempting offer. Like, really fucking tempting. When you’ve had your heart snapped in two, it’s easy to take the closest pretty girl near you and let her reel you in.
And the looks I’m getting from these ladies is making my cock twitch more than a bit.
Considering I’m as naked as a newborn, that’s quite a dangerous plight.
They don’t matter, though. Not a single one of them would be able to hold a candle to the woman of my dreams.
None of them ever do.
I’ve tried. A lot.
In the end, the only one who remains relevant to me is Sammi.
It blows my mind how someone like Eggsy ever managed to land her—let alone get her to agree to marry him.
Fucking seriously. How did he swing that?
Don’t get me wrong. I love Eggsy like a brother. And as such, I’m entitled to acknowledge that he is absolute fucking wanker of a man.
And Sammi?
She’s a fucking head case a good chunk of the time. She’s a combative, uptight, prissy cunt, really. But I’ll be damned if she isn’t the most brilliant and determined woman on the planet.
She is also oh-so-fucking gorgeous, and she absolutely knows it. Her hair looks and feels like satin. Her green eyes are as vibrant and as full of life as the Amazon. Her lips feel as soft as rose petals. And her skin is as flawless as the morning sun.
How Eggsy is somehow more memorable of a man than I am is beyond me. And he took that beautiful prize that she is and shattered it. He fucked up.
It frustrates and angers me beyond what words can describe.
It was like he had the power of the sun in the palm of his hand and chucked it out the fucking window for a couple Ritz crackers.
Now what kind of fucked up shit is that?
I sigh as I pass a boat with a couple just getting engaged. All it does is make me think of Sammi.
I want to dwell longer on the thought of her in my arms, of her in my bed, snuggled up to me. Forget the sex. I had everything with her just hours ago.
Instead of having a nice brunch with my new wife, I’m yowling at the bludgeoning force of something spiky against my ass.
I turn around and see a durian rolling about on the ground. I look up and around for the source.
A man with his fist in the air is yelling at me in Thai and gesturing at my dick. From what I can gather, I’m scaring away his customers.
Around me, I can see an entourage of followers that I’ve amassed and not even realized. Some are tourists, mostly women, snapping away with their cameras at my muscled frame.
Some are even tracing out individual beads of sweat that sliding over my chiseled body with their fingers. Most, though, are pointing at my cock, which has gotten more than a bit stiff while I was thinking of Sammi.
If there’s one part of my body that I am exceptionally proud of, it’s my cock. I may or may not have been asked why I don’t do porn from more than a couple partners.
So I’m not at all surprised to see these women—and some men—taking pictures focused on one certain part of anatomy over everything else.
“Oooowwww!”
Another piece of durian hits my thigh and falls to the ground.
Let me tell you, that spiky fucking fruit hurts like a bitch, and this is coming from a man who has been bitten by sharks before.
I pick up the fruit and throw them back at the vendor, slightly vindictively. I’ve got some shit going on, and he’s got no idea how much of a nuisance his little fruit is.
He ducks for safety and yells at me to stop attacking him.
I want to curse him out. Hell, I want to shove one of his durian right up his arse and see how he likes it, but if I stick around and cause any more of a scene than I already am, I’m likely to get arrested.
Mind you, I don’t have issues with handcuffs. Not at all. But I prefer them in the bedroom and not while I’m naked in the middle of Bangkok rocking a stiffy.
So for today, the fruit vendor gets a pass and I continue on my way.
I want to go back to Sammi’s hotel. I want to kick in the door to that suite and tell her how fucking badly I have, and will always, love her.
There’s just no escaping it. I’ve fucking tried. Time and time again I’ve tried.
Every year, it’s the same cycle.
I think I’ve gotten her out of my system—and then I see her. It’s like the first time I got to swim with a whale shark. It’s breathtaking and awe-inspiring and just an experience you don’t want to let go of.
Then we do this song and dance of arguing about just about everything. Her competitive nature makes her a fantastic shit-talker.
Instead of getting angry at her, though, it only makes me fall for her more. Her passion and determination is intimidating and admirable, like an unstoppable force that will never fall to an immovable object.
And then the drinking begins. We get into the tequila, and the tension between us festers. It builds and builds until this inescapable climax approaches, and we cave in.
Of course, that leads to the sex. The most incredible fucking sex on this planet we call Earth. She is every bit as passionate in bed as she is in everything else.
She knows what she likes and knows exactly what her partner likes. It’s like everything we do is what the other craves and desires and fantasizes about. It’s simply fucking magical.
And it makes me fall for her again every fucking time. It always convinces me that this is the time she’s going to remember it.
But then the morning comes, and she forgets it ever happened, that I even exist, and the thought of fucking me makes her sick to her stomach.
That right there is fucking soul-crushing. To know that the woman of your dreams—the woman you love—gets ill at the thought of fucking you.
I’ll admit, my mind isn’t in the best of places right now when I step up to the hotel’s front desk. I try to explain everything to them as best I can, and they only agree to let me up if security comes with so that I can grab documents to prove I am who I say I am.
I’m glad to be off the streets and somewhere that I can take a shower. I feel—and smell—fucking terrible.
Security lets me into my room, and I retrieve my passport from my suitcase. They’re satisfied and leave me to my own devices.
I make a beeline to the bathroom before the door closes behind them. I don’t even care that the first rush of water to hit me is cold. Sure, my nipples are hard enough to cut diamonds for a moment, but it’s a nice reprieve from the heat.
I sigh as I rinse my body. I really just can’t shake this trip off.
Once I’m clean, I need to figure out my next move—and fast.
If Sammi doesn’t remember me, that’s fine.
But she will.
After all…a man never gives up on his wife.