Thailand is currently the most popular tourist destination in the world, and there are quite a few veterans here with far more experience than me on the Land of Smiles. So instead of doing a traditional trip report, I thought I would do something a little different. Some of you guys enjoyed my Poznan Data Sheet and said I should fuck with the longer form. So, I'm giving it a go. In the spirit of Roosh's "30 Bangs" and Delicious Tacos' "The Pussy," I present to you the first of many Tales from Thailand to Come...
The Tale of Poop Condom Girl
Thailand is the Netflix of pussy. I have banged so many, and such a variety of women since moving here that even I have a bit of a hard time believing it now that I’m sitting down to write this. No, I do not mean hookers. I mean normal girls.
Some were university students. Some were waitresses. Some worked the front desks at hotels. Some were pretty. Some were butter-faced. Some were chubby. Some were thin. Some had perfect, round porno titties. Some had weird, floppy sweet potato titties that I still liked, anyway. Some had no titties to speak of, but cute little asses that reminded me of two steamed pork buns. Some had long, slender legs and pale, European-looking skin. Some were dark-skinned and had fat DSLs. Some weren’t even Thai, but Vietnamese girls on vacation. Or Malaysian. Or Korean. Or Romanian.
One even touched my poop to see if I was cheating. This story is about her.
Last night I was doing a typically egotistical, Buddy Do Wrong-type thing and sorting all the selfies, WhatsApp screenshots, and sneaky butt pics of the girls I’ve slept with since my ex dumped me into a single folder on my iPhoto account titled “The Best Revenge is Living Well." I was just organizing my first sojourns in Thailand when I came across a picture I'd all but forgotten. It was taken a few months ago under a waterfall somewhere in the mountains of Northern Thailand. The girl I was with in the photo was the one this story is about, who will henceforth be referred to as Poop Condom Girl.
From our body language in the picture, it was clear we liked each other. I won’t use the word love, although she did. Out of all the girls that I’ve slept with here, she is the one that I will always remember, not only because of the connection we shared, but because of how disastrously it ended, when she touched my poop.
I told Poop Condom Girl from the beginning I was not going to be exclusive with her. I moved to Thailand for me, to detox and heal after a difficult year. I left my permanent job in Germany back in April, and not a week later my long-distance, on and off again relationship with my girlfriend of four years finally ended. I was on the verge of suicide and the only thing that kept me from jumping off my fifth floor balcony was the thought my parents would have to pay a lot of money to repatriate my corpse. My ex told me I was the worst thing that ever happened to her and she was happier without me. Both were probably true. But it didn’t hurt any less to hear it. Thirty notches later, and it still does.
So, I was in no position mentally or otherwise to enter a serious relationship when I left Europe and moved to Asia. I was going to date around, and not be exclusive to any one girl or make plans for the future. I was up front about this with all of them from Day One.
I came here to travel. To write. To train martial arts full time and be David Fucking Carradine. To live simple and healthily, to eat good food, to quit relying on alcohol as a crutch for my life’s problems, to push the eternally fruitless project of chasing women and their bullshit down to at least my second if not third priority, and to all around stop being such an asshole degenerate. If I acquired brain damage or my balls shriveled to two useless sacks of dried, spaceflight-ready semen in pursuit of these goals, so be it.
That was my plan. No more booze. No more girls. I was cutting down. Getting my life back on track. I was going to star in Eat, Pray, Love: The Male Version.
Yet as soon my plane touched down and I fired up Tinder, I realized how stupid a plan that was. In twenty-four hours I had twice as many messages as I would have in several weeks back in Europe, and with cuter girls. And the girls I got in Europe weren’t bad. But there is something goddamned mystical about matching with a pretty, 90-pound 22 year-old who still watches anime, sleeps with a stuffed cartoon cat, and doesn’t have the jaded eyes of an overweight Western war pig. I imagine nibbling their earlobes and I can practically hear them meowing.
Poop Condom Girl wasn’t 22, and she wasn’t the first girl I matched with or dated in Thailand, but she was there almost from the beginning. Her profile had beautifully photoshopped pictures that made her skin appear two shades whiter than it was in reality. In one photo she was wearing a snake. Her bio read: NO ONS! (For those of you not on dat Tinder grind, ONS means “One Night Stand”).
We chatted for a few weeks before finally meeting up for coffee and a walk in the park. We rented a bamboo mat and sat on the grass next to the koi pond. It started raining, and I joked I would be her umbrella. She laid back and I kissed her.
An hour later we had sex. I think the premise was, despite the rain, it was still hotter and more humid than Satan’s ass crack on leg day, and her place had AC. I was living in a repurposed tool shed at the time, with nothing to keep cool but a shitty fan, not to mention it was located behind the ancestral home of a nice family who would most definitely have heard those booty cheeks clapping.
Poop Condom Girl had a pretty face and big, perfect boobs. She was a little thick, but the extra meat was mostly in her hips and thighs. She didn’t really have a great ass; it was sort of misshapen; doughy, even; she certainly didn’t squat. But those tits, man. Sweet Jesus in Heaven were those titties on fire. Her pussy was big; not loose, but big; like the overstuffed tacos white families make when they try to make Mexican food at home. She was good in bed, and didn’t insist we use a condom. I didn’t either, and spent the next five minutes of joyous thrusting wondering if I was giving myself AIDs.
I wanted to go a second round, but that was quickly shot down when she stopped mid-blowjob to answer her phone and said she had to go meet her friend at Starbucks. We like to think Western women are the only ones ruined by the satanic forces of globalization, but in my travels I have found that rare is the woman anywhere on this Good Earth who can resist the siren’s song of a sugary mochachino.
Before I left, she invited me to travel with her to the mountains the following week for her birthday. Turned out she had just broken up with her boyfriend the previous week and the hotel was already booked and paid.
I liked her, so I said yes.
The bus ride to the mountains took all day. We spent the next five days in blissful paradise. We swam under waterfalls. We ate breakfast burritos prepared by Thai Rastafarians who made surprisingly decent pico de gallo. We rode on Poop Condom Girl’s motorbike through jungles lusher than 70’s pubes, visited secret forest temples, swam in the hotel’s infinity pool (those are super neat by the way), drank Thai iced tea by the gallon, and had sex four times a day.
It was good sex. She drained my balls to the point where I was not even interested in checking out all the sunburned white girls walking around in their elephant pants. She was all I saw, all I wanted for a week straight. For a brief moment I even wondered what our kids would look like slip-sliding out of her Taco Night-esque cunt.
But as soon as we got back to the city, it became abundantly clear what a delusional bubble I’d been living in.
Our first stop was McDonald’s. It was a long, brutal travel day, and by the time we got back we were both starved, and the bitch wanted French fries. Side note, I don’t know why this girl ate so much McDonald’s, but she posted happy meals on her Instagram story at least three times a week. Whatever.
We talked about the future and our expectations. Kind of weird after only spending a week together, but it felt like much longer. I laid it all out and said I couldn’t be in an exclusive serious relationship with her, due to the fact I was leaving in a few months, and wasn’t in the right place for that mentally, anyway. She seemed to understand and told me she cared about me and only wanted to spend what time together we could while we had the chance. Plus she said she liked sex, liked having sex with me, and we could continue having sex despite agreeing we weren’t exclusive.
Sweet situation, right?
Wrong. Totally wrong. When one person catches feelings and the other doesn’t, a shit storm is inevitable. And Poop Condom Girl caught feelings hard.
Over the following two months that we spent together, she grew progressively clingier. The red flags I had willed invisible while we were in the mountains shone bright as if they were being waved in a bullfighter’s hands. She told me about how she wanted a family and was too old to be wasting time with random hookups (she was twenty-seven). She told me if I was “going to do like [her] ex did, to just leave [her] now.”
She still texted her ex on a daily basis, and from what she told me of him, he sounded like a decent guy who hadn’t done her wrong except to call things off before heading back to his own country. On that account, he was a better man than me. I knew from pretty much the first bang I should’ve railed and bailed, chopped and hopped, juiced and loosed, yet still I stuck around for more than two months.
But, I digress.
We got in fights. We broke up. We blocked each other. We went for days or weeks where we didn’t talk. In eight weeks we probably fought more than I did with my long-distance girlfriend of four years, the one whose memory I came to Thailand to run away from, and she was Princess Cunt incarnate. Poop Condom Girl wasn’t cunty at all. She was just sad, fragile, and lonely; not to mention out of her goddamned gourd. This bitch was medicated. She took so many prescription pills every day she set timers, and they weren’t for her Lunar Cycle. One time she had to leave my place to go all the way back to her house because she forgot her “sleepy pills.” Without them she would stay awake for days at a time.
Poop Condom Girl asked me to hang out every day, and got mad at me when I couldn’t. She blew up my phone when I was working because she thought I was out with other girls. In her defense, sometimes I was. She checked Tinder every day and flew into a rage if she thought I’d logged on or saw I’d changed my pictures, especially when I was traveling. In her defense I had no less than ten other successful Tinder dates during the period when I was also fucking her, which can sometimes lead to females experiencing jealousy. She even showed up at my place once uninvited; I told her she couldn’t show up uninvited ever again for any reason, and she cried for two hours on my couch before promptly breaking into raucous laughter, removing her pajama pants, and climbing into my bed. Then she got mad at me again when I didn’t want to have sex the next morning.
But, it wasn’t all drama and crazy accusations levied in broken English. Yes, she was crazy, but she made me laugh. I can’t remember the last time a girl made me laugh my ass off so much. Thai girls are generally lighthearted and funny; even though as a rule, women’s humor universally leaves a lot to be desired. It’s almost always the batshit insane ones who are genuinely hilarious. They’re also the most dynamite in the sack.
Poop Condom Girl was both. I remember one time making a joke that my fresh haircut made me look like Hitler, and without hesitating she clapped back she wanted to be my Eva Braun because “she look pretty.” An American girl would’ve grown two bent cocks before saying something that oppressive.
Then one night, it all fell apart.
I was riding high on the dopamine wave of a threesome I’d had with two college girls who picked me up at the club the previous weekend, whose English nicknames were the base ingredients of a popular Middle Eastern dipping sauce – story for a different time. I’d made a strong connection with one of the girls and had her over the night before for some cheek-busting good times. Only about twenty minutes after the other girl left, Poop Condom Girl messaged me and asked if she could spend the night because she didn’t want to be alone.
I didn’t object, even though by that point I was sick of her tantrums and was slowly easing on the breaks to our contact. Our last conversation had been almost a week prior, and had ended with yet another round of us blocking each other on social media and swearing we’d never speak again. In my defense, she initiated.
But if there’s one way to truly piss me off it’s block, delete, or unfollow. Women: stop doing that. That’s my move.
Poop Condom Girl came over and we had sex. It was nothing to write home about, and as soon as it was over, I wanted to go to sleep. It was, until that point, exactly like most nights we spent together: uneventful, slightly passionate, but mostly spent in bed with both of us staring at our phones.
Yet as she was reaching over me to turn off the light, she stopped, her eyes went wide, and she said, “Buddy, what’s that?”
I followed the intensifying laser beam of her gaze. There was a girl’s earring sitting on the headboard of my bed. Not the whole earring. Just the back.
Poop Condom Girl didn’t ask who the earring belonged to. She immediately pulled out her phone, turned the flashlight function on, and started searching. She found something next to the pillow and fished it out. A long, black hair appeared pinched between her fingertips.
“It isn’t my hair,” she said.
No, it most definitely is not, I thought, but my mouth said, “What are you talking about? That is for sure one of yours. I always find your hairs after you come over.”
“No. My hair is short. It’s also thin. This is long,” she said.
She had a point. The other girl had much better, healthier hair.
She held the back of the earring up. “And this?”
“That was probably here when I moved in. The cleaning ladies didn’t do a good job cleaning this place,” I said, thinking, that small silver lizard definitely belongs to the 22-year-old slut I was sexually intercoursing with on these very sheets not twenty hours ago, no doubt about it. She loves lizards.
Fatalistically, Poop Condom Girl turned off the flashlight function and opened her phone’s photos app. She scrolled back to a picture she’d taken of the huge photo over my bed of the New York Skyline, which clearly showed the ledge at the top of the headboard. No earring.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” she said.
“You’re pretty when you’re mad,” I said, trying to buy a little time.
She glared at me. “This serious.”
This was it, the moment of truth in which my true colors would either dull or shine. But did I know what my true colors were? Which spectrum was I even on? Was I capable of telling her the truth? Or was I going to lie to her, and be just another one of the dozens, or more likely hundreds of dishonest, horny white boys who had made her this way (or at least contributed greatly to her current disposition)?
Yes. Yes, I was.
“I’ve never seen that earring in my life,” I said. She continued to glare. “I’m too tired to have a fight right now. You’re making yourself upset. Besides, how are you the one giving me shit? You went out with that one English guy a month ago. You posted about it on your Instagram.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “It was one date.”
“At a sky bar.”
“We didn’t have sex!”
“Sure,” I said, and turned off the light.
For the next twenty minutes, I could feel her seething in the dark. It made me nervous. How did I know she wasn’t going to stab me to death in my sleep? Or that I wasn’t going to wake up and this laptop would be burning on the street in front of my building?
I rolled onto my side, felt around for her hair, and stroked it. “Poop Condom Girl, listen,” I started to say, but she cut me off.
“It’s alright,” she said quietly. “You never made any promise to me. You will leave me soon. Like everyone.”
Oh, please God, no, I thought. Please don’t let this be another dark, tearful slide into suicide talk.
I kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s leave this, okay? Everything will be better tomorrow. I promise.”
I woke up the next morning to her getting out of bed several hours before the time I usually wake up. She locked herself in the bathroom, and I heard the shower running. Some time later she came out, kissed me, and said, “Goodbye, Buddy. You need clean your bathroom.”
Then she left.
Clean my bathroom? Whatever, I thought, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
When I woke up for real and stepped into the bathroom to take my morning pee, there was a used condom on the fake marble counter. Someone – I don’t think I need to say who – had displayed it neatly on the paper towels it had been wrapped in when I’d thrown it away two days before. A flood of memories came rushing back of peeling that same condom off myself after blissfully pounding away at a girl who definitely wasn’t the one who’d just left my apartment, wrapping said condom in those same crumpled paper towels, and then dumping the whole sticky package into the trash next to my toilet.
She dug a used condom out of my bathroom trash. Out of. My bathroom. Trash.
Holy smoking dog shit did I want to vomit.
Now, a bit of background for those of you who haven’t spent time in Asia. In many Asian countries, Thailand in particular, the sewage disposal systems are poor, and it’s taboo to throw your used toilet paper in the toilet after taking a dump. Doing so can easily clog the pipes, and cause a massive, shitty problem for someone (or yourself) days or weeks down the road. The usual protocol for dropping the kids off at the pool goes as follows: when you have to go number two you do your business, then wipe your bum bum, then put the paper in the trash bin next to toilet, then flush only the organic wastes down the poop pipe, then preferably wash hands if soap is provided (sometimes it isn’t; but hey, TIT… “This is Thailand”), then go and order yourself a delicious mango smoothie somewhere.
Being the lazy son of a bitch that I am, I only emptied my bathroom trash once every week, sometimes once every two, when the stench of rotten ammonia and fecal matter festering within that slimy, mordant mountain of toilet paper grew too ripe for me to stand. Pretty disgusting, right?
Poop Condom Girl put her hands in that to find proof that I was cheating. [Note: she used the word “cheating” – I still don’t think it was.] In her defense, she did end up finding what she was looking for. But at what price? I wasn’t born last night. I knew this was a possibility, however remote. I buried that shit deep.
She sorted through at least several days’ worth of festering doo doo before striking gold and getting to that tissue-wrapped condom. My wrapping job wasn’t no joke, either; you’d have to be an expert bathroom trash sifter to recognize such an innocuous wad of paper towels as the Guilt Football of a philandering non-boyfriend. She not only identified it, but then removed it from the surrounding shitty toilet paper, used baby wipes, and dental floss, then unpacked it to confirm the contents, and then took the time to lay it out on my bathroom counter like a display in some immortal Tinderella’s Private Museum of Sexual Oddities:
“This vessel contains the seed of Buddy Do Wrong, the foreign male whom the Countess once had relations with for a period of not more than two months, and whom she most likely permanently turned off to having sex with women before consuming the last ethereal drops of his masculine spirit.”
Or had I consumed her? No, that couldn’t be right. She was certainly acting injured. But maybe this performance, this drama was what she wanted. If she had been so serious about finding Mr. Right and settling down, why had she put up with me being a noncommittal fuck for two precious months of her life? Why had she been such a noncommittal fuck herself? Why was she trying to start a life with a guy she alleged she hated on a weekly basis, every time financial realities forced him to choose PowerPoint over pounding vajeen?
I did everything I was supposed to do in a casual relationship. I laid my cards on the table and told her I’d be dating other women, and she was free to see other men. And yes, she told me in plenty of explicit detail the day after she dug that condom out of my poopy trash that she took that English guy home from the sky bar and let him fuck her a month before this fight ever took place. And yes, I got pissed, not because I felt territorial or jealous. I didn’t, and still don’t care who bangs her or any other girl I’m not exclusively dating, so long as no one involved inadvertently gives me an incurable strain of gonorrhea. Even the curable varieties, I am willing to forgive on a long enough timeline.
I may be a walking Escher maze of stress and rage and genetic death wishes on the inside, but when it comes to my dealings with other people in real life, my attitude is pretty live and let live; mai pen rai; who cares? But that level of hypocrisy I simply can’t abide. I won’t be treated with such mind-boggling double standards by anyone, let alone a woman who is going to peruse through my soiled toilet paper in an attempt to humiliate me in some weird attempt at vindication, and if that means I die alone, then so it goes.
I may be trash… but I am not bathroom trash.
And that is the story of Poop Condom Girl. We are on semi-good terms now. At least, we don’t hate each other. We still texted for a few weeks after our big falling out, and I met up with her once at the night market to shake hands and hug it out. She half-joked how I needed to forgive her for everything because she was younger than me. Uh huh. Right.
I did forgive her, but I didn’t forget, and I never will. She still sends me messages begging me to come over and to have noncommittal sex, because she loves me, because she misses me, and because she doesn’t want to be alone. I get these messages at least twice a day.
But I’m not going to fuck her and I’m not going to kiss her. She can get that from the next poor soul she saps from the bowels of Tinder. I’m sure their relationship will play out in remarkably similar fashion to how ours did, with only a minor exchange of details. Maybe for him, she’ll earn a different nickname. Maybe for him she’ll be Pillow Hair Girl or Chlamydia Girl or the Girl Who Accidentally Started World War 3.
For me, from now until forever, she will be Poop Condom Girl, the girl who stuck her butt-naked fingers in my bathroom trash in search of my semen, without rubber gloves.
That is gross.
Read this and more stories over at Women Ruin Everything.
The Tale of Poop Condom Girl
Thailand is the Netflix of pussy. I have banged so many, and such a variety of women since moving here that even I have a bit of a hard time believing it now that I’m sitting down to write this. No, I do not mean hookers. I mean normal girls.
Some were university students. Some were waitresses. Some worked the front desks at hotels. Some were pretty. Some were butter-faced. Some were chubby. Some were thin. Some had perfect, round porno titties. Some had weird, floppy sweet potato titties that I still liked, anyway. Some had no titties to speak of, but cute little asses that reminded me of two steamed pork buns. Some had long, slender legs and pale, European-looking skin. Some were dark-skinned and had fat DSLs. Some weren’t even Thai, but Vietnamese girls on vacation. Or Malaysian. Or Korean. Or Romanian.
One even touched my poop to see if I was cheating. This story is about her.
Last night I was doing a typically egotistical, Buddy Do Wrong-type thing and sorting all the selfies, WhatsApp screenshots, and sneaky butt pics of the girls I’ve slept with since my ex dumped me into a single folder on my iPhoto account titled “The Best Revenge is Living Well." I was just organizing my first sojourns in Thailand when I came across a picture I'd all but forgotten. It was taken a few months ago under a waterfall somewhere in the mountains of Northern Thailand. The girl I was with in the photo was the one this story is about, who will henceforth be referred to as Poop Condom Girl.
From our body language in the picture, it was clear we liked each other. I won’t use the word love, although she did. Out of all the girls that I’ve slept with here, she is the one that I will always remember, not only because of the connection we shared, but because of how disastrously it ended, when she touched my poop.
I told Poop Condom Girl from the beginning I was not going to be exclusive with her. I moved to Thailand for me, to detox and heal after a difficult year. I left my permanent job in Germany back in April, and not a week later my long-distance, on and off again relationship with my girlfriend of four years finally ended. I was on the verge of suicide and the only thing that kept me from jumping off my fifth floor balcony was the thought my parents would have to pay a lot of money to repatriate my corpse. My ex told me I was the worst thing that ever happened to her and she was happier without me. Both were probably true. But it didn’t hurt any less to hear it. Thirty notches later, and it still does.
So, I was in no position mentally or otherwise to enter a serious relationship when I left Europe and moved to Asia. I was going to date around, and not be exclusive to any one girl or make plans for the future. I was up front about this with all of them from Day One.
I came here to travel. To write. To train martial arts full time and be David Fucking Carradine. To live simple and healthily, to eat good food, to quit relying on alcohol as a crutch for my life’s problems, to push the eternally fruitless project of chasing women and their bullshit down to at least my second if not third priority, and to all around stop being such an asshole degenerate. If I acquired brain damage or my balls shriveled to two useless sacks of dried, spaceflight-ready semen in pursuit of these goals, so be it.
That was my plan. No more booze. No more girls. I was cutting down. Getting my life back on track. I was going to star in Eat, Pray, Love: The Male Version.
Yet as soon my plane touched down and I fired up Tinder, I realized how stupid a plan that was. In twenty-four hours I had twice as many messages as I would have in several weeks back in Europe, and with cuter girls. And the girls I got in Europe weren’t bad. But there is something goddamned mystical about matching with a pretty, 90-pound 22 year-old who still watches anime, sleeps with a stuffed cartoon cat, and doesn’t have the jaded eyes of an overweight Western war pig. I imagine nibbling their earlobes and I can practically hear them meowing.
Poop Condom Girl wasn’t 22, and she wasn’t the first girl I matched with or dated in Thailand, but she was there almost from the beginning. Her profile had beautifully photoshopped pictures that made her skin appear two shades whiter than it was in reality. In one photo she was wearing a snake. Her bio read: NO ONS! (For those of you not on dat Tinder grind, ONS means “One Night Stand”).
We chatted for a few weeks before finally meeting up for coffee and a walk in the park. We rented a bamboo mat and sat on the grass next to the koi pond. It started raining, and I joked I would be her umbrella. She laid back and I kissed her.
An hour later we had sex. I think the premise was, despite the rain, it was still hotter and more humid than Satan’s ass crack on leg day, and her place had AC. I was living in a repurposed tool shed at the time, with nothing to keep cool but a shitty fan, not to mention it was located behind the ancestral home of a nice family who would most definitely have heard those booty cheeks clapping.
Poop Condom Girl had a pretty face and big, perfect boobs. She was a little thick, but the extra meat was mostly in her hips and thighs. She didn’t really have a great ass; it was sort of misshapen; doughy, even; she certainly didn’t squat. But those tits, man. Sweet Jesus in Heaven were those titties on fire. Her pussy was big; not loose, but big; like the overstuffed tacos white families make when they try to make Mexican food at home. She was good in bed, and didn’t insist we use a condom. I didn’t either, and spent the next five minutes of joyous thrusting wondering if I was giving myself AIDs.
I wanted to go a second round, but that was quickly shot down when she stopped mid-blowjob to answer her phone and said she had to go meet her friend at Starbucks. We like to think Western women are the only ones ruined by the satanic forces of globalization, but in my travels I have found that rare is the woman anywhere on this Good Earth who can resist the siren’s song of a sugary mochachino.
Before I left, she invited me to travel with her to the mountains the following week for her birthday. Turned out she had just broken up with her boyfriend the previous week and the hotel was already booked and paid.
I liked her, so I said yes.
The bus ride to the mountains took all day. We spent the next five days in blissful paradise. We swam under waterfalls. We ate breakfast burritos prepared by Thai Rastafarians who made surprisingly decent pico de gallo. We rode on Poop Condom Girl’s motorbike through jungles lusher than 70’s pubes, visited secret forest temples, swam in the hotel’s infinity pool (those are super neat by the way), drank Thai iced tea by the gallon, and had sex four times a day.
It was good sex. She drained my balls to the point where I was not even interested in checking out all the sunburned white girls walking around in their elephant pants. She was all I saw, all I wanted for a week straight. For a brief moment I even wondered what our kids would look like slip-sliding out of her Taco Night-esque cunt.
But as soon as we got back to the city, it became abundantly clear what a delusional bubble I’d been living in.
Our first stop was McDonald’s. It was a long, brutal travel day, and by the time we got back we were both starved, and the bitch wanted French fries. Side note, I don’t know why this girl ate so much McDonald’s, but she posted happy meals on her Instagram story at least three times a week. Whatever.
We talked about the future and our expectations. Kind of weird after only spending a week together, but it felt like much longer. I laid it all out and said I couldn’t be in an exclusive serious relationship with her, due to the fact I was leaving in a few months, and wasn’t in the right place for that mentally, anyway. She seemed to understand and told me she cared about me and only wanted to spend what time together we could while we had the chance. Plus she said she liked sex, liked having sex with me, and we could continue having sex despite agreeing we weren’t exclusive.
Sweet situation, right?
Wrong. Totally wrong. When one person catches feelings and the other doesn’t, a shit storm is inevitable. And Poop Condom Girl caught feelings hard.
Over the following two months that we spent together, she grew progressively clingier. The red flags I had willed invisible while we were in the mountains shone bright as if they were being waved in a bullfighter’s hands. She told me about how she wanted a family and was too old to be wasting time with random hookups (she was twenty-seven). She told me if I was “going to do like [her] ex did, to just leave [her] now.”
She still texted her ex on a daily basis, and from what she told me of him, he sounded like a decent guy who hadn’t done her wrong except to call things off before heading back to his own country. On that account, he was a better man than me. I knew from pretty much the first bang I should’ve railed and bailed, chopped and hopped, juiced and loosed, yet still I stuck around for more than two months.
But, I digress.
We got in fights. We broke up. We blocked each other. We went for days or weeks where we didn’t talk. In eight weeks we probably fought more than I did with my long-distance girlfriend of four years, the one whose memory I came to Thailand to run away from, and she was Princess Cunt incarnate. Poop Condom Girl wasn’t cunty at all. She was just sad, fragile, and lonely; not to mention out of her goddamned gourd. This bitch was medicated. She took so many prescription pills every day she set timers, and they weren’t for her Lunar Cycle. One time she had to leave my place to go all the way back to her house because she forgot her “sleepy pills.” Without them she would stay awake for days at a time.
Poop Condom Girl asked me to hang out every day, and got mad at me when I couldn’t. She blew up my phone when I was working because she thought I was out with other girls. In her defense, sometimes I was. She checked Tinder every day and flew into a rage if she thought I’d logged on or saw I’d changed my pictures, especially when I was traveling. In her defense I had no less than ten other successful Tinder dates during the period when I was also fucking her, which can sometimes lead to females experiencing jealousy. She even showed up at my place once uninvited; I told her she couldn’t show up uninvited ever again for any reason, and she cried for two hours on my couch before promptly breaking into raucous laughter, removing her pajama pants, and climbing into my bed. Then she got mad at me again when I didn’t want to have sex the next morning.
But, it wasn’t all drama and crazy accusations levied in broken English. Yes, she was crazy, but she made me laugh. I can’t remember the last time a girl made me laugh my ass off so much. Thai girls are generally lighthearted and funny; even though as a rule, women’s humor universally leaves a lot to be desired. It’s almost always the batshit insane ones who are genuinely hilarious. They’re also the most dynamite in the sack.
Poop Condom Girl was both. I remember one time making a joke that my fresh haircut made me look like Hitler, and without hesitating she clapped back she wanted to be my Eva Braun because “she look pretty.” An American girl would’ve grown two bent cocks before saying something that oppressive.
Then one night, it all fell apart.
I was riding high on the dopamine wave of a threesome I’d had with two college girls who picked me up at the club the previous weekend, whose English nicknames were the base ingredients of a popular Middle Eastern dipping sauce – story for a different time. I’d made a strong connection with one of the girls and had her over the night before for some cheek-busting good times. Only about twenty minutes after the other girl left, Poop Condom Girl messaged me and asked if she could spend the night because she didn’t want to be alone.
I didn’t object, even though by that point I was sick of her tantrums and was slowly easing on the breaks to our contact. Our last conversation had been almost a week prior, and had ended with yet another round of us blocking each other on social media and swearing we’d never speak again. In my defense, she initiated.
But if there’s one way to truly piss me off it’s block, delete, or unfollow. Women: stop doing that. That’s my move.
Poop Condom Girl came over and we had sex. It was nothing to write home about, and as soon as it was over, I wanted to go to sleep. It was, until that point, exactly like most nights we spent together: uneventful, slightly passionate, but mostly spent in bed with both of us staring at our phones.
Yet as she was reaching over me to turn off the light, she stopped, her eyes went wide, and she said, “Buddy, what’s that?”
I followed the intensifying laser beam of her gaze. There was a girl’s earring sitting on the headboard of my bed. Not the whole earring. Just the back.
Poop Condom Girl didn’t ask who the earring belonged to. She immediately pulled out her phone, turned the flashlight function on, and started searching. She found something next to the pillow and fished it out. A long, black hair appeared pinched between her fingertips.
“It isn’t my hair,” she said.
No, it most definitely is not, I thought, but my mouth said, “What are you talking about? That is for sure one of yours. I always find your hairs after you come over.”
“No. My hair is short. It’s also thin. This is long,” she said.
She had a point. The other girl had much better, healthier hair.
She held the back of the earring up. “And this?”
“That was probably here when I moved in. The cleaning ladies didn’t do a good job cleaning this place,” I said, thinking, that small silver lizard definitely belongs to the 22-year-old slut I was sexually intercoursing with on these very sheets not twenty hours ago, no doubt about it. She loves lizards.
Fatalistically, Poop Condom Girl turned off the flashlight function and opened her phone’s photos app. She scrolled back to a picture she’d taken of the huge photo over my bed of the New York Skyline, which clearly showed the ledge at the top of the headboard. No earring.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” she said.
“You’re pretty when you’re mad,” I said, trying to buy a little time.
She glared at me. “This serious.”
This was it, the moment of truth in which my true colors would either dull or shine. But did I know what my true colors were? Which spectrum was I even on? Was I capable of telling her the truth? Or was I going to lie to her, and be just another one of the dozens, or more likely hundreds of dishonest, horny white boys who had made her this way (or at least contributed greatly to her current disposition)?
Yes. Yes, I was.
“I’ve never seen that earring in my life,” I said. She continued to glare. “I’m too tired to have a fight right now. You’re making yourself upset. Besides, how are you the one giving me shit? You went out with that one English guy a month ago. You posted about it on your Instagram.”
Her eyebrows furrowed. “It was one date.”
“At a sky bar.”
“We didn’t have sex!”
“Sure,” I said, and turned off the light.
For the next twenty minutes, I could feel her seething in the dark. It made me nervous. How did I know she wasn’t going to stab me to death in my sleep? Or that I wasn’t going to wake up and this laptop would be burning on the street in front of my building?
I rolled onto my side, felt around for her hair, and stroked it. “Poop Condom Girl, listen,” I started to say, but she cut me off.
“It’s alright,” she said quietly. “You never made any promise to me. You will leave me soon. Like everyone.”
Oh, please God, no, I thought. Please don’t let this be another dark, tearful slide into suicide talk.
I kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s leave this, okay? Everything will be better tomorrow. I promise.”
I woke up the next morning to her getting out of bed several hours before the time I usually wake up. She locked herself in the bathroom, and I heard the shower running. Some time later she came out, kissed me, and said, “Goodbye, Buddy. You need clean your bathroom.”
Then she left.
Clean my bathroom? Whatever, I thought, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
When I woke up for real and stepped into the bathroom to take my morning pee, there was a used condom on the fake marble counter. Someone – I don’t think I need to say who – had displayed it neatly on the paper towels it had been wrapped in when I’d thrown it away two days before. A flood of memories came rushing back of peeling that same condom off myself after blissfully pounding away at a girl who definitely wasn’t the one who’d just left my apartment, wrapping said condom in those same crumpled paper towels, and then dumping the whole sticky package into the trash next to my toilet.
She dug a used condom out of my bathroom trash. Out of. My bathroom. Trash.
Holy smoking dog shit did I want to vomit.
Now, a bit of background for those of you who haven’t spent time in Asia. In many Asian countries, Thailand in particular, the sewage disposal systems are poor, and it’s taboo to throw your used toilet paper in the toilet after taking a dump. Doing so can easily clog the pipes, and cause a massive, shitty problem for someone (or yourself) days or weeks down the road. The usual protocol for dropping the kids off at the pool goes as follows: when you have to go number two you do your business, then wipe your bum bum, then put the paper in the trash bin next to toilet, then flush only the organic wastes down the poop pipe, then preferably wash hands if soap is provided (sometimes it isn’t; but hey, TIT… “This is Thailand”), then go and order yourself a delicious mango smoothie somewhere.
Being the lazy son of a bitch that I am, I only emptied my bathroom trash once every week, sometimes once every two, when the stench of rotten ammonia and fecal matter festering within that slimy, mordant mountain of toilet paper grew too ripe for me to stand. Pretty disgusting, right?
Poop Condom Girl put her hands in that to find proof that I was cheating. [Note: she used the word “cheating” – I still don’t think it was.] In her defense, she did end up finding what she was looking for. But at what price? I wasn’t born last night. I knew this was a possibility, however remote. I buried that shit deep.
She sorted through at least several days’ worth of festering doo doo before striking gold and getting to that tissue-wrapped condom. My wrapping job wasn’t no joke, either; you’d have to be an expert bathroom trash sifter to recognize such an innocuous wad of paper towels as the Guilt Football of a philandering non-boyfriend. She not only identified it, but then removed it from the surrounding shitty toilet paper, used baby wipes, and dental floss, then unpacked it to confirm the contents, and then took the time to lay it out on my bathroom counter like a display in some immortal Tinderella’s Private Museum of Sexual Oddities:
“This vessel contains the seed of Buddy Do Wrong, the foreign male whom the Countess once had relations with for a period of not more than two months, and whom she most likely permanently turned off to having sex with women before consuming the last ethereal drops of his masculine spirit.”
Or had I consumed her? No, that couldn’t be right. She was certainly acting injured. But maybe this performance, this drama was what she wanted. If she had been so serious about finding Mr. Right and settling down, why had she put up with me being a noncommittal fuck for two precious months of her life? Why had she been such a noncommittal fuck herself? Why was she trying to start a life with a guy she alleged she hated on a weekly basis, every time financial realities forced him to choose PowerPoint over pounding vajeen?
I did everything I was supposed to do in a casual relationship. I laid my cards on the table and told her I’d be dating other women, and she was free to see other men. And yes, she told me in plenty of explicit detail the day after she dug that condom out of my poopy trash that she took that English guy home from the sky bar and let him fuck her a month before this fight ever took place. And yes, I got pissed, not because I felt territorial or jealous. I didn’t, and still don’t care who bangs her or any other girl I’m not exclusively dating, so long as no one involved inadvertently gives me an incurable strain of gonorrhea. Even the curable varieties, I am willing to forgive on a long enough timeline.
I may be a walking Escher maze of stress and rage and genetic death wishes on the inside, but when it comes to my dealings with other people in real life, my attitude is pretty live and let live; mai pen rai; who cares? But that level of hypocrisy I simply can’t abide. I won’t be treated with such mind-boggling double standards by anyone, let alone a woman who is going to peruse through my soiled toilet paper in an attempt to humiliate me in some weird attempt at vindication, and if that means I die alone, then so it goes.
I may be trash… but I am not bathroom trash.
And that is the story of Poop Condom Girl. We are on semi-good terms now. At least, we don’t hate each other. We still texted for a few weeks after our big falling out, and I met up with her once at the night market to shake hands and hug it out. She half-joked how I needed to forgive her for everything because she was younger than me. Uh huh. Right.
I did forgive her, but I didn’t forget, and I never will. She still sends me messages begging me to come over and to have noncommittal sex, because she loves me, because she misses me, and because she doesn’t want to be alone. I get these messages at least twice a day.
But I’m not going to fuck her and I’m not going to kiss her. She can get that from the next poor soul she saps from the bowels of Tinder. I’m sure their relationship will play out in remarkably similar fashion to how ours did, with only a minor exchange of details. Maybe for him, she’ll earn a different nickname. Maybe for him she’ll be Pillow Hair Girl or Chlamydia Girl or the Girl Who Accidentally Started World War 3.
For me, from now until forever, she will be Poop Condom Girl, the girl who stuck her butt-naked fingers in my bathroom trash in search of my semen, without rubber gloves.
That is gross.
Read this and more stories over at Women Ruin Everything.
"If you're gonna raise a ruckus, one word of advice: if you're gonna do wrong, buddy, do wrong right."
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