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The most wonderful thing a lover has ever done for me was to give me my life. I didn't understand it at the time, but if he had loved me as I wanted him to—as I begged him to—I would be long dead today.

The days of my sexual coming of age in Bangkok, Thailand, during the mid seventies through the mid eighties were paradise followed by a rude awakening, a realization of how life can come back at you hard that I didn't fully realize until I had left the City of the Angels the first time I lived there. Bangkok was an open city with no sense of moral wrong. If you could afford it and enjoyed it, more power to you, and no one would pass judgment, let alone hassle you. It was the tail end of the "free love" hippy era, before the realization of the existence of AIDS or the widespread use of condoms. It was flesh on and in flesh and do whatever jacks you off.

I ached for David, who, along with the hairdresser lover he had finagled into the country with a diplomatic passport, lived in the same apartment compound I did. David was a U.S. diplomat, who made flights every other week in and out of Saigon to register and transport the bastard children of U.S. servicemen from the recent war who the Hanoi regime was permitting to leave the country for a high price. A price being quietly covered by the U.S. government.

David was a magnificent black man, solidly built and beautiful in every way. His lover had come over officially as the tutor of David's three ...

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