The Thailand Goddess

Hello there. My name is Larry and this is a true story. It's a slow burn leading to an incredible interracial love and sex between me and an amazing Thai woman named Chalermwan. That means Celebrated Beauty in English. The most unlikely of meetings turns into something rarely found - true connection! I hope you enjoy my tale. As always, if you do enjoy, please feel free to reach out, comment and connect.

Part 1; The meet.

It's one thing to be a tourist. Quite another to be a traveler. I am the latter. Always have been.

Planning a trip to a far-away exotic land, somewhere you've fantasized about over the years is a massive undertaking (FYI: Martini's help). I've always encouraged family and friends to do this at least once in their lives. It is important. Why? Because expanding one's horizons should be a part of personal life goals.

Travel, at its best, rearranges your molecules. It doesn't care about your itinerary. It's here to challenge, unmake, and reforge you. You'll get knocked off course, and if you're lucky, that's when things get good because adventure doesn't come looking for you - you must chase it, then welcome it with open arms and an open heart.

I was back in Bangkok after spending a month at a monastery high up in the mountains, then traveling all over northern Thailand for an additional month. I'd gone from monk, back into my hedonist ways and was enjoying exploring, learning, meeting, eating and drinking throughout all of that amazing country and culture and I wanted more - more of everything.

Everywhere I went, incredibly beautiful local women were a natural aphrodisiac - their own special brand of estrogen-fueled intoxication. From their physical beauty to their kindness and open nature, I was falling in lust every six minutes. And these weren't the ubiquitous bar girls or professionals. These were simply local women, living their Thai lives in that day-to-day world where we all reside.

I hadn't acted on any of my fantasies. There were many reasons for that but let's just say, after my divorce and spiritual quest, I wasn't in the mood for entanglement.

Sex? Sure! But I'm not a one-night-stand guy. I find those activities to be fun, but leaving me wanting for something more soulful - a connection that goes deeper and makes all those orgasms - you know - the one's you share, together, as you eat drink and fuck each other into bliss. A state of being where you look at your lover and absolutely need them naked every time you gaze upon them.

That rampant desire, that lust - for the sights, the scents, the tastes, the sounds, as you ravish each other, wanting nothing more that to get your partner off over and over again - that's what I craved.

Here's a story - a true, real life tale of exactly that kind of connection. I was staying, for two weeks, in the quieter neighborhood of Bangkok's Bang Kho Laem district for a couple of weeks before I would relocated to the craziness of the Sukhumvit for my last three weeks before heading back to the States.

I'd had a wonderful day as I melted into stillness. Nothing to do. Nothing wanted or needed. I'd wandered the neighborhood getting to know my new surrounds. I was hot and sticky - Bangkok's heat and humidity can be overwhelming at times.

Back at the apartment I'd rented, I took a long, luxurious shower, letting the warm water wash away the residue of the day. The kind of shower that stretched time and clears the head - both big and small. It wasn't until I was toweling off that I thought about dinner. No plan. No map. I walked out the door, turned left instead of right, and let fate give me directions for the evening.

The neighborhood had shifted as the hours deepened. What earlier had been sleepy, quiet storefronts near my building were now alive with light. The air smelled different--richer, heavier, laced with the scent of street food mingling with the faintest breeze. Asiatique was waking up, the river of lights stretching along the road in an endless procession trying to get into the parking lots; the city felt like it was just about to burst into song.

And then--I saw them.

At a fresh fruit shop that looked like it had been arranged by an artist with a keen eye for color and shape, balance and perspective, a rainbow of tropical fruit beckoned. But at the very heart of the display, resting like precious jewels amidst the glistening mangoes, papayas, and rambutan, was the queen of all fruits: Mangosteen.

They were on my bucket list before I ever left the States. And. There. They. Were!

Deep purple orbs, the size of a tangerine, glossy like fresh plum skin, radiated a floral, Chinese five spice-sweet perfume that hit me like a punch to the chest. I stopped dead in my tracks. I'm pretty sure I looked half-witted. Possibly drooling. This was fruit transcendence personified. And I wanted them!

A woman appeared from inside the shop. The tag on her blouse said Chalermwan but I was too caught up in the vibrant piles of fruit and the serene, hypnotic way she moved to pin down her name the first time. I tried to pronounce it but butchered the hell out of the rhythm and syllables so come even close to getting it right. I asked her how to pronounce her name just to make sure I could come to a close approximation as it was literally foreign to my ears. "Chal -- erm -- wan," she repeated slowly so my brain could catch up.

She was dirty. She was radiant. She was stunning. Her silky black hair was tied back in a long, flowing ponytail, Her face was gorgeous, and her body was classic Asian lithe and elegant but with breasts. Large breasts hidden underneath a t-shirt and apron. Still - they were obvious, large and heavy. Funnily, she was dusted head to toe in the dirty detritus of a busy fruit stall.

I tried not to stare - at her curves, at her chest, trying not to take her in like an animal.

But it was her glittering eyes and smile that were enough for me to rapidly fall into a stuttering brain-dead fog. I stammered out "Sawatdee krab," which made her eyes brighten even more. And smile. And that smile? It was radiant. Her physical presence caught me off guard, but what really knocked me back was how present she was, how she owned every inch of the space between us. It felt like there was no one else on the street. And that was packed.

She pointed to the mangosteens, her eyes questioning mine, and spoke in rapid Thai, her voice, melodic. Whether she was inviting me to indulge or daring me to pick the best one, like a game, I didn't know--but I stepped closer like that little waif Oliver asking for more. Her English was halting. I was acting like an idiot.

I fumbled with my translator app, the weight of the mangosteen and my deep yearning for it on full display. She looked at me with bemusement as I clumsily confessed to the depth of my desire for her mangosteens, and when she laughed, it was warm and unhurried, an invitation into something both simple and... profound.

Without another word, she snapped open a lock-blade knife with the precision of someone who had honed that motion a thousand times. She tapped the flat of the blade against the firm purple skin like a jeweler inspecting rough stones. She cut with practiced ease, revealing the secret inside: gleaming ivory-white segments of fruit, as pale and luminous as moonlight. With the grace of someone handing over a precious heirloom, she passed me the mangosteen on a napkin, her smile lingering just long enough to leave a trace of warmth.

"Seed very bitter. Not bite and eat," she warned with a smile, making the warning sound as ancient and wise as any old proverb.

I took my first nibble of mangosteen.

Holy Fucking Toledo! Bliss. An almost holy kind of bliss. The taste was a revelation--lychee, banana, peach, cantaloupe... but more. Something floral, ethereal, delicate. Like someone had captured the essence of a flower garden in full bloom and made it edible. The texture was soft, lush, and seductive. I probably looked stoned--euphoric, maybe deranged. But it was the kind of bliss that comes only once in a lifetime. Like losing your virginity.

She was watching me, eyes giving me a thorough once-over with a look that said she was considering calling for help; or maybe it was amusement and... something else. "You like!" she said, her voice dancing with playfulness, as though the entire world's worth of pleasure had just been passed between us in that one moment.

I bowed as gracefully as I could, murmuring "Khob khun krab" like it was some kind of incantation, a prayer of thanks. I reached for my wallet and tried to hand her some Baht notes. She shook her head and gently pushed my hand away.

Watching me devour that mangosteen, looking at me like I had just discovered pleasure for the first time, was apparently payment enough.

Then she asked me, via her phone, if I was a chef.

I typed back: "Not a chef. Just obsessed with beautiful things throughout the world. But back home I cook almost every night."

She nodded thoughtfully, but didn't speak. There was a pause between us, a flicker in her gaze that lingered just a beat longer than might be offered up over a basic transaction.

As I turned to walk away, I saw her eyes following me, her face still illuminated by that soft, radiant smile. Maybe I was still smiling too. And maybe I couldn't tear my eyes away from hers. But damn, I couldn't help it. She was as disarmingly sweet as she was stunningly pretty, and I wasn't ready to leave that moment just yet. I stopped.

I typed I'd return after dinner to pick up a few more if she was still open. She nodded, but didn't speak. As I walked into the Shabu Shabu place just next door, I caught her eyes still following me, her face lit up as she saw my looking back at her.

After a great meal, I returned next door. Through a heroic mixture of bad Thai, bad English, enthusiastic pantomime, and frantic pointing--at fruit, phones, and occasionally each other--Chalermwan and I resumed our mangosteen summit. At one point I obviously botched some pronunciation so badly that she was dripping tears from laughter. Her laugh was infectious and I wondered if I had just asked her if I could have sex with a lawnmower.

After we settled down, she advised me to hide the mangosteens in a bag before returning "home" because hotels didn't allow them in rooms--not for any durian-style stench crimes, but because the rinds bled a vicious, inky purple that could stain even black things purple. "Like black magic," she said, and I lost it.

I studied her then--not just the fruit, not just her broken Thaiglish, but her spark. I asked why was she so into mangosteen? She leaned in just a little, eyes twinkling, and in a quiet conspiratorial voice said, "Make man strong. And delicious!" I laughed and said "everything in Asia makes men strong."

Part 2: Dealing with life.

I had to deal with my visa extension the next day. I'll bypass the long day and bureaucratic mess I delt with but that evening, freshly armed with a new passport stamp and a half-baked sense of accomplishment from the slog, I made my way to Chalermwan's fruit store. The day had drained me, but there was something about the pull of her presence, the easy unhurried rhythm of our exchanges, the twinkle in her eyes, her incredibly sexy body and, of course, the promise of fresh fruit that kept me moving forward. I was both hungry and thirsty, and fruit has that magical ability to satisfy both at once--plus, it was about as far removed from the sterile government building I had spent the day in as I could get.

As I walked up, feeling broken, Chalermwan's face broke into a wide smile. But then she paused as she looked me over, her brows furrowing slightly. I must have looked like I had been through a war zone--face pale, even with a tropical tan, body and mind a little stiff from the long hours of waiting and the monotony of forms and stamps. She asked me something in Thai, her voice laced with concern. I gave her the rundown of my day, exaggerating the boredom for comedic effect, and she laughed, her whole face lighting up in that warm, genuine way that made me feel like I was more than just a customer. She placed her hand on mine and said "It ok. Let's laugh." How wonderfully Thai!

She said something that I didn't catch, but her eyes sparkled with playful amusement, and I caught the playful tone. Then, as if to help me recover from my self-inflicted trauma, she went about selecting an assortment of fruits with a skill that was both practical and poetic. I ended up with a ridiculously juicy pineapple, a candy-sweet sprite melon, ultra-creamy fat bananas, tart mountain oranges, a watermelon so firm, the flesh so crunchy I thought it might squirt red juice if I looked at it wrong, and, naturally, more mangosteens for good measure. She was more than a fruit vendor; she was an artist at work.

She handed me the large bag of fruit, and I could feel the weight of it in my hands, the promise of sweetness within. Then a delightful surprise: along with the hefty bag was a slip of paper, on which she had written her number. I looked at it, then her, raised an eyebrow in surprise--how wonderfully old-school.

I stood there for a moment, gazing at that slip of paper like it was something rare and delicate. This wasn't just a number. It was an invitation, a trust offering in blue ink. And something about it--the simplicity, the directness--cut through the static in my brain like a razor blade. She stared into my eyes challenging me. Challenge accepted. I hadn't felt this kind of pull in a long time. No chase, no pretense. Just presence. Connection. Something beyond mere fascination? Time would tell.

With a smile and an almost frantic clarity to not let this moment slip me by, I put the bag of fruit aside and put her number into WhatsApp, then sent her a quick text with my name. The sound of her phone pinging immediately was like the most perfect confirmation of this little spark that was growing between us.

Her smile widened as she looked back at me, clearly pleased, and I could almost feel her relief at the small but significant gesture of exchange. I felt it too. "Done and done," I said, as if sealing some unspoken deal between us. She opened up the app, found my text, snapped a pic of my bedraggled face to add it to my new profile. I looked like a half awake zombie that desperately needed and shower and shave.

We ended up texting back and forth well into the early morning hours, revealing more about ourselves than either of us had intended. It was one of those late-night conversations where the filters slip away, and the usual guardedness between new acquaintances fades away, replaced by a real desire to know more. It was funny how quickly we both found ourselves sharing things we hadn't planned to, things that came out almost too naturally, as if we'd been talking for years instead of just hours. Each message, each laugh, felt like a small piece of a puzzle we were putting together.

There were no grand gestures, no overly-cautious probing questions about each other's pasts. Just casual exchanges about food, music, art, nature, Buddhism, and the little quirks of our lives--things you'd share over coffee if you weren't already three steps into something deeper. It was honest in that breathable, comfortable way that comes only after the first walls come down, leaving the kind of conversation that feels more like a release than an effort.

As the night stretched on, I could feel the natural pull of sleep starting to weigh on me, but I didn't want to end the conversation. Neither did she. We wrapped things up with a video chat, the glow of our screens illuminating the wee hours before dawn in a way that felt intimate. The sound of her voice, even through the tinny speaker of my phone, had the quiet power to make everything else feel unimportant.

"We meet for dim sum, yes?" she asked, her smile lingering as she wiped a stray strand of hair from her face. "I not work until three."

I agreed without hesitation, because how could I not? The thought of seeing her again, in just a few hours, continuing this thing that felt so simple, yet unexpectedly profound, felt not only right, but needed.

And then, she did something that made my heart flutter for a micro-second. With that mischievous smile of hers, she leaned into the phone, closer to her camera and asked, "What we do after breakfast?"

The question hung there for a moment, heavy with potential, and I found myself searching her eyes for something more. Was it flirtation? Curiosity? Or just a playful spark between two people testing the waters? Whatever it was, it made my chest tighten, and for the first time in a long time, I felt that flutter of possibility.

It was effortless, though. The whole thing felt effortless, like we were both stepping into something that was already meant to be. There was no pretense, no weighing of expectations or false starts. It just was. And that's the way it's supposed to be when an unexpected, yet welcome connection lands in your life.

We had a date!

Part 3: The next morning.

And it wasn't the kind of date shaped by the usual rituals and expectations--no heavy build-up or awkward pauses. It was just two people, connecting, in the simplest and most natural way. One bag of fruit, mangosteens included, at a time.

Dim sum with Chalermwan was delightful. Our morning was filled with charming surprises and laughter. She was genuinely impressed with my chopstick skills--though I've been using them since I was a little boy and had enough practice in dim sum joints and Asian restaurants all around the globe to be a decent contender in any contest.

Her expertise however, was in the obscure, in the dim sum secrets that menus dared not whisper to anyone outside the inner sanctum. She ordered dishes that weren't listed, the cooks whipping them up just for us. One standout blew my mind and has kept me awake at night ever since trying (and failing) to find the name of it. It was a whipped scallop and chive mousse ball, dipped in corn starch and rice flour, then fried to golden perfection. Ethereal, is the only word I can think of. An amazing thin layer of crunch, followed by a creamy molten mousse of scallop and chive yumminess. I wondered if there was some kind of divine culinary intervention throwing us together.

Over breakfast, Chalermwan confessed that she had seen me the day before, sitting and eating alone, confidently navigating the sea of dim sum as if I were born with chopsticks in my hand. She teased me about it, about how much I ordered, and I couldn't help but laugh along. There was something about the way she spoke and the way her warmth radiated out of her when she brazenly locked her eyes with mine--like she saw me in a way no one else had, not with judgment, but with curiosity and something a little mischievous.

I asked her more about herself. When she told me she had family in San Francisco but could never afford the trip, I felt a sudden but unmistakable pang of empathy that I didn't expect. I felt her. It was strange how her voice had a quiet powerful ache when she mentioned it, a desire that wasn't just about the trip itself but about something deeper--about wanting to escape, to see the world beyond what she knew. I'd never seen such longing in anyone's eyes. She wasn't just dreaming about a city; she was dreaming about possibilities, freedom, and the hope to visit someplace so far out of reach.

We shared stories of our lives: my California adventures and the fact that I had spent over thirty years not only living in, but exploring every inch of San Francisco. I talked about the rhythm of the fog rolling over the Golden Gate and how the horns bellowed from vessels unseen through the surface-bonded clouds, the way the city changed from dawn to dusk, the way every street had its own character. Her eyes lit up as I described the broad sky over the Richmond District at sunset, how the ocean breeze smelled like cool salt and far away ports, and how you could walk down Market Street, hear a hundred different languages, but somehow it still felt like home.