The Burmese Fantasy

Authors Note:

I wrote this story loosely based on my own experiences, but the characters and details therein are purely fictional. While writing this story, I struggled with the dilemma of whether to make the story longer, more in-depth, and go deeper into the characters, but, as my objective was to make a first effort at writing something erotic, and keep it around 5000-6000 words, I've sacrificed a bit of character depth.

I am aware of the western orientalist, male fantasies in this story, but I don't apologise for them, the reader can interpret them however they wish!

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My name is Erik, from Sweden, at the time of this story I was 25 years old. This is a story of beauty, passion and sex; a story of that which I thought I'd never know. It had been three years since my last romantic experience. My last girlfriend was a disaster: we met when I was 22, during a year out in Vietnam. She was two years younger than me, a student in my University, but, from a maturity perspective, she seemed about half my age.

Judging by appearances, she seemed to be the perfect girlfriend: uncommonly attractive, sensitive, inexperienced but still willing to make the first move. For the first few weeks, it was the ideal romance; after a few dates around Hanoi, I persuaded her to take time out from University, so we could go travelling around North Vietnam together. I could tell she was even more inexperienced in love than I was, so we started our romantic relationship as slowly as possible, just kissing and holding each other whenever we were alone together. At this time, we both felt the passion of youth and the pleasure of each other's company; although I hadn't thought about love or attachment, I thought she was great and she adored me.

One night, however, everything changed. After a few too many drinks one night by the Mekong River, I forgot about the whole idea of taking it slowly, and we slept together in a cheap guesthouse room. Although I'd had a girlfriend before, this was how I lost my virginity, and the sex was depressingly quick and empty. I thought maybe that would put her off, make her lose interest in me, but the result was quite the opposite.

That night, she told me she loved me, and, as it always does when the uncertain quantity of love enters the otherwise simple equation, it all started to get difficult.

Whereas previously I had simply enjoyed spending time with her, now she wanted to see me all the time, became angry when I didn't return her calls. Put crudely, she turned into a control freak; she was constantly making failed attempts to hide the fear that, every moment we spent apart, I would be spending time with other girls. As soon as I revealed that I had experienced a (non-sexual) relationship before, a now-lesbian girl from Denmark who I'd met in my teens, and I was still in e-mail contact with her, her desire to control me turned to obsession. The more emotionally attached she was to me, the more my attachment to her became one of responsibility and guilt, rather than any genuine affection.

This couple of months, the situation became progressively more difficult for me. I hated myself for letting the situation progress in this way, hated myself for sleeping with her when I wasn't ready for all of the responsibility. Not only this, I hated her for making me feel this way, and, in a typical spiral of self loathing, hated myself for hating someone so wonderful. Despite this, we slept together a few more times, whenever she wanted, maybe out of lack of self-control, maybe due to some self-destructive urge on my part, maybe just simple lust. But I never enjoyed it, it was simply a release of all the built up tension, which afterwards never felt like relief, but more as an increased burden. I felt progressively worse, as if I was digging myself deeper into a trap set by and for myself.

My time in Vietnam was limited, I was on a part time teaching project before my MA, and I viewed my departure with both hope and apprehension. I did not want to stay with her, I had to leave, had to feel free again. Going back to Sweden was a perfect excuse; I couldn't stay any longer, even if I wanted to.

She struggled to come to terms with the fact that I was leaving and her emotional state deteriorated. I tried to do the impossible, make it clear that I still appreciated her, still thought she was fantastic, but break it to her that we could never be together. By this time, I felt nothing but a fragile friendship and a misplaced sense of responsibility for her, even her beauty reminded me of both her innocence and my own guilt. To continue a romantic relationship in this situation was worse than a lie. But she was so sweet, a really fantastic person; to break a heart like that would surely tear me apart.

But I had to. For her sake and for my own. I had fantasies that she would smile with utter serenity and forgiveness and say something like: "It was a beautiful time we had together, I wish you all the best. We cannot hope for anything more than what we have experienced, go and feel at peace." But I knew that reality could never be like that.

When I left for Stockholm that summer, after I broke off internet contact, she sent me page-long emails filled with first longing and sadness, then bitterness and vitriol. I read every one, but couldn't find any words to respond. I felt that any words, any excuses would simply hurt her more, best that she hate me and then forget me. After a few months of ignoring her, her emails became less frequent, less coherent and more disturbing, she started to talk about giving up University, threatened to hurt herself, even talked about suicide.

As the emails trickled in every week or two, I fell again and again into a guilt spiral. Conversations, films or books reminding me of love, sex, emotion, Vietnam, her; everything triggered off emotions of self-hate and shame. How could I have done something so terrible to someone so wonderful? She broke off all contact in the second year, with a last e-mail with nothing but the words: "You have ruined my life." For the first time since leaving Vietnam, I replied: "I've ruined my own life too."

I heard nothing more from her, but a friend there told me she had been married to a rich friend of her fathers, something that she had always said was her biggest fear. Although the rich man could be kind, gentle and handsome, I could not allow myself to think of anything other than the worst possible outcome: a cruel, aggressive, ugly, old man with a passion for girls half of his age. The idea somehow seemed utterly repulsive to me, and I felt more and more certain that I had ruined her life.

I searched for the moment that everything started to go wrong, the moment my curse began. Was it the sex? The impossibility of love? The guilt? There had to be something concrete or even something abstract and comprehensible to blame. After a while, I managed to push these thoughts to the back of my mind, and just concentrated on my master's degree research, I worked like a machine from day to night, learning Burmese in any free time I had.

Maybe one good thing came from the trauma she had given to me, I became a social recluse and got the top grades in my year, receiving a scholarship with Oxford University doing a Southeast Asian studies PhD. The following spring, by which time I would be 24, I was going to go to Burma (Myanmar) to research the Kachin people in the northern mountain regions. It was a fantastic opportunity, as Burma had only recently opened up to western researchers. All this time, I had consciously avoided spending any time with girls; although not unattractive (my blonde hair received a lot of admiring comments in Vietnam) I was a bit of a wreck, understandably no-one had tried to start a relationship with me. In Stockholm, I only had a few female friends, fortunately, they were all either spoken for or categorically unappealing (or both), and whenever we met up in class, I was always happier just talking about work.

University work was refreshingly tiring; I could focus all day on anthropological and linguistics studies without my thoughts turning inwards. Only in my dreams would my deep feelings of guilt, shame and lust reveal themselves. Oxford was a wonderful place, idyllic for a student, and I began to prepare my research, learning the structure and phonology of the Kachin language. The scholars around me gradually made me feel truly passionate about my subject, and doing fieldwork in Burma seemed like the perfect dream to aspire to.

One Year Later: Kachin State, Burma

It has seemed a dream, and now here I was, in the idyllic mountain regions of Northern Burma, trying to learn the obscure, but undoubtedly beautiful language of the Kachin people. My basic Burmese was useful when talking to the men and children in the area, but all of the older people, and almost all of the women could only speak Kachin. Complete language immersion was essential to learning such a difficult and obscure language, so I spent a lot of my time with the group who spoke the least Burmese: older Kachin women. Academically, I was in paradise; as there were no major political issues, and the area was so remote, the government didn't seem to interfere in this village at all, so I was given free reign to spend all day observing and taking part in the lifestyles of the local people. All I had to do was leave for Mandalay once a month to sort out visa issues.

Emotionally, I felt more satisfied, more engaged with a sense of community than I ever had in my one-man apartment room in Sweden or my halls in Oxford. I had no interest in starting a romantic relationship at this time, especially owing to the fact that my previous experience with girls in Asia had been so devastating. So I was going to be single for the foreseeable future, and I was happy that way. I felt that romance, sex and, especially, love could only bring problems to my life.

Most mornings, I would teach at the local school, teaching English and basic numeracy to young kids, both as a way of becoming accepted as a useful part of the community and feeling a sense of personal worth. My afternoons were spent with the older, married women, who, after working in the fields in the morning, spent their afternoons leisurely embroidering and preparing food together in the main square of the village. They would sit together, laughing, gossiping; talking mainly about their husband's work, their children's schooling and their limited understanding of the outside world. After a few months of listening in, they at last got used to my presence, and I was beginning to gain a basic understanding of what they were saying. I gradually started to take them one by one, to the side of the room, both to practice one-on-one conversation and to ask more specific questions about life in a Kachin community.

The mothers among them often had one topic in mind, which, as a single, male anthropology student, made me feel rather awkward.

"You are a handsome boy, my daughter is still not married, you should marry her."

I had heard this sentence countless times and, on occasion, they led their daughters, sometimes around half my age, to my room, they would dress in their finery and speak with me in broken English. Despite the standing and acceptance it would offer me in their community, I declared that we had moral standards in our field that forbade us from marrying locals. To be honest, I had literally no interest in marrying a Kachin girl, so I always politely declined.

But, at this stage, despite my social acceptance, I was somehow feeling physically unfulfilled. I had stopped my teenage habit of pleasuring myself after Vietnam, it felt so dirty and shameful, whatever I thought of. Accepting this, and remaining celibate, was liberating in a way, I learnt to control my fleeting desires, but there was still a feeling of frustration, like something in me needed release. Fleeting fantasies would enter my mind, and I would fight to control them. It was just that this act of self-control made me feel in denial of my primal instincts, in denial of my masculinity. I could cope, even thrive with such control, but the question crept into my head: "Is this living?" I felt as if I was somehow cheating myself.

However, I was not even tempted for a second by the charming, young Kachin brides; the Vietnamese girl had been too young. After these years of guilt, youth no longer represented beauty and innocence to me; it had become a mark of unmanageable responsibility and shame.

The women usually spoke with me about everyday parts of village life, or asked me simple questions about my home; they asked about the food, the girls and the weather in Sweden, which I was happy to talk about, even if the questions did tend to repeat themselves a little too often. One of these women, whose name was Nan-Hun, however, was an exception. She was possibly a little younger than the others, probably in her early forties, although I never felt the need to ask. The other women were becoming stout in their middle age, with greying hair, prominent wrinkles and the weight-gain of many pregnancies evident in their figures.

Nan-Hun was not only physically different, slimmer, more graceful and lithe, but she also appeared mature, thoughtful and, as I quickly realised, uncommonly intelligent. Although she was allowed to sit with them, the other women all seemed to reject her in a way, as if she was dirty, or an outcast. However, she showed no signs of shame or an inferiority complex; she always spoke to me in full confidence, and was willing to speak out against the other women whenever she did not agree with them, which was very frequently.

Gradually, after a few brief conversations, I felt a kind of rapport with Nan-Hun, and as such I started to speak with her more than anyone else; every day I would ask about the customs and history of her people and she would speak clearly and thoughtfully. Although she had taught herself Burmese and some English, she was happy to speak slowly, in Kachin, to help me to learn. She taught me so much, and saw her own culture with such an astute and critical attitude she could almost have completed my PhD for me.

She asked questions about Sweden, Europe and the rest of the world, she would ask questions about culture, art and music. These things she loved more than anything else, with a longing I could never know. She had heard about opera, heard classical music on occasion, but never had the chance to really experience it "in a theatre, as it should be." When she spoke of such things, a tragic sense of unfulfilled desire entered the clear, bright tones of her Kachin speech. She would speak of such things almost every day. Even though communication was difficult, we would both enjoy the company and the novelty of sharing our knowledge and experience.

Despite wanting to fulfil her desires of hearing about the west, one day, I reluctantly confessed that I had little interest in the 'high culture' that she was so fascinated by. She was very understanding, and asked me about my own passions. I told her about Swedish folklore, our history and folk music, which, although her knowledge was non-existent, she was equally enthusiastic about. As I have always loved music more than anything else, I spoke for a long time about the instruments, folk songs and musicians in my country. She smiled throughout, and, at the end, asked me to sing for her.

With all the women watching, and naturally feeling a little shy, I didn't dare to risk ridicule, but told her we could go for a walk and I would pluck up the courage to sing a few lines.

"You know it is unbecoming for a woman to be alone with a man she does not want to marry." She said quietly, but not quietly enough.

"But no-one would think about marrying you anyway." A nearby woman shouted out.

"Say what you want, you snake tongued old witch." Nan-Hun replied with vitriol.

"It's you who's the witch, be careful with her, you know she was born..."

"Quiet, do not speak of such things." Another older woman intervened, her wrinkled face sharp with anger, that instantly softened into a smile as she turned to us, "The two of you are safe to walk in our village, and as she is far too old to marry such a young man, you call her 'aunt', and she should be respected as such."

We both thanked the elderly lady, who we called 'old grandmother', as a term of respect, for her blessing and walked away. This was the first time we had spoken together outside the group and this freedom felt liberating; without the prying ears of housewives, she could speak freely.

"You know... they think I am cursed, when I was a child, I would not be like the other children, I would run off for days at a time to be in the mountains, and, when other children couldn't even find berries to eat, would come back with freshly hunted game. I could read and write when my elder brothers were still struggling to speak clearly... I could see things that others could not. Even the monks in the temple were a little afraid of me; they were not willing to accept me as a nun. No-one would marry me; I was an outcast at the time and remain as such. I resented it then, but now I am happy with this. I can live with the community, helping the orphans and the elderly, a husband would only try to control my life."

Although I had always guessed there was some kind of stigma surrounding her, I was shocked to hear it spoken so clearly. The dark amber of her eyes seemed to glow as she spoke, and her confident smile created a sense of awe in my heart. We were silent for a long while as we wondered towards the edge of the rice fields around the village.

"Will you sing me the songs of your homeland?" she asked.

"If you wish." I paused for a second, and started to sing a song in a quiet, yet strong voice. It was one of my favourites, which I had learnt from my father fifteen years ago, while he was still alive. She listened patiently, with a serene smile. After the last verse, my face was flushed with embarrassment, but I was happy to have sung rather well, having remembered almost all of the words.

"What it is about?"

"It is a love song, about a young maiden whose lover goes to war; when he returns, she has been taken in marriage by another man, and the lover must kill him to regain his honour. I've only sung one half of the story... At the end, they are both killed by the family of the murdered man."

"It is a tragedy?" She used the English word, maybe there was no such thing in Kachin.

"Maybe, but I don't think so, dying like that, their love could be eternal."

Her smile faded and she fell silent for a minute. As she stared into the distant Kachin Mountains, a glaze began to form in her eyes.

"You believe in love." She asked, speaking in broken English.

"Sometimes."

"I could never fall in love, my culture; my people could not allow it, those like us, are fortunate if we can find friendship." She looked into my eyes and smiled, as if she had finally found a friend, then her gaze became inquisitive and she asked: "Have you fallen in love?"

I was shocked to realise, this was the only time any one had asked me this question. My mind flashed back to the Vietnamese girl from four years ago.

"No. Not really..."

She was silent, patient and open, with no sign of judgement in her eyes, so I decided to repeat my story. I found it a struggle in Kachin, and often used English words as substitutes. Upon saying these words, I looked to her to see if she had understood, every time she nodded and I would continue. When I started to speak, I had not expected to say so much, I did not think I would dare to speak so deeply, and had definitely not expected to mention the sex. In my experience, no-one spoke of sex directly in this society, and I didn't know how to express these ideas in Kachin, but she listened so attentively, made me feel so at ease that I felt I could say anything. I just used the English phrase, 'make love', and she understood, looking down at her feet awkwardly for a second, before restoring her serene smile.