|A Thai kuman thong amulet.|
I've been making love to this ghost girl for the third time now. I know, it all sounds quite impossible, right?
But when you are weighed down by the weariness of a day's work (that consisted of three jobs in this gig economy), fuzzed up by the edge of REM sleep each night, then what's real and not soon become a blur.
Besides, she is at that sweet age of her mid-20s, not too young and importantly, not jaded by life yet. Or death, in her case.
I never quite got the chance to really ask about her death. She would appear, we would cuddle and then it is on to passionate lovemaking. Afterwards, I would fall asleep (as most guys do) and by the time morning crows, she was gone. Only the slight indentation on the bed reminded me she was once there.
The first time it happened I thought it was a dream. But as evidence on the sheets mounted, I knew it wasn't just a wet dream like when I was a teenager. I'm already in my 30s and already tutored by some of the best MILFs around. Giving home tuition has its perks, is all I can say. The Kumon Method? More like the Cum'on Method of seduction by desperate housewives.
You might think a ghost girl to be frightening to behold, much less cuddle. But the long hair, white gown only served to remind me of an ex-GF who had the habit of practicing her seamstress skills on extra plain bedsheets. She even sewed me a cover for my motorbike once. It was funny undressing her as it would seem like I was just getting my 1200cc Suzuki beast out out of the garage. But instead it was she who was the beast that rode me hard.
"Come on, TC, rev me up," she would say, pinning me down and pinch-rolling my biceps as if they were bike handle throttles or something. She would then grind me at the other end like she was turning and banking on some MotoGP track.
Or on an arcade racing machine at TimeZone.
That she also had a license to ride my big bike only added to the excitement. Vroom, vroom ba ba vroom! Sadly this relationship did not last. We ran out of fuel after a year.
Many a breakfast morning, I tried to imagine what this ghost girl was like. I knew she was pretty, her cheekbones accented by, as usual, questionable make-up her kind were apt to deploy. At least she acquiesced to not wearing garish lipstick that pierced the night!
I hated kissing girls with any form of lipstick. It's akin to asking me to savour paint. Since three years old, I had stopped doing that. A wall in my ancestral home still bear marks of my pudgy hands there, no doubt as an inside family joke for "posterity". I wished I had the sense to pee all over their shoes at the time, but the place was laid over with plastic sheets and they rendered my baby walker pretty much immobile.
Without lipstick her lips were deathly pale. It only encouraged me to want to breathe more life into her. Ardent kissing fueled by a sense of altruism?
Kissing this ghost girl was interesting. She didn't have a long tongue like a pontianak (thank god!) but it was not short either. But tongue gymnastics aside, this ghost girl would swallow my tongue over and over again without me feeling "tugged" or strained. The feeling is not unlike trying to hold on to trout leaping over and over again to get back upstream. Your tongue only feel desire over and over again. Actually, it felt like it was being wanked.
At the other end, she would work the same with a free hand of hers, soon erecting the necessary 'tentpole' to climb on to.
As a guy, being worked at both ends like that was especially satisfying. That I did not have to coach her was even more golden. Soon I would come inside her warming what must be a hollow that was once an uterus alive.
At this her belly region would glow green as if my seed radiated some kind of power. The power of life, I suppose. That was satisfying somehow. I felt I needed to return her a favor anyhow.
Why this ghost girl would want my seed, I do not know. And as a single man, I was glad to have any sort of sexual liaison in the middle of the night without any romantic preamble. I counted myself extremely lucky.
And ghost girls do not (or cannot) rob you blind after you have fallen asleep, unlike some social escorts with questionable ethics.
And just as quietly as she had arrived, she would slip away before the morning crows.
The morning after our third liaison, I met my friend Pang for breakfast at the downstairs kopitiam near where I lived. Pang was an old friend who had an unusual profession. He's a temple consultant. He teaches temple folk the necessary Taoist practices to get their temple going as a neighborhood concern. What joss papers to burn, the important festivals to observe and carry out, how to raise funds during Qing Ming, new baby blessings, etc.
Pang was as sensitive and attuned to such matters as they come. And after nursing our first cups of coffee, he noticed something unusual with my hands, especially the fingers.
"Your nails have a dark edge," was all he said, matter-of-factly. I stared at them and true enough, the side edges of my nails were stained with a creeping darkness. They looked like they should belong on a corpse.
I didn't know what it meant at the time. Maybe just a lack of nutrition and rest from working three jobs a day?
In reality, my work life has been sucking all the energy out of me. I often wished I could do something about it. But the bills and credit letters keep piling up.
"Did you encounter anything unusual recently?" Pang asked. Knowing him, he was implying if there was anything supernatural.
I know I was being selfish, but I loved this 'arrangement' with my ghost girl. Well, not so much an arrangement than me being a willing victim, you know, in the middle of the night, just over the cusp of REM sleep and getting laid whilst in a wonderful dream state. It's been a while since I slept with such bliss without the influence of alcohol or sleeping pills. And I hated using them both for that purpose. One's addiction in life should be the person you cuddle with.
I shrugged my shoulders to indicate indifference and Pang did not pursue the matter further. "Just watch yourself," was all he said. We then moved on to our favorite topic: food. This time it was about a new briyani rice place nearby.
Two nights on, the ghost girl came again. I could tell simply by the sweet smell that preceded her.
Instinctively, I would reach over to hug her. Of course, I would first get a mouthful of her long hair. Laughing and brushing them aside, I would then stroke her long neck, wondering about the scar (or bruise) that shines there. I couldn't be sure in the dim light what caused it, and didn't feel I had the right to ask.
And if she had committed suicide by hanging, so be it. It was none of my business. She wasn't an aggressive spirit so she couldn't have been an aggrieved person out for revenge. Nor did she give out the vibe that she had old scores to settle.
I know I shouldn't be this laissez faire about the whole affair. And I wasn't out to "take advantage" of her. Truth be told, I felt more "nursed" than anything. At a time when I was desperately trying to make ends meet and also to navigate a devastating pandemic, she was coddling and giving me much comfort, if not actually love.
She also did not need to wear no mask, and I was glad.
On this particular night, I decided to drink kopi-O gau to keep awake. As usual, at around four, she came. One moment a shadow outside my window, the next a demure nymph beside me in bed.
Her sweet scent was overpowering, rendering me speechless.
Soon, she was ardently and earnestly kissing me again. A new hunger in her this time, I noticed. Her hands were equally urgent, working my manhood into a stiff member that soon strained against the fabric of her gown, like a lance suddenly falling onto a curtain and stretching it to a point. A long, eager point.
Quickly, she lifted her gown to make way, and I was soon inside her moist insides eager to explore further.
Again she rode me like rodeo, her perky breasts this time silhouetting against the light coming in from the corridor.
I reached out for them, closed my eyes and began rocking to her rhythm. At a certain point I would climax and leave my seed inside her. She would sigh, satisfied.
This time, however, she didn't get the chance to lie beside me. Often she would do that until I fell asleep.
On this night, however, she was simply yanked away like a piece of paper snatched out from thin air, vanishing in a puff of vapor.
As a matter of fact, a shepherd's hook did appear from nowhere around her neck. One yank and she was gone.
Instinctively, I reached out to grab at her but to no avail. She was taken away way too quickly, only leaving a faint trail of green... what's left of my seed.
Soon the scene jarred back to normal. That of an HDB estate getting ready to wake up and go about its business.
That she was so suddenly whisked away this time shocked me. Was it always like that the previous times even when I was asleep? No one, I mean no ghost even, should be unceremoniously exited like that.
I tried to think more about it but was simply too goddamn tired to go on. I soon fell asleep - a sleep that was both deep and uneasy.
The next morning happened to be my day-off. It was already near lunch time and I decided to explore a new town that had sprung out next to where I lived. There was a new briyani stall Pang had suggested I should go try.
It was situated in a kopitiam together with a row of spanking new shops.
Interestingly, the shop at the row's end sold Thai amulets. The man inside was dressed in a casual yellow shirt not too dissimilar to those worn by Taoist priests under their robes. His hands were busy making a wooden doll with black hair and a white gown. A bit crude, I thought. Perhaps he would add finer finishes to it later and place it amongst the gold and brightly colored deities that often took residence in those four-sided altars popular with such religious practices.
I also noticed an unusual staff (pole) leaning against the wall at the far corner. A staff with a hook at the top not unlike those used by Western shepherds of yore.
I didn't think too much of that at the time, being much more taken aback by the vast array of amulets this shop had on offer. But the smell of briyani rice had also wafted in to remind me of my original mission. After a night of passionate lovemaking, I was ready to eat a big plate of mutton curry rice.
Back home, I soon got online to find out more about those Thai amulets. They were such mysterious objects yet rumored to be very powerful in changing one's destiny.
Could they help get me away from this pointless gig economy into a more permanent job with good prospects?
Maybe also establish a long term relationship with someone to start a family with eventually?
What I found out about Thai amulets was a bit shocking. Basically, there were two kinds: one that radiated Buddha's blessing, the other was to cast a spell. In other words, black magic.
And there was this "kuman thong" - an amulet that contained the spirit of a baby or child. It could be used either for good or bad. But often it was used for evil deeds at the command of a 'master'.
At that I recoiled in horror. I put a hand to my mouth in shock at the sudden realization that perhaps my ghost girl was being used as a mule, much like the drug mules (girls) deployed by drug lords in Columbia to smuggle drugs across bothers. Drugs that were either carried in their stomachs or as a tampon.
Was my ghost girl being used to harvest human seed to cultivate some kind of kuman thong to do evil?
Was that why she was yanked away so unceremoniously after each job was done.
I gagged and vomited there and then, the room quickly filling up with the warm stench of recently ingested briyani rice.
I looked at my nails and found the dark edges having crept slightly deeper. What would happen if all my nails become black? Would the dark rings under my eyes get severe as well? Would that spell the end of me?
But my thoughts quickly turned to my ghost girl and if she was in such a bondage. If she was compelled under threat of spell by some evil Taoist priest to do what she was doing?
And what can I do to free her? Would I even see her again?
In panic I grabbed my phone and called Pang. If anybody knew what to do, it would be him.
- the end (by TC Lai, 9th May 2021)