Another Peach at the Beach: The Good Girl Quandary

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What is really possible with a good girl?

In the months after my brief affair with the buxom peach, I often thought of that afternoon when I ravished her creamy young body on the shabby leather couch – and I came to a point when it was no longer possible to take the Khmer good girl’s famed innocence for granted.

Things collapsed with her, as we all know well, but I continued to dream of sweet afternoon trysts with a shyly sinful young peach. Then one found me. She was a tall, slim, elfin beauty. She was in her last year at university and worked part-time at an office. She lived with her family in a nice house and got picked up from school in a new Camry. This was a suitable candidate.

She’d got my number from a friend, who’d told her that I was a nice guy, and she’d shyly texted me to meet for coffee. We’d never seen each other before, and she was quite careful at this first meeting. I sat alone at the table, sipping a cup of tea, when my phone rang. As soon as I raised it to see the number, the ringing stopped.

She was watching from across the room, and only now that she’d seen me did she chose to introduce herself. She was there with a friend, chosen both to maintain a Khmer sense of decorum and to offset her own attractiveness, as this other girl was a tubby little flat-faced thing with glasses.

There may have been one more reason for this friend?s presence: she spoke almost fluent English, was bursting with enthusiasm, and could keep up an almost endless stream of light-hearted chatter. After an hour, I found that I?d spoken no more than a few words to my shy, yet elegant, peach.

I thought my peach was just not ripe yet. She needed time, and then she would become sweet. But after a hundred text messages in the space of a week, and one or two more casual meetings in the company of her friend, she was just as shy and quiet as ever.

I may not make the best choices when evaluating suitable candidates. This one was unengaging, even unresponsive, but simple and sweet. I would probably do well to settle for this type of girl. But I’m always drawn to screaming, psychotic bitches whose irresistible charisma goes hand in hand with an instinctive mastery of psychological warfare.

I tried to put this elegant peach out of my mind. She persisted with text messages and even little presents, but I avoided meeting her because I didn?t want to play with her heart. Not an easy task, being honourable – a high-minded stance under attack from all man’s lustful, predatory instincts.

Then one day she put herself directly in harm’s way, and my fragile honour was put to the test. I was on holiday in Kompong Som with a group of friends. She arrived, for a single night, and stayed with family friends. I had no doubt that she’d come, at least in part, to see me some place where she had a bit more freedom.

She called me that afternoon. There was a tremor in her voice. She told me she was staying with family friends in the town. She almost insisted that we meet later. I wasn’t sure what to do. I knew it was a bad idea. The excitement would be too much. But I couldn’t refuse.

So we met. First, we went for a drink. She didn’t touch hers. That was a formality. A glass of juice only. I gulped my beer. I’d had too many cocktails already, and I was a bit drunk, and I was beginning to lose my tactfulness.

I let her chose where to go next. She took me to one of the ‘romantic’ spots that young Khmers like – the places where these conservative, virginal, oh so innocent young things go to canoodle and caress in the darkness. In Kompong Som, the Lion Circle seems increasingly popular, but she took me to an isolated little park by a beach halfway between Victory Hill and the port.

I don’t think we’d ever made physical contact. But I put my hand on her knee as I leaned back on my bike and turned my head so that she could speak into my ear. And then when we walked down to the beach, I took the opportunity to put my hand on her back. And I noticed that on the third or fourth time she mounted my bike, she put a hesitant, but yearning hand on my shoulder to help her up.

She kept saying she had to go home soon. And I was drunk enough to be bold, or perhaps rude, and say at least five times that evening, ‘You can just sleep at my hotel.’ She had selective hearing. There was never a direct response.

Then she started joking about going for a swim. She used the opportunity to grab my hand, and when she sat down our hands were still together. I turned persuader. When she asked what she’d do about her clothes, I gave the obvious answer – we’d go down to a secluded spot, where it was dark, and no one would see, and we’d swim naked.

She demurred at every suggestion. I asked why we didn’t go for a stroll. She would always reply that it was too dark or too quiet, exactly why I’d chosen the place, so I could get her alone, away from the eyes of the other couples, and perhaps pry a kiss out of her, and from there see how far I could go.

I love all this teenage sexual innuendo. It can become frustrating. But it is strangely exciting in a town where a young tart can have your lovewand in her mouth before you’ve cracked your beer. When you can go out for a fuck at any time, the thrill of just touching a virgin girl’s hand, and knowing how thrilling it is to her, can be sensational.

The question is, how far do you go? There is a chance, given her unusual interest in foreigners, that she’s not the most conventional type. She is after a foreigner. That is for certain. Without simplifying too much, that at least suggests she’s not quite as burdened by tradition as much as the average peach.

Now the harder I push to find out, the more I commit myself. Can I go for a bit of fun, and break her heart, because I won’t really matter to her later anyway? Or is it just the wrong thing to do? I can never bring myself to say, ‘I love you.’ But you don’t have to actually say the words to give someone a false impression, and just knowingly giving that impression is tantamount to deception.

I always swear that I will never see these peaches again. I feel built up frustration. I realise that it was stupid to have met in the first place, that I shouldn?t fool around with a good girl unless I’m serious, but later – well, I just can’t help myself.

Sexually frustrated backpacker chicks coming to Southeast Asia to ‘find themselves’ and have their first sexual experience need not give up their maidenheads to drunken dreadlocked beachboys at the next fullmoon party on Ko Pha Ngan. Contact the author, Arch Sex Wizard Mackenzie Hathaway, at [email protected] Please include a recognisable subject line. Prices subject to change without notice.

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