Call me when you’re sober

I lost my Cambodian SIM card when I went to Johannesburg last April. Pre-paid SIM cards are not readily available in Cambodia. Each must be registered to someone, and if you’re a foreigner, you need to present your passport and a lease to a house or flat before any SIM card will be issued to you. My own SIM card was purchased in 2004 through a Cambodian colleague, who put it under her name. I had meant to have the card transferred to my name but I never got around to it.

So when I came back I went through the process of recovering my old number and at the same time, register this number to my name. The process, in true Cambodian fashion, took very long to finish, requiring many trips to the phone company and struggling to communicate with the staff who spoke varying degrees of English.

I bought another SIM card to use while waiting for my old number. I found it easier to buy a new SIM card but I was determined to keep my old number. I have since recovered my old number, but I opted to continue using this new number. I used it as contact number for the survey team. Aside from them, less than 10 of my friends know that this number is still active. Last night I had this exchange of text messages with someone whose number wasn’t also registered in my phonebook. I don’t know why I let this exchange go on for a long time.

X: Hi (my name), how are you? Did you forget about me?

Me: Hi, I’m okay. Who is this please? 

X: Where are you? What are you doing now?

Me: At home. Who is this?

X: You forgot me already? We had great sex once.

Me: I don’t know this number. Please tell me your name.

X: You said you’d never forget the night we spent together. You still can’t guess who I am?

Me: Just tell me your name.

X: Ratanak

Me: I don’t know anyone named Ratanak who knows this number. Who are you really? 

X: I am a friend of XYZ*. He told me about you and gave me your number.

*XYZ is a married guy I’ve been intermittenly involved with for the last 3 years or so; a fuck-buddy, one can call him that

Me: So, we haven’t really met, have we?

X: No.

Me: Well, please tell XYZ that I’m upset that he’s passing my number around to other people. I’ve put up with enough sh*t from him and if he keeps this up, he’ll be sorry!

X: This is XYZ. I’m sorry for that.

I do not respond to this message. Then my phone rings. I pick up.

XYZ: (noisy background) Hi, sorry for that.

Me: XYZ?

XYZ: Yes, I have a new number. Are you mad?

Me: You’re crazy, you know that?

XYZ: (laughs) What are you doing now?

Me: Working. Where are you?

XYZ: At a restaurant, with my friends. We just had dinner.

Me: You sound drunk.

XYZ: I’m not drunk. I’m horny! (speaks close to the phone) I want to fuck you. Can I come over? 

Me: (thinking suddenly) You haven’t even been to my new flat.

XYZ: I can find my way. So can I see you?

Me: I’m working, I told you. And my room-mate is already here.

XYZ: (surprised) You didn’t tell me you’d have a room-mate in your new place.

Me: I did tell you. You don’t remember now because you’re drunk.

XYZ: I told you, I’m not drunk. (close to the phone again) I’m horny!

Me: Well I can’t help you. I’m busy. Just go home to your wife!

I hung up. My phone rang twice before he finally gave up. He had ruined my mood and any possibility of a hook-up with that childish game. These darn Cambodian men! Besides, I prefer him sober when we have sex. Because for some strange reason that I have never understood, when he’s drunk, he becomes this fastidious, almost-tender man in bed. This is not what I have come to expect from him.

I want him to always be my lean, mean sex machine.