Bar Girls, Bimbos and Bitches

Terms and definitions:

Bargirl: A generic term for Thai ladies who are employed at, or provide adult services from, beer bars, go-go bars, G Clubs, karaoke bars, freelancer outlets, hotel coffee shops, discotheques and night clubs. A bar girl can quite
often run through the whole gamut of the above listed work scenarios during her time in the profession. There are full timers and part timers. Some have normal day time jobs but supplement their incomes by hanging out at freelancer venues, and
night clubs, in the evenings and on weekends. The less educated ones – those whose English language skills are basic – tend to stick to the beer bars and go-go bars while those with better language skills tend to move into the freelancer
venues.

Bimbo: A hotter looking bargirl – normally from a go-go bar – who’s struck it rich by bagging a wealthy sponsor. A bimbo is a paid, or kept, piece of fluff that generally does nothing except spend the money
she receives every month from her sponsor. Bimbo’s are bordering on being completely useless and are only on the payroll, of the rich sponsor, for their sexual skills and appearance. They, quite often, are seen hanging out at night clubs,
buying drinks for their gaggle of useless mates, and eyeing up young farangs for a horizontal liaison. Bimbo’s are often bitches and bitches, more often than not, want to be bimbo’s. The common thing linking them is laziness.

Bitches: Can be found right across the full spectrum of adult services industry. Generally, a bitch is a hotter looking bargirl / freelancer / go-go dancer that develops an attitude because of her popularity. Bitches are normally
recognizable by their slim figures, silicone boobs and inflated egos. A bitch can be anything from a go-go dancer to a high end freelancer. Bitches are often bimbos but they can also be an educated hi-so type with their own business or well paid
employment.

If a Thai whore tells you that she’ll drive you to the airport, in the morning, politely say thanks but no thanks. That thought keeps pulsing through my grey matter as I’m strapped into the shotgun seat and flying down the toll
way, at 150 km an hour, while the said whore weaves in and out of the traffic she’s passing, has one hand on the wheel and is happily engaged in conversation, with one of her whore mates, on her Iphone. Dear Buddha, if I actually make it
to the departure hall in one piece I promise I’ll change my hedonistic ways. The whore is angry; I gave her a roasting because she took forever dragging her lazy butt out of my bed and then wasted another 25 minutes driving up and down
Sukhumvit Road before deciding to throw a u-turn, somewhere near the Ekamai BTS platform, and drive all the way back down to the toll way on-ramp just past Soi 4. She’s lost face, for being told off, and was now out to show me that she
knows what she’s about. That, of course, she doesn’t really need to prove; she’s got some serious income streams from a string of sponsors around the world. Hearing a whore boasting about the money she’s receiving from
a bunch of mug punters overseas, who she doesn’t even like, becomes tiresome after a while. And the phone calls she receives, while lying in my bed, make the whole situation even more of a tragic farce. “Yes teerak, I at home now.
I not work bar. Yes, I miss you so much as well.” One tires of this charade, quickly. The spark of lust soon gives way to boredom and, eventually, contempt; on both sides perhaps? The curt dismissal on our arrival at the airport certainly
reinforces that observation. I juxtapose the frosty farewell I’ve just been given with the little scene I experienced with her the second time I barfined her out of Rainbow 3; in the glow of the morning after she told me that she wanted
to be my girlfriend. The tears started to flow when I laughed and said I didn’t do girlfriends from go-go bars any more. But, give them their due, they are great little actresses. I grab my bags, head towards the check in counter and laugh
as the whore blasts off down the road; at least I won’t miss my flight to work. Maybe the roasting did the trick after all.

Another 3 weeks of merriment and mayhem in the City of Angels. Another few notches on the belt and a further hardening of the cynic's mind. A relationship is not on the agenda but something’s gotta give. Still, it seems such an
easy thing to do; go to a freelancer venue, pick up a whore, shag them senseless and then pay them off in the morning. The money seems to be a bit of a waste sometimes but the saving grace is that it’s like a barrier, or a wall; it keeps
them at arm’s length. As if to say “thanks for your time, there’s your fee for your services, don’t read anything else into this, goodbye.” The nonsense of all their trickery and deceit becomes monotonous though.
They would like to be good and decent, but they can’t. They’re in the grip of the big pay days now. The days of a less grasping mindset are a thing of the past. Perhaps I need to take a rain check on that as well. Paying for sex,
too often, begins to eat into the hard earned cash reserves. There’s gotta be a better way to go. Perhaps Stick is on to something when he says one doesn’t need to pay for it. Thai Love Links appears to be a viable option; I’ll
check it out when I get back.

I had good intentions of keeping some self discipline about me during the 3 weeks off but, in a constant stream of hard bodied Thai lovelies, that altruistic plan evaporated even before I’d touched down. Like some kind of all knowing,
all seeing eye Ning has a sixth sense when my time offshore is almost complete. I hadn’t seen, or heard, from her for 10 weeks but, like some ESP guided radar, she appeared on a chat box I’d forgotten about. With only 2 days before
I was due back in Bangkok her usual line of BS appeared before my eyes on Skype.

“
Teerak, when are you come back?”

“Why?”

“Because I want see you and I never lost my feeling for you.”

“Hmmm, I’m not giving you any money.”

“It’s okay, I not want. My boyfriend take care of me very good now.”

“What do you want?”

“Just sex, when you come back we go for holiday to Pattaya. I will take you in my new car.”

“New car?”

“Yes, my boyfriend buy for me two months ago.”

“I see. Let me think about it. I’ll call you when I get to Bangkok.”

Two days later I was in Pattaya pounding the daylights out of her but, like some addict high on the latest designer drug, it was too good to last; very quickly the usual resentments and animosities began to set in. Never, ever believe a gold
digging whore when says she doesn’t want any money. Six days later after an all night booze-athon at one of Bangkok’s late night venues, she was legless on my doorstep at 7 AM again. After letting her in, and giving her a bucket
to vomit into, I went out, turned off the phone (the one reserved for bitches) and stayed away all day. That seemed to do the trick as I haven’t seen, or heard, from her since. I returned to the apartment as the sun was setting to find
the vomit still in the bucket. As I poured it down the toilet I considered my options for the coming evening. It was Saturday night but there was an election on and that only meant one thing; no alcohol. Well election, or no election, I was going
out and Spasso’s seemed to fit the bill.

I got there at about 11 PM and, as I expected, the crowd was well down. I ordered one of those non-alcoholic, look-alike beers and took up a position overlooking the dance floor. As I looked back towards the bar I met the eyes of a tallish
bird staring my way and doing her best to entice a reaction out of me with that look they all have. The look, of course, is something I’ve talked about before. From Bangkok to Baku you see it in the eyes of all these working girls. It’s
a look that, at first, seems innately inviting. It’s a look that says “I can be whatever you want me to be and I can tell you whatever you want to hear – including hansum man – for a price.” She, or it, was tall,
had a face like a hatchet and a body that was too good to be true. That only meant one thing; a katoey. I glanced away quickly. Eventually, I needed to go for a piss and moved towards the choke point formed by that stupid bloody pillar
and the bar. As I squeezed through the crowd the katoey grabbed me by the crutch.

“Why you not like me?” she said as we stood there eye ball to eye ball.

“Why do you think I don’t like you?” I said as I looked down at her hands and high heel shod feet.

“Because I smile at you and you not smile back. You are serious guy?”

“Well you’re a katoey, aren’t you?” I said expecting an uppercut to the jaw.

“
Mai chai, I’m a lady. Here, feel my nom,” she said as she guided my hand up to her well endowed cleavage.

It was soft with not a hint of plastic.

“Hmmm, okay. Sorry about that but you are tall,” I said feeling relieved about the situation.

“My name is Pan and I come from Chiang Mai. My mother is Chinese,” she said feeling proud of herself.

“Hmmm, okay,” I said as I continued admiring her fantastic figure.

“You want me tonight Mr. serious man?” she said giving that look.

“Probably but I gotta go to the hong-nam now,” I said as my bladder felt like it was going to bust.

Pan, even at 35, was a looker. 172 cm in height, no kids and a model's figure, she definitely wasn’t the standard look of a working girl one finds in this town. She’d done some modeling, in her early 20s, and had then gone
off to Europe seeking fame and fortune. Unfortunately the flesh pots of Amsterdam were where she ended up ‘working’. It showed, she was a total professional in her trade. The emotional strains of her profession were catching up with
her though; she was beginning to come to terms with her journey down the path of darkness. I spent a few days with her and got used to her parading around my apartment, for hours on end, completely naked while talking about Buddha and the need
for her to go to the temple each morning. It was a situation bordering on lunacy and was only to be surpassed by the next situation bordering on lunacy I was to find myself in.

Pan, overcome by her demons, decided to call it quits and headed back to Chiang Mai. Alone again – but not for long – it was Thursday night and that only meant one thing; Q-bar. Q-bar, the hang out for pretentious, wanna-be, high-so
whores. I walked in to find Sabina (where the hell do these girls get their names from?) sitting at the bar on the ground floor. Sabina, the borderline nut job that had chased me down the road in her SUV at 3:30 AM somewhere over near Rachada
a few weeks ago was looking her usual self; a stuck-up pretentious bitch. Always good for a challenge I sidled up to her and, in a typical Kiwi don’t give a f#$% attitude said “Hi sexy, how’s the car?”

She turned and looked at me with her nose upturned.

“You jai dum”, she said, feigning hurt feelings.

“Look, no hard feelings, let me buy you a drink and we can put it behind us,” I said with a smile about as genuine as a guy telling a bird he’s not going to ejaculate in her mouth.

“Vodka Red Bull,” she blurted out almost instantly to the bartender.

That did the trick; 4 hours later we were in a horizontal position back at my apartment. The next evening I was given an invitation by Sabina to attend a friend’s birthday celebration at the Bed Supper Club. I knew what that meant;
I was being lined up for a serious drinks bill for Sabina and her entourage of bitch mates. 11 PM was the allotted appointment time on her short SMS. At precisely 11 I SMSd her and said that I wouldn’t be there until 12 and that she should
begin without me. A bit after 12 I elbowed my way through the crowd, gathered around the entrance, to find Sabina, and her group of sycophants, taking center stage in the White Bar. They were gathered around a small table full of Grey Goose and
Red Bull bottles. Sabina gave me that look that basically says “You’ve been living here too long and you know too much” and then introduced me to her semi plastered gaggle of mates. They were all white skinned, tall, attractive
Bangkok ladies. The bitches interrupted their celebrations just long enough to give me a cursory glance and then went back to the serious task of pouring another round of drinks. I took a pull on my beer and stood back to watch the circus unfolding
around me. Sabina and one of her tall, white skinned mates were putting on a pseudo lesbian routine for the pack of salivating young studs gathered nearby. The young bucks stood by drooling as Sabina and her mate entwined themselves around each
other, rubbed up against each other and held hands. After a couple of minutes of this they would break away and move towards one of the young studs, allow a touch (from the salivating young guy) and then quickly move back together to resume their
cuddling. It was hilarious; the studs were like dogs sniffing after bitches on heat. Thank f@#$ I’d moved beyond that stage in my life. A few drinks later, as Sabina was off on a toilet run, her best mate, the one that had been engaged
in the pseudo lesbian routine with her, sidled up to me and offered herself for two hundred dollars for the night. Once again I reflected on the fact that, among bitches, there are only rivals for a customer’s cash; friendship is in a world
of make believe. I looked at her, laughed and told her to piss off. As an aside it seems as though these up-market types, that frequent Q-Bar and the Bed Supper Club, have moved with the economics of our times; their pricing regimes, these days
at least, are often quoted in USD. A few days later I was back at Q-bar again and was hit with the USD pricing regime once more; one of the hotter bitches, there that night, quoted me USD four hundred for the night. When I asked her if that was
the “price for the week” I got a rather dirty look in return.

Sabina’s mate must have taken offence to what I’d said in reply to her solicited price because, within 2 minutes of being back from her toilet run, Sabina was prattling on about knowing that I wanted to shag her mate.

“I know you want she tonight,” said Sabina with a childish sulk on her face.

“How do you know that?”

“My friend tell me you say you pay she song roi rian for go with she tonight.”

I looked at her and laughed.

“I’ve had enough of this bloody nonsense. I’m going” I said finishing my beer and turning to go.

“Where you go?” she said realizing the nights’ earnings was about to walk out the door.

“I don’t know, maybe Mix.”

“I take you.”

“No thanks, I still remember what happened last time you gave me a ride. I’ll take a taxi,” I said as I left her standing there stunned that some guy could actually walk away from her.

She was one of the most pretentious bitches I’d ever met. She was so far up herself she even had the audacity to tell me that she was number one in her group. Good riddance I thought as I jumped into the taxi and gave him the address
of my condo. I turned off the phone and laughed in the knowledge that Sabina and her useless bunch of mates would probably be heading to Bangkok’s newest late night hangout; MIX. I’d been there once and had no intention of going
again. With two large bars in the basement of the Intercontinental Hotel and only one entry / exit point, the place was a bloody fire trap.

The following morning I got a bizarre message from Sabina; “I not stay in BKK for my birthday, I going to temple for one week.” I started to wonder what it was about these birds and their affection for temples. A few days later
I met another freelancer at Spasso’s who proudly told me that she’d just done a week in a temple. I think I’ve got it worked out now and it’s got nothing to do with the idea of trying to make themselves into a better
person; it’s simply a detox program. They go and stay in a temple for a few days and sober up through abstention from alcohol. Feeling refreshed, and renewed, they head straight back to the bar, or night club, as soon as they’re
back in town.

Having resided in Thailand for the best part of 18 years and sampled just about every pay for pleasure scenario one can experience in this fair land, I’ve come to the overwhelming conclusion that not one of the thousands of girls plying
their trade in the industry would be worth having as a girlfriend. There will be some out there who take exception to this and, no doubt, will probably bombard me with all kinds of reasons why some bargirls might be reasonable relationship material.
I’m sorry, but I won’t be convinced; you’ll be wasting your time.

Let me explain: the majority of ladies working in the pay for pleasure industry come from a certain well known area of the country. Trawl up and down Sukhumvit, Walking Street and Soi Bangla and you’ll see that 95% of them are from Isaan. There
seems to be a certain mindset about these ladies that predisposes them to selling sex for money. Okay, I know poverty and a lack of education have a lot to do with it but having had so much first had experience with so many of them, I can honestly
conclude that most of them, to put it bluntly, are simply bloody lazy. I suppose the thought of toiling in some shitty factory, or on a building site is motivation enough for them to keep working in a bar but the general attitude of pretty much
all of them is that doing as little as possible, for a maximum gain, is an ideal way to go through life. For every single one of them it’s the same M.O. – “I need someone take care of me and my family” which, loosely
translated, means they want a sucker to provide for them, and their family, into perpetuity. For all of them it’s far simpler to find a provider to leach off than to actually try and use their own honest efforts to make their way in this
world.

Even the so called good ones, the ones working in normal jobs, have the same brainwashed concept of providing for their families, bred into them; a foreigner is seen as some kind of economic salvation. A good girl might offer you a level
of honesty you would never expect to see with a bargirl but, having said that, you’re still dealing with the same baseline; “I need someone take care me and my family.” I’m beginning see the merit in something a mate
of mine told me not too long ago when it comes to interacting with Thai ladies.

“Just use the north of Bangkok rule when you’re looking for a lady to spend a bit of time with.”

“What’s the north of Bangkok rule?”

“If it comes from north of Bangkok, it’s only for fun and not for anything serious.”

Now I know that may be a bit of a harsh way to look at things and I’m sure that there’s an abundance of nice, educated ladies up in Chiang Mai who prove the above assessment incorrect. However, I have yet to see any from a poor
rural background that don’t have the idea in their heads that a farang is a fast track to a financial leg up in life. Go on to any of the internet dating sites and what you’ll find is a never ending supply of ladies from the Northeast
of the country who’re looking for “a nice man take care of me.” In their world, “take care” is all about someone providing them with financial support. I have joined a couple of sites recently and listed some
strict provisos on my profile.

No single mothers.

No tattoos.

Financially self supporting.

No unemployed ladies or ladies who don’t have a real job.

Minimum educational level: bachelors’ degree.

Not interested if you live outside Bangkok.

Even so, those from the rural north still keep chipping away. One lady, a mother of two, got quite irate and asked me why I “don’t like lady with children.”

“Does the Thai father of the children provide financial support?”

“No, he gone away.”

“Then why do you think a farang must take care of them?”

Before taking up with one of these ladies that’s looking for “someone take care me and my family”, you might want to stop and consider what it is, besides that moist spot between their legs, they bring to the table which
will improve your position on this planet. Can they actually help you make money or are they just a one way financial drain on you?

One would think that, once they’ve hooked themselves a financial savior, they might show a bit of humility and be eternally grateful for the fact that you’re improving their poverty ridden, shitty little lives. The mind set
doesn’t see it that way though. It’s almost as though they’ve got some pre-ordained right to relieve you of your cash. Within a short space of time they develop attitude. I guess that comes about through a combination of the
face that they gain from being able to show everyone that they’ve dragged themselves out of the gutter and the child’s emotional maturity level that most of them have. The idea that they should be grateful, or show some humility,
never enters their heads. A couple of nights later I was in a bar, on Soi 11, engaged in conversation with one of Isaan's finest.

“My boyfriend buy farm for me. He good man. I going to Norway for three month to stay with him” said the boastful little Isaan strumpet that was standing next to me in Oskars.

“I see and does your boyfriend know you are out at the bars every night looking for man?”

“That not your business. It up to me. I need more money.”

As Stick said some time ago, “Sponsorship doesn’t work.” And the reason it doesn’t work is because, no matter how much you give, it’s never enough. It turns them into greedy, idle little parasites. Not only
that, the parasites back at the village become greedy and idle as well.

“And tell me, why does your boyfriend give you money every month?”

“If he want sexy lady he have to pay me money,” she said with a bitch attitude.

“I see, and you think you are sexy do you?” I said looking at her diminutive, dark skinned figure.

“Of course, a lot of farang want me?”

“And Thai motorbike taxi drivers as well,” I said giving a stare filled with ice.

She stared back at me with an equal amount of iciness.

“I not like Thai man,” she said turning her head away.

“Yeah, well there’s a lot of Thai man that don’t like you as well,” I said.

‘How you know?” she said giving me another nasty look.

I laughed.

“A good Thai man with education and money would never be interested in you. Your level, for a Thai man, is a motorbike taxi driver. But that’s okay, I mean, there’s plenty of farang around willing to pay you for your
worn out pussy.”

“Fuck you,” she said giving me the bird.

“No thanks, you ain't my type,” I said as I waved the staff over to settle the bill.

As I walked out into the light drizzle I thought about the great secret that they desperately don’t want us to know about. The secret which they do their best to hide and obfuscate by telling us that “They don’t like
Thai man” or “Thai man no good.” It’s not that they don’t actually want to be with a Thai man; most of them do. It’s just that they know that no decent, self respecting, educated Thai bloke would touch
them. That they know they’re second hand goods and they’re never going to receive some ridiculous, over inflated sin sod, for their stretch marked, child bearing torso, from a Thai bloke. But a farang, well, that’s
a different story. Bar girls, bimbos and bitches? Take it from me, they’re only for fun.

Stickman's thoughts:

For years I have written of my observations of Western men who get involved in relationships with Thai women who once sold their body. The outcome is usually the same. Some have challenged my observations, telling me how wonderful their ex-prostitute wife is….and then a few years later when it all falls apart they admit that they had been living through hell for years. No-one likes to admit that their life sucks because their wife is a total bitch, and some guys don't even realise that the lady they are with is treating them badly! They have this warped idea that hell is normal!

OK, so I do know some found a good woman in the bars, a woman who has gone on to be a decent wife. They are the exception and if there is a commonality, it is that she was much older when she entered the industry i.e. well north of 30.

There are many wonderful Thai women who would never dream of working in a bar who would love a nice farang guy on their arm. The odds of finding a woman who will make a great wife are infinitely higher outside the bar industry than within it.