Delightful Bangkok: Music And Girls Part 4/4: The Girls
Music and Thai lady aficionados around the world: In the first three parts of his report, Mr. F. had introduced you to places with music and ladies slightly more entertaining than the pole-hugging average. While the venues and their playlists starred in parts 1 to 3, Mr. F. would now like to recall what happens after 1 or 2 a.m.: When the music dies down, full lights are turned on and taxis line up to take you home to your white cottons and imported condom boxes.
As confessed in part 2, Mr. F. is more comfortable with freelancing ladies than with fulltime whores and their barfine-duties. Readers of part 3 may recall that Mr. F. is more comfortable with the pounding salsa, funk and dance rock in Patpong's "Muzzik Café" than with the monotonous aerobics beat of Siam Square's "CM2".
So "Muzzik Café" with its good fun music AND good (but not-too-good) freewheeling fun ladies becomes Mr. F.s favourite hangout. There he meets Khun Jee, 34, two kids, runaway husband, from Chonburi, still with a body as sweet as khanom. Of course he meets lively Khun Gop, 25, one kid, from Mukdahan, as featured in part 3; she kicked her Thai boyfriend out after he demanded her money for his gambling; then she had a British boyfriend for two years, but "him look lady too much, him butterfly", so she left again – just another Bangkok girl's story.
Once, when a cautious Mr. F. wanted to discuss all expectations and modalities before boarding a taxi to his hotel, his four-hour-dance partner had shrugged: "Eh, why, you think too mutt!!! Let's go." This relaxed attitude didn't change one bit until they said good-bye at another taxi stand twelve hours later.
The bedroom time would start with an assault on the mini-bar; all his partners (carefully chosen) stayed with water or Fanta. Mr. F. would play a bit of Thai or western MP3s from the laptop, they could even dance a bit more; the external speakers connected through a USB plug amplifier always relaxed the atmosphere. Then, the ladies were happy to share a bubble in the tub, with mutual washing and massaging. (Reader: The care of a beautiful warm-hearted easygoing Asian lady for her man is one of the best things in the world. No, wrong: It is THE ONE best thing.)
"Oh, I like boom-boom velly much!" Unlike Nana hookers, the ladies Mr. F. scored in the music venues clearly enjoyed sex. They all made for a delightful bonk. It was great fun to explore them, to make them feel at ease, to play them and to see them take off. (Mr. F. can't perform anyway with a lazy bored spreader.) "Oh my big Buddha", Jee would exclaim repeatedly while bending like an eel under his touches – is that authentic or a tourist trap? Of course, as this is not a purely commercial encounter, one cannot just unzip and let them do the job. (But, reader: One more best thing in the world is sex with an Asian lady who *loves* you and believes you love her.)
These nights typically ended completely sleepless: Come home after 2 a.m., then drinking, talking, bathtub, joy of sex, snuggling, more talking, more joy of sex, more showering – and the sun is up again. Sometimes Mr. F. even missed the breakfast buffet, including the coffee with hot milk at Windsor Hotel.
There were a few awkward moments in the mornings. While Mr. F. fancied corn flakes with fresh milk and a fruit plate with fresh lemon juice sprinkled over it, his lady on the sheets yawned: "Oh, I sleep now, you take breakfast and come back later, ok!" Nice as she was, Mr. F. wouldn't leave her alone in his sanctuary. Hadn't she admired his laptop with all that spicy look thung music on it? (And she didn't know that two keys were broken.) He pondered locking her up in the room from outside.
Picky Mr. F. never landed a girl that he would like to keep for a few days in a row. Fun as they were, he always felt they could not really match his local steady good girl partners: Without beats, booze and boom, them fun ladies always seemed a tad too talkative and, hm, unsophisticated. One even confessed a liking for pink shirts – completely against Mr. F.s principles.
The laptop with the Thai music MP3 files had relaxed and opened the girls and him before; now Mr. F. used a different file format to discard his cutie of the night: He opened an Excel sheet, pointed to the TFT and sighed: "Ui, sorry, I think now I must check e-mail and work for a few hours." – "Ah, you work too mutt", sexy Gop objected with a smile and spread her uncovered properties invitingly over the already rumpled cottons. – "Yes, too-too much, but what can I do, I need the money, khaochai mai?" – This they would understand; so they'd do one last trip to the shower, hopefully finishing their ablutions before breakfast buffet closing time.
With the girl splashing in the hawng nam, Mr. F. fumbled through the pretentious artificial leather maps that his midrange hotels like to provide. He dragged out an empty envelope and stuffed some Baht into it. He never knew how much, as the girls refused to name their price. He opted for 1500 Baht plus taxi change. They hugged one last time at the room door; then he would stuff the envelope into their handbag: "Souvenir for you and baby, can go shopping, have good dinner, ok?" They would smile, wai, never be embarrassed and never check the content. (There were girls, though, who had made clear before they just "want good time tonight, I not bar girl!!!" They saved the hotel one envelope.)
He took the girls down to the street. Shy village boy Mr. F. never felt easy accompanying a one-night stand through the hotel lobby, especially as he often practiced his Thai and Isaan-Lao with friendly receptionists and doormen. But he didn't want to see his ladies off at the bedroom door and let them walk out alone. He felt they deserved being taken through lobby and to the car. And, for instance, the regular doorman at Windsor Hotel, who usually loved to teach him Isaan-Lao, just flashed an amused and somewhat acknowledging smile upon saluting him and new-found Khun Gop.
After saying goodbye to a Nana or Bitch Road prostitute, both sides know well the other one will seek the next bonk immediately. Not so when you see off your one-night stand from "Muzzik Café": Those encounters are not solely commercial; affection is at least pretended more seriously. After a juicy sleepless night, it feels a bit strange to part without exchanging phone numbers. Some ladies actually asked for his contact details, and interest in a trip to his country was expressed. Mr. F. always gave wrong numbers and e-mail addresses, just as he had used a wrong name and nationality all night long.
After one last verbal goodbye on the road, he opens the taxi door for her. The cab dissolves in the roar of dust and diesel; the girl typically doesn't look back.
Would she be back in "Muzzik Café" tonight? Mr. F., who likes a wide variety of good music and not-so-good girls, hopes she would not.
Wrong name and nationality is always a good idea. If any girl ever has a problem with Khun Michael from Australia, make sure she doesn't find me!