Readers' Submissions

Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 78

  • Written by Dana
  • April 9th, 2005
  • 7 min read


Black Pagoda Patpong Bangkok


It is 2:30 in the afternoon and I am feeling frisky. There is a tent peg in my pants and I'm interested in love. The problem is that at 2:30 in the afternoon in Pattaya nothing much is going on. The best girls on the beach boulevard are gone by 10:00 a.m. and the open air bars on Walking St. don't really start smiling until about 4 p.m. The girls on Soi 6 are sitting outside in the street and in the glare of the afternoon sun most of them don't look too appealing. Experienced expats will tell you that the problem can be solved by going up to one of the bath houses on 2nd Road. My last experience in a bath house in Bangkok was so expensive and so horrific, however; that I am burned off on that form of socializing. If I have a recommendation from a lifetime friend notarized by God I might consider it again; but not now. Too much rigamarole and too much money and too much risk. I used to have a plan B for every afternoon at a bar just at the start of Walking St. where Uri from Udon could always be found. A forty year old sex machine who would suck the tongue out of my mouth and make me laugh in the shower. However, lately I have been going by the selfsame bar every night at 10:00 p.m and picking up Tum for 'longtime' so Uri has cut me off. Some kind of arcane Thai bargirl territory thing. Hey, why can't we all just be friends? So anyway; it is 2:30 in the afternoon and I'm in a loving mood but I don't really have any good ideas. If I cruise the Royal Garden Plaza one of the rich women will want to take me some place in one of their cars. This always makes me a little uneasy. I never know where we are going or what I am getting into or how I am going to get back. Propositioning some of the incredibly mouth watering young after school candy in the mall has sometimes got me in trouble. So I am kind of flummoxed.

I get dressed anyway. I put on my $3.00 black Nike sandals, $5.00 green turguoise elephant beach pants, cotten Indian shirt, and assorted beads and bangles and necklaces and jewelry and flowers and clatter down the marble steps of the AA Hotel on Soi 13. I hit Beach road and turn right and start walking north. I don't cross over to the boulevard. It is too soon for that. A little reconnoitering first. I'll just walk up to the Internet room beyond Mikes Shopping Plaza and check my messages. Then I'll make the beach walk home. If I spot something fine. If I don't spot something that is fine too. On the way up the sidewalk my left eye is scouting the boulevard. Same old–same old. Some familiar faces but nothing new. A little depressing.

Internet messaging over I cross Beach road and start the walk back to the hotel. Familiar faces. Nothing new. Nothing special. Striking out. I keep walking. Finally I can see the 4th floor terrace pool flags of the AA Hotel and I know that I am about done. Experience has told me that if I do not fall in love between Soi 10 and soi 13 then the rest of the beach boulevard walk down to the Royal Garden Plaza is a waste of time. I sit down. It's quiet.

One bench down is a gaggle of trannies. I know gaggle is for geese but what else would you call a bunch of trannies? Wait a minute–how about a 'pervert' of trannies? Anyway one bench down is a group of trannies and since I am the only thing moving I attract attention. One thing leads to another. They look better than any of the motorbike scarred scags I saw walking down from the Internet room. As soon as I start my approach they are all up like a group of black footed ferrets. One of them named Pat has a flat tight stomach and the squinty eyes of the sex gifted, the Chinese, and the insane. I grab Pat's hand and we cross the street. She is taller than me so I assume she is bigger than me. But I failed to extrapolate that if her clavicle to clavicle measurement is only 12 inches th her other measurements will also be small. I can hardly get in. It is like trying to force a two inch bolt in a guarter inch bolt hole. A machinist holding a pair of German made calipers will tell that is impossible to force a two inch bolt in a quarter inch bolt hole. But a cross-eyed Transylvanian mechanic holding a 2 lb.Romanian railroad hammer will say,

"Totsifarne Aupapogorneamantucel Zisapemestecanyajun Iarasintelleagaurmene!" or in English–"Just Hammer The Bitch!"

So I start hammering her. It's just a matter of time! Looking down I can see the side of her face and she has the expression people get when they are sitting on the toilet with hemorrhoids. This is not exactly what I was thinking of an hour ago when I was putting on my jewelry and dumping talcum powder down my pants. And I do not really want to develop a Pattaya beach boulevard farang reputation as the guy who makes girls look as if they have hemorrhoids. I'm a love child. I have standards. What is needed is a lubricant but the only thing I have is dishwashing liquid. NO WAY. A year ago I tried to use dishwashing liquid as a lubricant and some mysterious chemical in the soap caused all of the skin on my penis to peel off. I mean all of the skin. All seven layers right down to the tissue. And I mean all of my penis; from the pubic bone to the head. Like a snake. Most frightening three weeks of my life.

Me at the Bumrungrad hospital in Bangkok talking to a Thai physician with an Australian accent (educated in Perth and has a son in Ohio)–

Dr: How can I help you Dana?
Me: Well Doc, as you can see all of the skin is peeling off of all of my penis and I am a little worried.
Dr: How did this happen?
Me: Well I was butt fucking a tranny and I used JOY brand dishwashing soap for a lubricant and . . .

. . . . . ( Now the Dr's head drops down and he is silently staring at his clipboard ). . . . .

Me: Oh come on Doc! This can't be the first time you heard this story!

So anyway I'm pounding Pat the tranny and there is no lubricant and she looks unhappy. Finally we are done and I am sitting on the bed watching her dress. Technically I guess we (or at least I) have had sex but it was not exactly what I was planning on. And it gets worse. Sitting there in the glare of the artificial light of the hotel room I can see clearer now. Her high heel boots are all scuffed up and dirty and one of the heels looks like it is going to come off. Self applicator bottles of shoe shine polish are 80baht at the pharmacy but this has not occurred to her as a good idea. All her other clothes are also shabby. She looks like she sleeps under a bridge. What looked good in the tropic sun next to the palm trees beside the highway now looks third rate and shabby and unsexy. I can feel my lungs deflating. And I am reminded of the saying that ‘We do not pay women for sex–we pay them to leave!'. Finally she is gone. I carom around the room spiritless and down. Maybe I'll pick up Tum tonight at the bar. She has been my longtime lover for years. In fact I think I'll buy her some gold earrings. I really like her and I believe she likes me.

Sometimes sex is not enough.

Stickman's thoughts:

I'm in NZ at the moment, so no silly comments from me on submissions for a week or two…