Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 84
Sometimes you just have a premonition. You get a message. You just know you have witnessed something that you will never see again. Like sitting in a car at a railroad crossing and watching the car ahead of you try to beat the train. You'd
pay to see that again but you know you will never see it again. The moon landing–if you were there. You'd like to see that again but you know you probably won't. Stuff like that. Catching the Nana car park whore Boom Boom trying
to steal your Rolex sized Vegas style gold nugget watch by stuffing it up her pussy. Priceless. And probably a one off.
In the old days in Thailand I saw a show in a private club on the Thonburi side of the Chao Phraya river that I will probably never see again. At the time I was friends with a big tall blonde Bondi Beach girl from Australia who danced in
a little bar on Soi 4 off Sukhumvit road. During the day she worked for an advertising firm in Bangkok and at night she danced. It wasn't a sex thing. She wasn't a hooker. But she was young and full of hormones and she liked the exhibitionism
part of the experience and she liked the female bonding with the other girls. So she would work all day as an executive in downtown Bangkok and then she would dance in this little bar at night.
Well, to say that she was an attention getting female would be an understatement. 5'11" in her bare feet and now add 6" heel boots. Long long blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Statuesque body that you would expect to be holding
a surfboard. If you were looking for a small dark thing from Isaan this wasn't your kind of girl but if you were from China or Japan or Korea you were mesmerised. Hypnotized. Stricken. So they were constantly hitting on her and begging her
and soliciting her and trying to impress her. It was fun and exciting to be offered obscene amounts of money for four minutes work. And of course the more she said no to sex the harder they tried to impress her and make her happy. She knew she
wasn't going to have sex with any of them but they would talk and she would listen.
Sometimes she would agree to go with one of them to another club. Invariably this would be an exclusive Asian Only club that no one else would know about. She enjoyed this: Being squired around at night in big blacked out sedan cars by spooky
drivers and rich clients to secret clubs. More adventure for a young surfer girl from an Australian suburb. Anyway, some nights I used to go down to her little bar and watch her dance. She was an excellent dancer and a beautiful woman and after
she was through with her set she would sit with me and tell stories. One night she said, "Dana honey, I was at a private Asian club last night and saw a dance routine that you absolutely have to see before you die!"
"What's it like?" I say.
"I'm not telling you anything–we're going right now!"
"Wait a minute." I say, "They aren't going to let me into one of those private Asian places."
"Don't worry." she says, "One look at me and we'll get in! By the way, do you know anything about guns?"
"Noooooooo!" What the fuck……..?
Thinking about great shows I was reminded of an opinion I saw on a Thailand website:
There is erotic dancing in BKK. Sloe-eyed grinders of expertise and interest schooled by obsession in thoughts and displays of sex. They hypnotically seduce with the practise and expertise that comes to the novitiate. The denouement in the hotel room may be disquieting and disappointing but the selling was without improvement. They are called ladyboys.>
I figure Surfer Girl and I are about to see a ladyboy show.
Off we go. Over the bridge at night in a taxi with Surfer Girl giving directions, a little wandering around in a downmarket part of Thonburi, and then I find myself knocking on the shabby door of what looks like a warehouse. The peephole
slide opens and a pair of Jap eyes are looking at me. But not for long–a fifth of a second max and I can see the racist portcullis coming down. But then he sees Surfer Girl standing behind me. The door opens so fast he nearly throws his little
shoulder out of joint. We were in. It was a place about the size of the Polo Entertainment Lounge on Walking Street in South Pattaya. Big place and big stage. Routine acts. Every Jap and Korean and Chinese in the place smoking like a chimney.
Girl comes out with a chair and does the <I'm Naked And Watch Me Drip Hot Candle Wax On Me.> act. Big girl. Kind of girl who could kick down a door in a drug bust. Naked. You can hear the chair complaining. You wonder about how she
can take the hot wax–especially on her tongue. If she were sexier you wouldn't be wondering about anything. Just staring at her like a hungry dog. Maybe I've seen too many naked women. Maybe I should have stayed home. You wonder
about the open flame up near the ceiling and there is only one exit. Next is the <Hawaiian Girls In Grass Skirts> number. Cute and evocative of simpler times. One girl had a way of leaning forward with her hands on the waist of the girl
in front of her and moving her big hips just so. Incredibly sexy. I'd have crawled over jagged glass with my ass on fire to get to her. Then there is the standard <Get Lots Of Naked Girls On Stage And Have Them Sit Down And Spread Their
Legs> number. I'm having a mental yawn. Maybe I've seen too much pussy in my life. Maybe I should have stayed home. There is a girl who does something with flaming sword swallowing. I'm looking at the open flame and the ceiling
again. Between the 300 hundred guys who are smoking and the long open flame up on stage this has to be the worst fire trap in the world right now.
After that a truly exceptional tranny came out and did a torch love song in French. Like many successful tranny entertainers working the private high line Asian clubs you simply could not imagine a more sexually provocative, fabulously feminine,
and gloriously beautiful creature. She was wearing a spaghetti strap emerald green silk sheath dress that went to the knees. She had a halo of black blossom flowers in her hair and a black blossom necklace of flowers and wristlets and anklets
of black blossom flowers. The black blossoms of the flowers and her black heels and her black hair contrasted against the emerald green dress was startlingly beautiful. Instead of being slit up the side in the Mandarin style the tight green sheath
dress was slit right up the front to the crotch. And there waving and bobbing and moving around as she sang was a huge rampant curved black dildo with a head the size of a plum. The room went stone quiet. At the end of her number the applause
and whistles were deafening. She deserved it. As she made a farang style deep bow to the audience her hand went up and took the halo of black blossom flowers off of her head. When she straightened up the flowers were hanging on her dildo. Boy
oh boy–talk about stand and deliver!
I looked over at my blonde companion. "Was that it?"–Nope, that is not what she brought me to see. Next was the standard lame number with the big surprise at the end which is always a crowd pleaser. Twenty girls come out on stage
in diaphanous dresses and bare feet. They are kind of dancing around like they are water sprites in a school play or something. New guys are a little perplexed and maybe a little disappointed but the veterans have quietly moved to tables near
the stage. Then the music changes and the girls leave the stage and come out into the audience and climb up on the chairs and tables. You get to put your head under their dresses and lick their pussies. Wonderful. The way the world should be.
So I'm thinkin' that is it–but suddenly the place goes almost totally dark and then Money Honey by Clyde McPhatter comes on at maximum volume and a row of purple spots highlights the run from the dressing room door to the stage.
And out of the dressing room comes a chins-up and arms-up line of thirty women in knee high stiletto heel black boots, black vests, black lipstick, black gloves and black masks. No pants and no conga line for these bitches. They ain't bending
over for anybody. They are smoking black cigars and wearing black backpacks covered by black capes. And these jacked up whore honeys can dance.
Someone has taken this group of dick suckers to a gymnasium or a military base or a dance studio and has punished these girls. They were told to 'shut the fuck up' or they won't get paid and to leave their teddy bear backpacks
and their cellphones at home. Then they were transformed from amateur whores doing the Bangkok shuffle into balls-to-the-wall dancers. They dance up onto the stage like sexual collossi, split into two groups; and just make all 300 of the Japs
and Koreans and Chinese forget about their cigarettes. Left and right, forward and back, up and down; they own the stage and they own the room and they own every man in the place. And they don't look sweet. This wasn't a dance routine
about being feminine and cute and trying to get some guy's attention. These women were angry. They looked like sexual killers–angry hostile jacked up maneaters with barbed wire in their armpits and razorblades in their cunts. Money
Honey by Clyde McPhatter is then replaced by The Sinatra Song by Miss Kitten and they pair off and go into a lesbo routine that is standard setting for sexual deviancy. Thirty women and thirty dildos. Thirty rectums and thirty pussys and thirty
mouths. You can paint your own picture. Then that is replaced by screaming. They just start screaming and the sound system is playing something that is just continuous screaming. When the screaming starts they put fake theatrical ampules of blood
in their mouths, crack the capsules and start spitting and drooling blood. There is a flying leap of thirty girls that ends in a thirty girl split on the stage and as they are coming up they reach back under their capes and into their backpacks
and haul out thirty Uzi submachine guns and thirty extra clips. They jam the extra clips in their boots and then in Thai accented English they shout out something that sounds like "Kill–Kill every one of the Motherfuckers"!
Then they just lower the barrels and squeeze the triggers! Of course they were firing blanks but the combination of sound system screaming, and alcohol, and darkness, and packed-in-bodies, and black lips spouting blood was more than the psyche
could bear. Fight, flight, or fetal position triggers went off like trip hammers in the minds of the audience and panic flamed up like a lit match thrown into gasoline. It was great. With omnipotent Ishmaelian indifference to my species I sat
and watched one of the best shows I have ever seen. A once in a lifetime display of sex and sound and light and fear and violence. Fantastic. Transporting. Wonderful. The only improvement would have been live ammo. And remember this wasn't
about sweet. The black masks and shaved pussies and black lips snarling blood and the shooting was something I had never seen before. Never even dreamed it. Neither had anyone else. There was a stunned pause when they started shooting and then
300 Japs and Chinese and Koreans alternately either hit the floor or were hopping over themselves like slant-eyed frogs trying to get to the door. The Korean next to me was in a fetal position crying and a Chinese guy went by in front of me doing
the duck waddle because he had just shit in his pants. Seemed funny later. But at the time it was all about sex and violence. The two happiest bedfellows. When the first clips emptied they took the extra clips out of their boots and continued
shooting. They looked like thirty wild eyed insane killers. Screaming and screaming and screaming–throwing their masks and their cigars into the audience and pumping out round after round directly into the faces of the Chinks and Japs and Sliteyes
with the little penises. These big bloody women were pissed. They wanted to be raped and there wasn't a single man in the house who could do it. 'So let's just kill them!' Next to me Surfer Girl is wearing one of the black
masks, she has a cigar clenched between her teeth, and her right hand is plunged deep in her pants. Girl Power. The single finest show I have every seen in Thailand. The following day I had to go to Bangkok to pick someone up at the airport. The
next time I got an invite to the club it was closed down.
You would have loved the Nanapong "sex parties", you pervert.