Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 102
Fountains, Flagpoles, and Blowjobs
A great strong aged meaty brown hand reaches under the varnished teakwood conference table and presses the hidden elephant ivory button. An electrically driven noiseless sliding screen panel opens and in comes a Thai female in sprayed-on neck-to-ankle fishnet stocking. Her cone shaped breasts poke through the slashed and torn top and her nipples have oiled black makeup that matches her black coral jewelry and black lips and black hair and black heels. Her feet and cheeks have been spider web tattooed in Lard Yao prison and running from temple to temple across her brow is a tattooed surgical scar with stitches and the words–Frankenstein's Bitch. On her back between her shoulder blades it says, "If you can read this you are not close enough–push all the way in".
Her name is Bang but it won't do you any good. You haven't got enough money and you aren't wearing the dress of wealth: simple clothes–expensive textiles–discreet pieces of custom designed jewelry–shoes of ostrich and python. She wouldn't wipe her ass with you. You aren't man enough. You are a cipher. A zero. The American movie star George Hamilton was once asked what the secret to success was and he replied: "A tan and a tailor". You haven't got either. You cast no shade and at night when you are stumbling home with a gut full of beer and a heart full of broken dreams; there is no little brown hand in yours and you make no silhouette as you top the ridge. You couldn't get a smile out of her with blasting caps and her pussy muscles are so strong that you would be lifting her up off the bed on the upstroke. But don't bother dreaming about it. She has only one master and it is to him that she carries the tray of small champagne glasses and Havana cigars with wrappers that have the developers logo and face on them.
It is celebration time for the contractors and money men and architects and city flacks and developer who have just signed off on the final drawings for the building. While sipping the champagne the developer muses that the fountains will never work. Eighteen plaza and development and urban landscape and buildings to date and never once have the fountains worked.
Never worked on ribbon cutting day. Worked for a few months later. And then never after that. Soon a haven for the homeless and litter. Urban detritus. But the fountain looked damn nice in the drawings. A nice counterpoint to the great box of greed masquerading as affordable housing and unneeded residential retail shops.
Meanwhile: in another country–Blue blazers and red yachting pants are the dress du jour for the white faced lard body alumni that have crowded in to witness the Midwestern American university sign off with an International architect on the new stadium. Flowing lines are out and Japanese comic book jagged straight lines are in; and all of the rich alumni ignoramuses agree that the new stadium looks modern. These little jackass dweebs wouldn't know modern if it was greased and shoved into their rectums, but they all agree that the colored flags and flagpoles on the architects rendering look cool. Makes them remember little drawings they made in art class in the fifth grade.
The only woman in attendance is wearing an out of date power suit from the 80's and crushed ice wouldn't melt in her vagina. The last time a man hit on this superfluous cunt was three years ago but she still remembers it all with pleasure. "I've still got it." she muses. "And he respected me and was attracted to me because of my high values–not like those little Thai tarts you see more and more of on campus now." Her idea of sex is to read romance novels late at night with Mr. Snuffles the cat on the bed and oven mitts on her hands in case she is tempted to touch herself. She likes best the stories where a penurious but proud woman is almost reduced to whoring before a tall rich dark God fearing stranger from out of town arrives to save her. She would love to read a story that had all of the hard body Thai strumpets on campus thrown into a righteous Christian tar pit but she doubts such a novel exists.
Welcome to the world of white people. Sexless but the mortgage is paid.
Off in a corner nibbling on a butter cookie made in a cookie mould that has the football team's mascot on it the University president muses that the flagpoles and flags will never work. This is his third University job and the eighth project he has witnessed from drawing to ribbon cutting and the flagpoles and flags never work. The flags won't be ready for ribbon cutting day and the halliard snap shackles will bang against the aluminum poles while he is trying to make a speech. Ten weeks later he will be notified that the flags are up and pictures should be gotten for the cover of the alumni magazine.
Next summer on the way to work it will occur to him that he hasn't seen the flags in months. The sheaves are jammed and the uncooperative bored custodians in charge of raising and lowering the flags have a strong union. Fxxk the flags. But the flags and flagpoles looked great on the drawings and helped raise the dough for this project. They have done their job.
Fountains and flags and flagpoles are examples of architectural drawing trivialities that help to sell ideas. They act as nice accents and counterpoints and aesthetic diversions. There are other examples: gargoyles–statuary–plaques; public plaza sculpture bought by the pound instead of the inspiration–kinetic sculpture that isn't kinetic anymore–etc. On really big municipal maritime related projects you sometimes see fake lighthouses. They aren't saving ships or lives–just acting as bits of decorative nonsense that looked great on the drawings and helped sell the idea of the mammoth municipal project to the bankers. An example of this nonsense is the lighthouse at the end of the new municipal park in South Pattaya.
The South Pattaya municipal maritime park project itself is huge. Acres and vistas of reclaimed and redreamed public land that has been converted into a huge public space on the point in South Pattaya just below the Royal Cliff Beach Resort up on the cliff. If they ever get the subcontractors and the main contractor to honor their contracts and finish up the details of curb work and light standards and wiring and paving stone it will be just wonderful. A place for the Thai or tourist or expat public to walk or fish or sit or jog or participate in the many public gatherings to come. The huge space is ideally suited for kite flying festivals and concerts and public gatherings and political rallies and flea markets and boat shows and motorsports rallies, etc. A wonderful drystone staircase has even been built up the side of the hill to the cliff top condo complex. Of course it will not last and will eventually sag and tumble and wash away but at least now at the start of the maritime park project I can type the words 'wonderful drystone staircase'.
And there on the end of the park is the fake lighthouse. From a distance it looks neat. And up close it still looks kind of fun. But up really close unfortunately it starts to proclaim it's Thainess. It's a piece of unloved crap. Just a bit of architectural drawing frippery that in a forgotten office on a forgotten day helped to get the contracts signed. And then it was forgotten.
The foundation work is scary in it's human indifference to quality and caring, the brick and stone detail is second rate, and the metal railing up the spiral staircase inside is inexpressively depressing in it's shoddiness. But the best/worst is to come. At the top where you can exit a little door and stand on the ledge to look over Pattaya Bay the outside railing is so shoddily constructed that it is a safety menace. What should be a transporting experience on your day off from work with your Thai wife and kids in tow is so scary that you hurry them back down the stairs as soon as possible. The fake lighthouse with the fabulous view of Pattaya Bay and the fun of considering the experience, and then climbing the spiral staircase, and then standing on top with your hands on the rail and your eyes and mouth exclaiming at the view has been taken away by a cultures complete lack of standards or the ability to dream. Congratulations Thailand. You have replaced standards and civility with ennui and childish behavior again.
But I have discovered one thing that this lighthouse is excellent for. Really really excellent. For this you need a motorcycle and a tranny. A regular teeruk or a girl bought out of one of the BJ bars on Soi 6 would also work if you have to have lots of rules in your life but why complicate a simple thing? Forget your mother and your Bible. Just think motorcycle and tranny. Cruise very slowly down Walking Street in the early afternoon on a weekday on your Phantom. Go very very slowly. Around half way down drop your feet and your speed and start duck waddling the bike down Walking Street. On the right hand side your fish retina will start to spot tranny flies being floated on the top of the sexual water.
There they are looking bored and stupid and predatory and as utterly without charm and as disgusting as replicants can be. This is the bottom of the barrel. Crap people on a crap hot street in a crap place and a crap country. Easily the worst lot of trannies I have ever seen anywhere. Human junk. Walking faecal matter. Human beings in the grip of the crushing despair that comes with knowing that they have taken the wrong road and are now in a lifetime cul-de-sac from which there is no return. Angry, hostile, depressed humans who have given up on dignity and achievement and now wallow in a trough of criminality and pleasureless sex.
Pick one out. And don't bother wasting too much time about it. It's like a cripple festival. Whatever you land on is still going to be a cripple. Get over it. Move on. You're crap and they're crap. Spooky faces? Looks don't matter. Drug addled? No problem. Shabby clothing? You don't care. Hate men? You don't give a shit. But she's got to be a player. Someone who will earn the money. Motion to the back of your bike and off you go. Down the rest of Walking Street with her on the back and her arms around your waist.
You go past Soi 16 and the Right Spot Hotel on the left and then the Siam Bayshore hotel on the left and then exit Walking Street. Past the little green grass park with the gazebo on the right and then up to the waterfront sidewalk where all of the motorbikes and cycles are parked. Cruise past the speedboat slipway and boatyard and watch for the dinosaurlike boathauling tractors. Sitting on the back bent over you with her arms around your middle the six foot tall giraffe mutant looks like she is clutching a farang teddy bear.
But here is the beauty part. You don't give a flying rat's ass what you look like or what people think. It's Thailand and you are free. Only thoughts of Bang Kwang prison prevent you from the final freedoms. So there are limits. Limited in things we can't talk of here; and finding solace in taking girls back to the Ambiance hotel in Boys Town so that you can mix and match without fear of censure or listening to others. Jesus Mary and Joseph. Listening to others. One of the reasons you said sayonara to that great social freedom fraud America and boarded the plane for Siam was so that you wouldn't have to listen others anymore. Fxxk everybody and their opinions. You don't give a shit. Now do you want to get naked or not?
Then exit the boatyard and turn right on to the new municipal park paving. Open it up. Now you are just going screaming fast. Full throttle. You have the cliffs on your left, the crescent beach and Pattaya waterfront to your right, and the sea and the sky ahead of you. The motorcycle breeze wipes out the humidity and the sun feels wonderful. You have a woman's arms around your waist and the scent of sex in your nose from her hair and her perfume. Too much perfume because she's an idiot. Perfect. Life is good. It's a farang moment in Thailand.
Where are you going? Why to the lighthouse of course. Park in front. Into the lighthouse. It is a weekday afternoon and no one is around. No Thai families and no Thai couples. No Italian tourists with their shirts off. Even the ice cream guy with the box on the bike is nowhere in sight. It is a beautiful day. No wind and blue sky and blazing hot. You climb to the top. At the top you make her sit on the outside ledge facing in and you stand between her legs looking out. Looking over her head the view is just wonderful.
She doesn't need tortured tourist pantomime. She's a professional piece of human garbage. She knows why she was hired. She knows what to do. Down come your shorts. Down come your underpants. Up pops Mr. Happy. And there with one of the most beautiful views of Pattaya Bay that you can imagine you get fabulous early afternoon Pattaya Park lighthouse attention. At last, the lighthouse is loved and used.
A human relationship adventure, a motorcycle ride, public mutant servicing, and a lighthouse experience–all for 500baht. Is this a great country or what? I wonder if the architects were thinking of this when they first started sketching the maritime urban accent to sell the project to the Pattaya Municipal government. On the way back you run into the guy with the box on the bike who sells ice cream. The two of you sit on your motorcycle and have ice cream and rice in little cups. Eating it fast before the post meridian sun melts it. It all seems so natural. So effortless. So human. So friendly. You lean into one another with the shameless intimacy of two who have shared without pretence. Nothing counts until you are naked.
A wonderful early afternoon human-to-human connection. A moment-in-time, a time-in-a-life where you are not baying at the moon alone. Another member of your species is paying attention. The sex is almost incidental. You are buying a ticket to intimacy, human contact, ego massage, primal reptilian core monkey grooming. And it doesn't take that much. Five hundred baht, a lighthouse, and a tranny is all you need. We don't require that much. We aren't that special. The ceaseless bluff and bluster and carney act of our lives is a thin veneer on the fact that we are needy pathetic carbon based life forms that can be lifted up and enhanced by disgusting acts with disgusting people. Once you punch through the 200 mark on blow jobs the mind wanders. You can start to peel the philosophy onion and become better than your genetic self. In my case I am on the way to secular godhead status. I'm not normal anymore. I'm not like you. But I haven't lost my basic bone marrow wisdom. To wit: The most common denominator of our lives is very low indeed and it is the lucky ones that know it. Relax. Nobody gives a fxxk.
God I love this country. And lighthouses.