Delightful Pattaya Wild Life Zoo (1/2) A Day Stroll

20.21 p.m. Mr. F. strolls down Beach Road. Just for a look. And see, there is something. A CD stall. Ah, the selection is disappointing. But they have a "Best Of" compilation of the Eagles.

— CD Bargain —

"How much is it, please?"

"200 Baht, sir, good price for you, sir!"

"50 is enough, I think. Hm?"

"Aaah, 50 Baht I lose money already. 100, ok?"

He walks off with his 100-Baht-CD.

— Sound Advice —

20.55 p.m. He walks further down Beach Road.

Those *exotic* smells of Pattaya! The gentlemen who on this site reported a farting issue, might seek refuge on the Eastern Seaboard. Set up shop near one of Pattaya's many foul smelling gullies, and your flatulence will go unnoticed.
To camouflage acoustically offensive forthcomings, you rent one of those fatbellied pseudo-Harleys that are mostly employed by equally shaped tourists. Put the machine in neutral, and not even a Nokia with fart detecting device will broadcast
your trumpeting.

— Pokerfaces —

21.33 p.m. Strolling on in the tropically scented Pattaya night, he meets all his old buddies: Desperate Nui http://www.stickmanbangkok.comReader/reader1379.htm
clings to her noisy MP3 player. Ms. Khmer
http://www.stickmanbangkok.comReader/reader2098.htm

has her usual enterprising look, but by now she knows she can't even get him for massage. And see, there's pale Ms. Baby Face with the baby in her belly. He buys her a fried octopus on a stick and hurries on.

As he enters Walking Street, slaloming around Katoeys and fat small ice-cream-licking Farangs in shorts, Mr. F. is quite sure that this will be his last appearance in sin city. Really. And why – you can checkout any time you want. Tomorrow!
He notices a huge stair leading up to a first floor establishment. At the end of the reling, droves of black-clad girlies look down. Interesting.

All the way up the stairs, East-Asian tourists draped in Hawaii floral pyjamas stand in queue, waiting patiently for whatever. He will quit Pattaya! But he will take a look here first.

He simply walks upstairs, past the parked Asians in their magenta and cyan Hawaiian lingerie. They all hold a small red paper in hand, this could be a drink voucher.

Horseball Entertainment seems to be a tour group agogo, still Mr. F. has seen worse: No uninspired wobbling, and no grotty pussy ping pong either. Actually, you see traces of choreography, and a certain attempt to change dresses in sync.
They dance cheerful kindergartens' versions of flamenco or Polynesian tunes.

The main dancers look very strong and self-confident. Not really sexy though, as it is all terribly overdone. Unfortunately, all the main performeresses have blonde-dyed hair, maybe catering to the East-Asian tour groups. The place is to
90 percent filled with cattle tourists from something like Seoul, Taipei or Beijing; some lady tourists are among them. They all nurse small cokes, obviously received for the voucher.

No smile, no marvel: The East Asian tourists watch the sexy dyed Thai chicks absolutely poker-faced. When the dancers take off their slips and slingshot them at the punters' heads, they receive the steaming undies with a poker face,
right on their noses. The dancers lift their skirts and flash shaved pussies to a poker-faced audience. A few poker-faced punters are pushed to the stage and dragged with their heads right into aforementioned pussies. The guys dive poker-faced
and re-appear poker-faced.

— Sexy Naughty Bitchy–

0.28 p.m. Mr. F. steps back down from Horseball Entertainment, and there is one song still stuck in his head. It sounded like "Sexy Naughty Bitchy Me", sung by a very confident lady's voice, something like an overcharged Britney,
or Christina. It fitted well to the pseudo-self-confident agogo chicks.

As he walks back down Walking Street, Mr. F. can't get rid of the song in his head. Quite a pumping rhythm! And see, there is a CD stall. It blasts grotty techno beats, but he will ask for that song.

The CD stall is manned by something like a shaved Thai soldier, who works on several opened amplifiers and CD players. Mr. F. is not shy: When he needs a music, he will go ahead and actually belt it out to the poor salesperson. He approaches
the CD selling Thai soldier and says: "You know this song?" The soldier looks at him in expectation, waiting for a performance. But the techno beat still pumps at 180 dB (A); so Mr. F. has to raise his voice to 181 dB (A) and, at the
top of his lungs, he starts to scream the chorus:

"CAN'T CHANGE THE WAY I AM – "

In this moment the CD guy realizes that Mr. F. cannot compete with the mighty PA. The Thai turns to his CD player and hits Stop. In one nanosecond, Walking Street falls into deep silence. No, not into deep silence: There is still Mr. F. who
doesn't realize so fast that the techno is off; so he continues to yell at 181 dB (A), now to be heard from Sri Racha down to Rayong:

"SEXY NAUGHTY BITCHY ME!"

— Ruler —

1.35 a.m. Mr. F. walks home, a plastic bag with another new CD in his hand. Enough of this crazy place finally. He will check out! Just only this last bar here. So many females happy to see him. Warm. But as usual, he wants the impossible
– the mamasan. He orders a Cognac from her, for her. She, for one, is not an absurd crazed chick. OK, she's not 18, but at least she might be able to produce two reasonables sentence in a row. With her dress he would allow her to walk next
to him. She exudes responsibility, brain and – also because of that – sex. As usual, Mr. F. is too shy to enquire about her extra-bar services. Are they available?

Too bad, she does not serve his drink. A bar girl walks towards him and brings back for him – a huge wooden penis.

Look, over there the other guy. He wears a muscle shirt and a soft sports shorts. Inside his sports short he keeps a 50 cm steal ruler. What a missile. A half naked bar girl is all over him, grabs him, licks him, massages him. Now they talk,
they agree on something, and he walks off to the bathroom, shifting the ruler ahead.

As he disappears behind the revolving door, his bar girl immediately descends on Mr. F. Finds his willy with one hand, a nipple with the other, twists and twirls, her lips meet his, body contact everywhere. Shy Mr. F. worries mamasan could
see his infidelity, but bar girl controls his will(y), so how to withdraw.

"Hey, you have Farang already", he murmurs and points towards the loo, while munching on her lips and opening his legs a bit more. – She looks back too. "Yes, tonight boom boom him", she says while watching the toilet
door, and puts her rubbing hand into sixth gear. "But tomorrow boom boom you. You come back tomorrow ok?" – Somehow her left breast landed in his hand. Disgusting whore, thinks Mr. F. and fondles eagerly.

"Comebacktomorrow", he murmurs willingless. She presses herself against him and blows hot air into his ear.

The loo door croaks, and she falls off Mr. F.'s in a nanosecond. Her original punter – with ruler intact – re-emerges and pays mamasan; ruler keeps him a bit on distance. He doesn't even look at his bar girl; but as he steps out
into the steamy Pattaya night, she dutifully follows her penetrator. – "Boomboomtomorrow", murmurs Mr. F. There's a 5 cm ruler in his trousers now.

— Cuddle Up —

2.24 a.m. Mr. F. staggers home. Now finally! Pattaya is no longer his turf. Strolling down Beach Road towards his lodge, the asphalt birds look desperate now. Including his old pals: See Nui, clinging to cheap beer Leo. THAT beggar was his
old bedroom buddy? He smiles at her – and fastens his steps. Ms. Khmer and Ms. Baby Face, still posted around soi 10 in pale white neon light – good luck and good night. Was he once grotty enough to consider them?

Oh, the CD guy had known his song. "That's Tataah", he had declared. Not the Indian car maker, but he sold Mr. F. a copy of Thai star Tata Young's CD "I believe". Track 2 is "Sexy Naughty Bitchy". 100
Baht.

Two new CDs on this evening, maybe the best and most lasting action tonight: Tata Young, and previously, The Eagles. And there: his lodge. "Welcome to your hotel in Pattaya", he hums. Tomorrow he *will* check out. Pattaya is not
good for him.

You can take Mr. F. out of Pattaya. But can you take Pattaya out of Mr. F.? "You can check-out any time you want", he hums – "but you can never leave…"

Mr. F. enters the hotel lobby and wakes up the night receptionist. The young man hands out the key silently, with averted eyes. He doesn't want to see any Mrs. Sandman lurking in the shadows.

But what. Mr. F. enters his refuge ruler- and mamasan-less. The room is too hot, the air-con too noisy. "Sexy naughty bitchy", ha-ha. "Can't change the way I am", hm-hm. Mr. F. cuddles up, naked and alone.

Stickman's thoughts:

Another nice series from Pothole.