Stickman Readers' Submissions December 3rd, 2005

Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 110


Sometimes you just know. You don't have to be some male adonis or male porn star or owner of a girlie bar or Harlem pimp runnin' a string of whores; you just know. You are a man and you have libido and you are out of the house and
you just run into social-sexual situations and you KNOW. Example: It's the mid-70's and I am in Charlotte Amalie on St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands and I need some change so I go into a rundown hotel on the waterfront and go up to the
front desk. In front of me are two American girls who are checking in. Sex and sex adventure are just tumbling out of their pores. You just know. I'm looking at them and they are looking at me out of the corner of their eyes. A less prepossessing
man than me you could not imagine. About 5 feet tall, bare feet, sun bleached cut-off jeans, T-shirt, and that slightly disoriented look of too much sun and too little money and too much youth in the Caribbean. My boat is in St. John and I am
over on St. Thomas shopping at the supermarket. But I need change. Gotta make a phone call. More looking. Me at them. Them at me. Then the one in back turns to me and lifts up her dress. She is naked underneath. Not shaved (this was the 70's)
but naked. And tight. All muscle and ready teddy pussy. What did I do? Nothing. I just needed some change. But I knew! And they knew! Women have instincts. And you are not really strong and attractive as a male until women know you are turning
down pussy. I already had a little future black mammy on my boat in Cruz Bay. I was getting plenty of dusky sex. I just needed some change to make a phone call.

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This is why I love Thailand. You run into this stuff all the time. Sometimes I think these situations are attracted to me like iron filings to a magnet. I must have some kind of accessible non-threatening friendly male face because without
hardly trying I run into this type of experience all the time in Thailand. You just have to be out of the house and interested in sex and projecting a fun low stress attitude. On my last trip I was temporarily at the Rajah because I hadn't
been able to get reservations at the Mothership. The Rajah is horrible. Hallway rugs that look like an advertisement for Junkieville, hot water only one hour a day in the morning, missing light bulbs, moody televisions, etc. Typical Indian real
estate in Thailand. Buy and hold, put nothing in; and wait for the rising tide of insane real estate values to make you rich. I once tried to get a cutie from the Hollywood Strip bar at the NEP to accept a barfine from me. A cuter sexier and more
fun woman you could not imagine. "OK, " she said, "Where we go?" When I told her the Rajah Hotel she said "No". She would only do a short time room at the NEP–no Rajah. This whore had too much pride for the Rajah
Hotel of Soi 4.

But there is always a way to make lemonade out of lemons. One afternoon I go into the lobby and on the way to the elevator I spy way far away a farang woman checking in. A single farang woman checking into the Rajah in the middle of a red
light district. Ok, she could be lost. Ok, she could be with the United Nations Lychee Research Project. Ok, she could be a Baptist minister here to save souls. Ok, she could be some man's wife arrived a day early and going to meet him the
next morning. Ok, she could be some feminist writer from Adelaide or Edmonton or New York here in the Kingdom to expose the evils of men. Ok, she could be a bill collector looking for me. Ok, she could be a daughter I didn't know that I had.
Ok, she could be newspaper reporter from the Pattaya Mail in town to do a 'Compare and Contrast' piece on the two cities.

Except for one thing. This young curvy fertile honey had sex and sex adventure tumbling out of her pores. Just like the two girls in the run down hotel in the Virgin Islands years ago she is a sex machine and probably not too particular.
The distance from the elevators to the front desk in the Rajah is shouting distance. But even at that distance my antennae were picking up signals. And Oh, one more thing–She had big ripe puppies just about bursting out of the top of her low
scoop Russian blouse. Great huge solid breasts saying "Hello" to the world. "Look at me." "Look at us." "Does this make you think of anything?" "Any men in this town?" This ain't the Thai
way. This ain't the Buddhist way. This ain't the 'I'm a guest in your country' way. This ain't the 'nervous newbie anxious to please' way.

Instantly I was reminded of something I had seen in an NEP bar a few years earlier. Up on the stage was an almost naked voluptuous farang woman who could dance. And she was pumping and grinding with the kind of body most Thai girls do not
even dream of. Huge heavy heaving breasts and wide hips and small waist and the moves of the experienced and accomplished dick rider. She looked like a high line dancing whore from a club in Atlanta or Montreal or Dallas who had run out of money
in the Kingdom and was earning plane fare home. The men in the bar found her interesting but it was the bargirls who found her the most interesting. They were lined up at the foot of the stage staring and smiling at her. They couldn't take
their eyes off her. They were mesmerized by her giant white skin sexuality and balls-to-the-wall uninhibited exhibitionism. A couple of them probably barfined her and took her to a short-time room and had a licking party.

This was the woman I thought of as I stepped into the elevator at the Rajah Hotel and pressed the Hold button. And like an experienced man I pressed the elevator Hold button without hope. Maybe the big breasted adventuress checking in would
show up and maybe she wouldn't. Maybe she would step into this elevator and maybe she would take the other elevator. Maybe she wouldn't even come to the elevators. Maybe she would hit the street. Whatever. No sweat. To hope is to look
needy. If the antennae of a woman picks up 'needy' you ain't gettin' anything. So I just stood in the empty elevator with my finger pressed on the Hold button and went into some kind of zen Dana sex trance.

In about two minutes in she comes. She smiles at me. I smile back and show her my room key. 703.

Remember those times of youth and promise and big talk at college when you and few buddies would have too many joints and then too many beers and tell lots of big stories and then cap off the evening by blowing up condoms and writing things
on them and then floating the condom balloons out the dormitory window? Well, when she enters the elevator her breasts make me remember those condom balloons. It's as if there are four of us in the elevator. Her eyes are flashing little electric
disoriented green and red lights. She's cranked on something. I slip my foot out of my sandal and hook my toe over the hem of her pants and push her forward and back. She grunts. I make the coupling sign with the fingers of my hands. She
smiles and nods. At my floor as we exit she puts one arm around me like a Russian diplomat and force marches me down the hall to room 703.

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In the room we bonk like rabbits on speed. No mention made of money. No names exchanged. Never saw her again.

God I love this country. A country filled with happy players. People who just know.

Stickman's thoughts:

No trip report this week, Dana?

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