Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 128
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INTRODUCTION
Bullets flyin'–
Hearts pumpin'–
Anarchy, sex, and fear.
The Thai experience–
No better place than
Here.
Hand me a gun.
Hand me a beer.
Pull down my pants
Call me "Dear".
Roosters crowin'
And dogs barkin'–
I'll never be going
From here.
Here's the mark
On my chest.
When the time comes shoot me.
Make it your best.
Pull up my shirt.
Give me a kiss.
So long Thailand–
It's was an aneurysm and a heartbreak and bliss.
Laying in the dirt–
Neurons shutting down.
My last act will be a smile;
Not a frown.
Bullets flyin'–
Heart's pumpin'–
Lying and stealing and
Beer.
The Thai experience–
No better place
Than here.
PATTAYA BOUND
We are rocketing along at 100 miles per hour and the firewall is so hot that I've got dancing feet under the dashboard. We're in a purpose built super stretch pink Hummer party van on a limo chassis with Elvis painting black velvet
interior, mirrored ceiling, six inch purple shag carpet, and a gimbaled fish tank. Flames streaming back from the forward doors and red lips on the quartzite lacquer finish sparkle dust sides complete the look; and the vehicle has been accessorized
with a four piece all midget Jamaican rock band called Pattaya Rules sporting Khao San Road dreadlocks and white Elvis jumpsuits, front and back 30 caliber machine guns, port and starboard oil ejection ports, roll bar cage, and a depth charge
mechanism smoke bomb ejector in the trunk. It's a Hummer party van but don't mess with us.
I'm naked and my dick is limper than an overcooked noodle. Fa is next to me naked with her feet up on the dashboard. It's hotter than the center of the sun. She has an oilcan funnel stuck in her twat holding a piece of dry ice.
Says it works. I'm popping beers and pouring them on my private parts. That works too. We are Pattaya Bound.
In the back of the big van are five big military issue wooden crates and ten big whore issue trannys named Febby and Teddy and Pucker and Ban and Suki and Pencil and Na and Bong and Lon and Oh that we picked up in the Obsessions bar at the
NEP on Soi 4 in Bangkok. Hand inspected by me baby and ready to rock.
Ready to roll
And ready to rock.
Ready to pose
And grab your cock.
Champions of sex–
Purveyors of sin.
Never say 'No'.
Always let you in.
Fully equipped–
Just show the money.
It's rockin' time
With a lean tan honey.
Everyone a beauty who could 'pass' and everyone with a huge fulsome package of man meat. The stretch van is full of too much perfume and too much sex. Everyone is naked. So much cum has been flying around in the back of the van
it looks like a milk bottle exploded. We are Pattaya Bound. Once in Pattaya we are going to stop off in Boyztown and pick up ten big dicked Thai players who like men and like making love to men. Then we'll all go up to my condo on the point
at the Royal Cliff beach resort and party. Pattaya Bound.
The condo has purple shag carpet and triangular sound studio wall foam and ceiling mirrors and wall-to-wall mattresses and a little stage in the living room for the Pattaya Rules band and an audio system with $10,000 speakers. On the wall
of the living room is a pink neon sign that says,
NO CONDOMS–NO APOLOGIES
There is a restaurant sized double door stainless steel refrigerator filled with tom yam gung and pastries and beer and whiskey and chips and dips and prawns and chicken feet and frogs legs and boiled eggs and gelato and som tam and fried
insects, rooster beaks, mystery meat, shrimp, prik kee noo and some bottles of boh bak for the band. When you open the doors a little sign lights up that says,
IF IT LOOKS GOOD
AND IT FEELS RIGHT–
DO IT NOW,
DO IT TONIGHT.
Heterosexual and transvestite and homosexual love and liquor and food and music. Pattaya Bound.
The party started on the way down from Bangkok. Midnight rocketing and ya ba fueled antics that included frontal mooning of Hi-So ladies in their big cars, butt plugging at lights, silicone wonders pressed against windows for truckers, and
more licking than at a cat convention. And people ask me why I come to Thailand. Sweet Jesus what a country.
As the pink Hummer party van blasting live Jamaican midget Hip Hop makes the final turn and we can see the ocean through the windshield the trannys start opening the spray stenciled wooden crates with crowbars and long handled screwdrivers
and tire irons and hairbrush handles and start handing out the satchel bombs and the rocket propelled grenade launchers and the firecrackers and the smoke bombs and the hand grenades and the flare guns and the tear gas grenades and the Uzi's
and the stun grenades and the MAC-10's and the Glocks and the Scorpions and the Chinese grease guns and the citizen friendly beanbag shotgun.
Two of the crates have special treatment and special stenciling. One of the crates is pink and contains the ever popular tranny party weapon: the birdshot or chilli loaded Franchi SPAS-12 shotgun. A tranny holding her dick with one hand and
this monster with the other hand is a tranny that wants to party. The other crate has the initials Fa on all six sides and contains the rotary cylinder magazine Protecta shotgun popular with the South African special forces. This is Fa's
favorite personal party tool. This weapon is so terrifying you do not even have to have it loaded. Some nights when Fa and I are bored we go down to Walking Street; her with the Protecta and me with a camera. She bursts into a bar and just starts
screaming and waving the gun around. I take pictures as the bar empties. Later that night we laugh ourselves silly looking at the pics on the computer.
Anyway, the newbies are shown how to press against spring loaded clips and pull pins and keep the barrel from rising. Fifty thousand rounds of ammo and not one shooter has had a gun safety course. Welcome to life my way. You can smell the
delicious aroma of factory oiled weapons. I wipe some factory oil off an Uzi and brush it against Fa's stomach. My dick starts to rise.
When the van passes under the Welcome to Pattaya sign the shooting starts. Honk if you like making an entrance to a party. I said: HONK IF YOU LIKE MAKING AN ENTRANCE TO A PARTY. Heads Up Pattayaites–Dana and Fa and a van full of trannies
are coming to town. And we aren't coming to get your opinions or to get your approval or to get your love.
Please don't tell us
Of your dreams
Or needs.
Please don't prattle and fuss.
Your use to us
Is only physical–
Woman or man . . .
Get jacked or get out of the van.
We know your special
You're an alpha mare.
We couldn't care less.
The games about Dare–
Dare to get naked.
Dare to smile.
We're all just animals–
All the while.
Time to get wasted
And pounded like meat.
Time to shake and bake
And gasp in the heat.
You say you've got a sickness.
You think it might be Aids?
You're starting to deal with life
That might be beginning to fade?
You're not sure what to do?
You're in a confused state?
Party with us.
Let's make it a date.
You say you've got an illness–
It might truly be the end?
Your doctor used the word terminal–
And depression you're starting to fend?
You're not sure what to do?
You're in a confused state?
Come party with us
Before it's too late.
Life's for smiling
And living fast.
So stop that doctor dialing
And forget the past.
When you hear the rattle of gunfire
And heaving bombing sound.
Run down to Beach Road–
Dana and Fa are in town.
Wave a pair of panties
And jump in the van.
We'll give you a MAC-10
And make you one of the clan.
Life's for the living.
Living's for the now.
We're going to my condo
To rub and moan and laugh and how.
Put a clip in your boot
It's all about fun.
Put a clip in your mouth
And a clip in the gun.
Fun's the antidote
For whatever ails.
Squeeze the trigger–
Everything else pales.
We don't care about your disease.
We don't care about your past.
Shoot and laugh and reload now–
And later get naked fast.
It's another chapter of Pattaya Bound.
You can hear the party van shooting–
Dana and Fa and the trannies are in town.
You've been warned–warned by the sound.
If you can't duck the bombs
And can't dodge the rounds.
Then you haven't got meat
We want to pound.
Life's for the living
But only the players count.
We are headed for Boyztown . . .
We've got dicks to mount.
Time to make amends
For wasted time in the past.
Time to get naked
Naked and fast.
Time to load the crates and the trannies.
Time to head for town.
Oh what is sweeter than being
Pattaya Bound?
Satchel bombs are dropped out of windows and smoke bombs and grenades are thrown like tossing confetti at a parade. Naked trannys, too much perfume, the smell of factory oil heating up, and the blasts from satchels and grenades. Someone lights
a string of Chinese noisemakers and the van fills with leaping and screaming before the firecrackers are thrown from the window. Naked trannies are bleeding and smoke blinded and scared. God what a great time.
The Pattaya Rules band starts really cranking:
PATTAYA BOUND–(Jamaican Hip Hop with sounds of gunfire, bombs, moaning, and screaming)–a 'Dana Down and Fa Crew' production.
First it's locked and loaded–
Then it's round after round.
It's travel time baby–
Pattaya Bound.
The boardwalks waiting–
And the palms.
Forget about the church
And singing those psalms.
Get in the mood
And load the guns . . .
Whiskey and food
And beer by the tons.
Kiss goodbye to the past
And your rules.
Homos and trannies and straights–
It's love that rules.
Pattaya Bound is the way to be–
Freelancer action
By the sea.
So come on down
And have some fun–
Pattaya Bound
In the sun.
Rounding the corner and starting down Beach Road the doors are kicked open and the windows are blown out and my violent pervert big dicked trannies go into party overdrive. Some of them are so jacked they are just screaming and firing through
the roof. The ceiling padding is on fire and bits of flaming Elvis velvet are floating around and landing on skin. It's a riot. A tranny named Pucker in back of Fa and me lowers two Tec 22 Scorpions on the back of the seat and squeezes the
triggers. The windshield blows out with a boom and a tinkle. Everyone ducks so low it looks like a limbo contest.
Mindless violence, perversion, disgusting sex with disgusting people, and a complete disregard for others. Paradise. Then I get the face back blast. My beautiful Fa is firing rocket propelled grenades out her window. God bless her. The woman
can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch and blow up fishing boats from a slow moving van. God I love this country. And the words Pattaya Bound.
From the Welcome to Pattaya sign to Soi Pattayaland 2 we leave a trail of stunned teargased citizenry and disorientated farangs and blown up cars and shrapnel damage and plumes of smoke and spent shells and firecracker papers and bullet holes
and yelping soi dogs and wide-eyed children and cheering patrons from discharging Go-Go's and bars. Smoking fishing boat hulks, shredded palms, and Beach front boulevard freelancers face down on the ground and smiling. Smiling because Dana
and Fa and the trannies are in town. Good for business. Good for fun.
He comes twice a year–
Simply hits hard and runs.
Cruising the boardwalk–
You listen for the guns.
Guns and bombs–
Such a sweet sound.
Dana and Fa
Are back in town.
Time to get serious.
Time to get jacked.
Find a stupid newbie foreigner–
One who's whacked.
Take his arm.
Smile at his face.
Over to the hotel–
Clean out his place.
Lots of sex–
Jump and shout.
Start stuffing the purse
When he pass out.
Billfold and camera–
Computer and money.
I'm a boulevard whore.
A jacked up honey.
Out of the room–
Head looking down.
Dana and Fa and the trannies
Are in town.
Time to work
Naked and fast.
Dana brings a party–
But it won't last.
And we haven't even picked up the boys at Boyztown yet. Sweet Jesus–and people ask me why I like Thailand. Cruising down Beach Road the van is full of hyena laughing and ganja gangster heavy bass and smoke and muzzle flashes.
My dick is so hard you could use it for a concrete punch in a hammer drill. The big second floor NEP tranny named Bong with the huge heavy breasts is leaning over me firing out my window. I can feel muzzle flash heat and her great heavy breasts
slamming the top of my head. I'm not complaining. Another face back blast temporarily blinds me on the right. Fa has fired another rocket propelled round. Her eyes have gone spooky and gun metal grey and her cheeks have sunk in and fluid
is gushing out between her legs. She's in a zone and grabbing for another grenade before debris from the first has quit the night sky. You could jam it in right now and she wouldn't even notice. Another time. She'll be draining
some boys tonight and I'll get pictures.
Unfortunately, the 25 gallon fish tank took a hit from 'friendly fire' and exploded neons and catfish and sharks and angelfish and guppies and swordtails and black mollies and goldfish and zebras and plecos and shrimps and snails
and koi and a porcelain lighthouse and a bubbling deep-sea diver all over the interior. It looked like Thais reef fishing with dynamite. Part of the mix. I hate when that happens. Funny though. Ban got slammed in the eye with an angelfish, Suki
had three neons land in her hair, and the band was peppered with blue aquarium gravel. The eight inch lighthouse landed in Fa's lap. She just stuck it between her legs and kept firing the beanbag shotgun at an old Thai woman with a basket
of prawns on her head. Is anything sweeter than being Pattaya Bound?
Cruising down Beach road–
The stars are bright
And the air is still.
The ocean is sleeping–
Time to boredom kill.
The metal is hot.
Our minds are heat waved.
It's a muggy night–
Best for the depraved.
Palm fronds hang
And dogs pant.
Guns go bang–
It's a ballistic rant.
Pay attention.
Open your eyes.
It's Dana and Fa
And the girl-guys.
It's Party time.
Listen to the sound.
It's Party time.
Dana and Fa and the trannies are in town.
Those who aren't dodging bullets or bombs or face down on the pavement are cheering us. The fourth floor pool terrace of the AA Hotel and the second floor patio of Starbucks and the steps of the Royal Garden Plaza are choked with cheering
farangs and teeruks. The caffeine junkies on the second floor of Starbucks give us the pants down salute. Febby and Teddy stand up in the moon roof and spray them with Uzi fire and tracers. It was a riot. Haven't laughed so hard since I saw
the Immigration hall poster of Thailand that said: Land of Smiles. Chaos and anarchy and stupidity and fear. If you could bottle it you could make a fortune. Jesus Mary and Joseph what a trip life is when you forget about standards and think only
of yourself. Then it's up Soi Pattayaland 2 to Boyztown.
The Lubemeisters have heard us coming . . .
Up to Boyztown
And what a sight.
Lean boys auditioning–
Left and right.
Manwhores lining both sides of the soi.
Hoping tonight
They'd be picked–
Picked to be boy.
Out of the bars
And onto the street.
"Maybe tonight–
My life will be complete."
Life's competitive.
Only for the fleet.
Dana's coming–
Time to show the meat.
So pull down our pants.
This is our part of town.
The Dana van is coming–
No time for a frown.
Push to the front–
Dangle the snake.
Push to the curb–
A big dick you can't fake.
Over here Dana.
Over here Fa.
Check me out–
Ooh-La-La.
Show me the van.
I'm ready to go.
Out to the point–
To the party condo.
Choose me
And choose my friends.
You'll love the way
My body bends.
Put your ankles
Behind your ears.
I'll go real slow–
Forget your fears.
We all know Dana
And we love Fa.
Take us to the point–
Load us in the car.
We've dreamed for years
Of the Dana van.
We've honed our skills
Man to man.
Trannies or straights
It's all the same.
We're butt darters of love–
We know the game.
Check out our dicks–
Give us a shout.
Take us to the condo–
It's boy's night out.
We pick up ten boys at Boyztown. Noodle arms and long legs and caved-in chests and tight flat hairless stomachs and brown doe-eyed faces and purple-headed salamis that could plug up the Hummer's exhaust pipe. The kind of cobra hooded
Thai foreskin logs that you'd have to weigh on a fish scale. Look up the word 'weight' in a Thai dictionary and there would be a photo of one of these nighttime accessories. One look at one of these puppies when the pants come down
and you get the facial tics and the Turette's syndrome of the sexually possessed. No need to call me Satan–I'm right here.
Ten cent boys
And ten dollar dicks.
Trannies and homos–
A combo that clicks.
Eyes of fire,
Hearts of glass;
Both camps clawing
At each other's ass.
If your heart belongs
To a fine ladyboy;
And happy you want her to be–
Find her a guy named Toy
And make her a gift of he.
Every one of these Boyztown entertainers certified eighteen years old and their paperwork showing that Khao San Road document stamp of authenticity. When Fa and I load them in the van the trannies are on them like African dogs tearing at
pigeons. No screaming or laughing. Just the guttural sounds of a pride of lions devouring a kill. Is there anything more beautiful than love? Then up to my purple shag Royal Cliff condo on the point.
Barreling down the new maritime park, hanging a left at the lighthouse, and then punching the gas pedal to make it to the top of the hill; twenty seven people in the van jacked for a night of sex and booze and laughter. Fa and I plus the
four piece band plus the ten sicko trannys plus the ten brown-eyed boy wonders and the old crone who had the basket of prawns blasted off her head by Fa with the beanbag shotgun. Sweet Jesus it's great to be me.
Don't even get me started on that night of love. I thought I was going to die. I thought I was having a seizure. I thought I was having a heart attack. I couldn't get my breath. Trannies and homos make a nice mix and Fa held my
hips from behind to help me do some standup drilling. That's what heterosexual love is all about–when your girlfriend will hold you steady while you plug a house guest in the ass. Honk if you love relationships of commitment and maturity.
Me: Fa honey, I need some help here.
Fa: No ploblum ka. What you want?
Me: Just hold my hips from behind so I can do some butt darting.
Fa: No ploblum ka.
Me: Fa, I love you.
Fa: I love you Dana
God what a night. Sweet Jesus what a party. I thought I was having a seizure. I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought I was going to die. There is nothing like friends.
As the sun was coming up we were either in sex-alcohol-pastry sugar comas or bent over the railing of the balcony puking. But it was puking in Thailand which of course made it more special and exotic. The breakfast caterer showed at 10:00
and I handed out little terrycloth robes and mint scented dick wipes as souvenirs. Another great night in Thailand with old friends and new friends and Fa. And everyone glad we had been–
Pattaya Bound.
Stickman's thoughts:
Your dedication to submission writing is remarkable.
