Readers' Submissions

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 146

  • Written by Dana
  • September 2nd, 2006
  • 10 min read


Sa Wa Dee Khrap Stickmanites, lesser Earthlings, world leaders, members of the Church of Dana, short big package trannies, sycophants, members of the Dana Fan Club, LOS chicken-on-a-stick vendors, freaks, and friends. Here is another absolutely
true story from the Personal Stories series–(Lonely Hearts and Lonely Nights) soon to be out in airport gift shop quality paperback by I'M HAVING A DREAM PUBLISHING INC. (a subsidiary of HOW DO THESE OTHER CRAP AUTHORS GET BLOWN LTD). Enjoy.


Calling at random–
Seeking a friend.
Part of my personal life–
Anxious to send.

It's phone call time–
Any stranger will due.
Random naked dialing–
I'll make a friend new.

It's me and the night.
It's me and you.
Let me explain . . .
Let's talk, let's do–

No need to take notes.
It'll sear your brain.
My average life–
Your thoughts just the same.

So just listen–
Don't deny . . .
You've dreamed of this pleasure.
Just listen–
You and I.

RING . . . RING . . . RING . . . HELLO?

"Oh hello, I'm glad I caught you. It sounds like you're a lonely farang and I'm one too. So just listen to me–I've got something to say. Listen to this . . . so here is my question: Are you just like me?

Of course you are. Everyone is. Sometimes I wish I was a little different. You know you get tired of being average. But I guess I am what I am. I'm hotter than a firecracker factory in August and I love male meat. You too? You don't
need to tell me. Most of this is going to sound awfully familiar. I guess I just have a need to talk.

Anyway, I have installed floor to ceiling mirrors in my condo and built a stage with seating all around and bolted in place a chrome pole. I can't be the only guy who dreams of being a dancing whore in one of the farang gogo bars of
Thailand. Of course not. We all have this dream. It's natural. It's just that most people don't follow through on their dreams.

The music and sound system was easy and the costumes were easy. For dancing presentation variety I picked up some vocational costumes (nurse–construction worker–Robinson's department store retail clerk–chicken on
a stick vendor) and a schoolgirl costume, and some string bikinis, and some lingerie items, and of course those see-thru tops and bottoms that look like pieces of black fishing net. Also some 24/7 Internet cafe receptionist outfits. Jesus God
in heaven these untouchable virgins make me squirm. Getting assigned my computer, and being asked if I want coffee, and then paying the bill at the end makes me blubber and stammer and facial tic like a baby with Turette's. If Armageddon
is ever reliably announced and there are only hours left I am heading right for one of these honeys. Anyway . . .

Now the audience. Every man dreams of being a woman and cavorting and teasing and exposing herself in front of men and I'm no different. So I needed an audience of men around the stage. So I decided to pick up about fifty inflatable
men and seat them around the stage. Problem is I couldn't find any inflatable men. So I bought inflatable women instead. Different wigs and different clothes and some make-up attention and I had men at the stage in my condo. Only problem
was that inflatable people are kind of expensive so I could only afford fifty guys and I needed at least one hundred males for the kind of audience feedback that a woman craves.

So I bought a bunch of those celebrity and historical and contemporary ‘stand-ups' that you see at the fairgrounds that you can have your picture taken next to. You know what I'm talkin' about baby. You'll be at
a sheep shearing contest and community carnival in New Zealand and there will be a plywood life size standup of that guy who climbed Mount Everest and you can have your picture taken with your arm around him. Quick cheap fun and you have a photo
to show your friends. You and Edmund Hillary are pals. Or you'll be at a rock concert in Godthab and you can have your picture taken with a life size cardboard silhouette of Eric the Red. You and Eric colonizing Greenland. A simple pleasure
that makes everyone smile and brings in Mr. Cash for the carnival freak who runs the thing. Or you might be at a fundraising event in Pattaya run by the Church of Dana and there will be a five foot high Isaan wonder with hair to her knees and
a plywood silhouette bubble coming out of her mouth that has the words–"You velly hansum man!". Viagra and Cialis warriors will line up around the block to have a picture taken with their arm around this plywood prostitute. I know I
would. Hormonal needs and simple pleasures spell big smiles. You get the idea. These life size plywood and cardboard cutouts of celebrities and famous people are easy cheap mail order items with a lot of diversity. You can pretty much order anyone
you want.

Anyway, I purchased life size cardboard and plywood mockups of the Pope (not sure which one), and Theodoric the Ostrogoth (Is that an axe in your pants or are you just glad to see me?), and Gary Glitter ('I've been framed.'),
and President Bush (the younger scarier idiot), and Osama Bin Laden, and Edward the Black Prince, and Bill Gates ('Hey, they were all my ideas.'), and Ronald Reagan, and Charles Lindbergh, and Mozart, and Fidel Castro, and Nelson Mandela
(his life's work is not over–still has to kill Winnie), and Idi Amin ('So many body part entrees–so little time.'), and Pol Pot (a little weird, but men are men) and Ghengis Khan ('Google me for Baby Impaling'), and
Margaret Thatcher (couldn't keep her out), and Napolean, and Marco Polo, and President Clinton, and Jane Goodall (snuck in with Margaret Thatcher), and Liberace (all man for the right man), and Jerry Lewis, and Ludwig van Beethoven, and Laurence
Olivier and Michael Jordan and James Bond (you know which one), and Hitler, and Woody Allen, and Yoda (his dick can meditate), and Winston Churchill, and Homer Simpson (giant underpants model), and Orson Welles (him and Churchill won't shut
up), and Zorro (Is this guy gay?), and Elvis Presley (Is this guy gay?), and Batman (Is this guy gay?), and Captain Kirk (Is this guy gay?), and Fred Astaire (Is this guy gay?), and Mohammed Ali, and Crocodile Dundee, and Benny Hill (always wants
to get up on stage), and Marlon Brando, and Alaric the Visigoth (lice are nice), and Pee Wee Herman, and Genseric the Vandal ( . . . come here Pee Wee), and Hugh Hefner, and Saddam Hussein (crazy funny bastard), and Bruce Lee ( –jerks off so
fast you are not even sure you saw it– ), and Mr. Spock, and Yassir Arafat (party animal), and Isaac Newton, and Charlemagne (slept with seven women in the winter), and many many others. It looks like a pretty diverse group but there are no Chinese
or Japs or Ruskies or Eastern Europeans and especially no French (Fxxx the French). Hey, it's a private party. There's a few 9" trannies mixed in–couldn't resist.

Anyway, I think you can see that on show nights in my condo the place is packed with male meat. Some of them I cut in half so that they would be seated and others I stood up in the background. There have been some problems with some of the
plywood mock-ups putting their hands inside the inflatable men's shirts and squeezing their breasts–but hey; it's Pattaya. It's a go-with-the-flow thing. I can't seem to break Napolean of this habit, and Jane Goodall
keeps putting her hands down Homer Simpson's giant underpants and calling him her 'little monkey'. Problems.

But what the hell; it's Thailand. You can't expect getting hot and naked in a Pattaya beachfront condo full of inflatable and plywood people to be all peaches and cream. But I have had to set some limits and post some rules at the
door. Once Margaret Thatcher gets juiced up she won't stop hitting on Hitler and I don't think any of us want to see that.

I know what you are thinking: How did Margaret and Jane and some of the other 'light-in-the loafers' varieties even get in the door on Men's night? Hey, if you tell me you're a man I'm bound to believe you. It's
Thailand where nobody's a straight line after a while. Everybody deplanes a straight line but after about a year everybody has a little squiggle in their walk. Ever been to some of the Boyztown bars in South Pattaya on Trannies-Get-In-Free
night? After a few hours and a few beers you'll either come out confused or you'll exit open minded.

I like to think of myself as open minded. Hey, if you bat your eyes at me like a bad girl but you're wearing construction boots–ok, you're a man. Come on in. I'm easy. And as for the guys wearing masks–Zorro and Batman and
the rest of the light loafer lot; again, I'm easy–if you say you're a man come on in. Drinks are free, we wink at yaa baa, and the music starts at 10:00. The show starts at 11:00 and everyone should be slippery and sweaty by
midnight. Only one rule. No smoking. Plywood people, and cardboard cut-out celebrities, and inflatable man meat, and plastic pails of alcohol torch like the Hindenburg.

Anyway, the place is packed with men now and tonight is going to be show time. Just me and a room full of men and music and drinks and hormones and . . . well, you get the picture. Sure you do. You've done this yourself. Dancing and
strutting and pouting and showing it to whoever walks in the door. You little piece of trash. Love it when you are finally naked in front of them don't you. Bending over in front of Castro and letting him put his cigar in there. Telling James
Bond you want to be 'shaken AND stirred'. Yeah baby. I'm with you baby. That final kick off of that final shoe as the place goes wild is a real rush. Chow baby. Gotta go.

Oh, hey baby . . . before I hang up . . . I'm naked and I'm pulling on my clear plastic heels with the pink bows, and my flesh colored knee braces, and my hidden colostomy bag, and my licorice stick red Khao San road braided wig.
When you are through with your men in your condo tonight why don't you come over to my place. I'll show you some moves that will rock your world, and we could do some man meat trading. I'll let you have my young buff bronze inflatable
tuktuk driver if you'll give me your caved in chest plywood Indian tailor. He makes me hot.

Chow pussycat . . . good night . . . I guess I just had a need to talk."

Stickman's thoughts:

My Saturday Dana fix has been satisfied yet again. Amusing, and original – always a good combination.