Readers' Submissions

Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 188

  • Written by Dana
  • August 4th, 2007
  • 10 min read



LET THE LYING BEGIN

My second night in Pattaya and I am on the way to Superbabies Bar in Soi Diamond off Walking Street. Superbabies Go-Go bar hires to attract Japanese customers. Mostly young punks who can make one beer and a pack of cigarettes last two hours. So the women are young, and the women are perfect. They are also way too expensive, and way too full of themselves, and they are not under any circumstances going to smile at me. And it sometimes looks like you could not get a smile out of them with blasting caps and a crowbar. No matter. Superbabies to me is a temple where I go to worship. Don't know of another bar like it in all of Pattaya. I am just about to give myself up to the door greeters when a woman waves at me from one of the open air bars in the center of the soi. I break stride, turn, and go over. I order a coke. We talk. She is kinda cute and kinda attractive but nothing special. She asks me where I am staying and I write the AA Hotel–Soi 13/0 and my name on a napkin. I have never done this foolish newbie thing before, and I have no idea why I did this for this woman on this night and at this bar. She ain't no Superbaby.

At 4:20 a.m. I get a call from the front desk of the AA Hotel that there are two women in the lobby to see me. I go down. One is the kinda cute kinda attractive woman from the bar (her name is Da), and the other is her friend. They announce that the friend ('we grew up in the village together') is there to interview me to see if I am good enough for Da. Okay. The fact that some rice paddy rube with feet shaped like canoe paddles is judging me to see if I meet her low standards is amusing and tedious; but when I left the hotel room and entered the elevator I agreed to play with children in a country that teaches racism as science, believes in ghosts, and counsels against foreign devils. You can not complain about being on stage if you did the walk-on yourself. It's called the vacation experience. So I smiled, and I grinned, and I idiot pantomimed, and I jerked around like a dancing bear, and I acted the happy foreign devil fool, and . . . and I passed the interview.

And what did I win? What was my prize in the early morning hours of the AA Hotel in a country of bogus smiles, and boring provincialism, and four color high resolution postcards? I won a woman who was over forty, and overweight, and had a big pimple between her eyebrows (apparently my Essan princess has never seen a mirror). Anyway, Da could barely speak bargirl Thai, and there was some evidence that she did not have the brains of a bucket of paint. Gosh I was lucky.

Da and I adjourn to room 711 where the loving, and the licking, and the laughing, and the bonking begins. Sweet Jesus on a cracker you can not judge a book by its cover. Da may not be a Superbaby, and she may have left her youth behind her; but holy god what a wonderful sweet tender loving woman. Apparently brainless and feckless in the bar, demure and retiring in the lobby, and then full blown naked and interested in the hotel room.

Who pulled the switch? Hey, who's asking? Viagra don't fail me now, the bonking train has left the station. The big wheels are turning, the whistle is blowing, steam is venting, brown skinned men are throwing baggage off the top, and the sun hot rails are being crushed under the advancing sex machine. Dogs are barking, and birds are bursting from the trees as sun blackened rice paddy faces stare in envy and in awe. She heaves, and grunts, and slaps me in the face.

Smiling now. Sex is great but sex and violence is the gourmand's dish. It is a slap I saw coming as she extended her right arm and then slow arched up to me with an open faced palm at the end. The second grunt and heave with the counter punch slap from her left hand caught me by surprise. Oh yeah, baby–it's all in the timing and you and I are on the same train. No more eyes shut reverie for me. I double pump until my compression strut arms are squeezing her rib cage. Her eyes snap open, her pupils dart like minnows in front of a big fish, and she clears her throat and blows phlegm and saliva against my chest. The deal is signed and she is in for the finish. It's all flashing connecting rods now, and the crushing destiny of big wheels. This sex machine isn't stopping for anything.

She has stopped the head thrashing, and there isn't going to be any more heaving and slapping. Her head lolls like a log, and it is dig down deep time for both of us. Bringing the youthful past up to the present, and throwing off the modern garb of civility and opinion and fears. Animal time. I'm fifty nine going on nineteen, and she is over forty and over weight going on seventeen; and these two horses are going to run and run and run and run until their legs go brittle, and their lungs collapse, and they drive themselves into the sand and into each other. God bless dancing like a Russian bear in the lobby of a hotel in the early morning hours of the Kingdom. God bless this woman. And God bless me for being here. Sweet Jesus on a cracker what a wonderful woman.

The next night I go to pick her up and she comes out from behind the bar with suitcases, bags, a box, multiple purses, a straw basket, a stuffed burlap rice sack, an empty wooden lottery tickets box, a silly hat, a backpack, the head of a teddy bear peeking out of the top of her shirt (Oh Buddha, please reincarnate me as a stuffed animal in a room full of Thai bar girls), and a friend named Maow she is using as a pack animal.

Maow (bitchin' body) is carrying a bamboo bird cage (no bird), a mop, an oar (?), a backpack full of disgusting Thai food items, a framed picture of some temple monk who appears to be between 150 and 200 years old, another framed picture of the Spirithouse from mom's house in the village, a bunch of rolled up posters of Thai actresses and Thai rock stars, a twenty pound roll of newspaper full of cutlery, two Connect Four games, little white towels, and seventeen microwave popcorn packages. There's more? Yes, both little Thai honey bunnies had pockets so full of shot glasses and drink glasses that they looked like tumor ridden koy fish.

She is moving in, my shy and demure pimple-between-the-eyebrows Da; and the word husband issues from her lips. She was looking at me when she said this. In a crowd I might have assumed she was talking to someone behind me but this was not the case. Believe me when I tell you that the word husband did not issue from my lips but there it is now–hanging like a hummingbird between us. Husband: a word from a woman to a man that can make the birds fall from the sky, and soi dogs stop barking, and the spinning earth almost screech to a halt.

"Husband"–I can briefly feel the aorta coming out of the top of my heart clamping down, my sphincter muscles crashing shut, and my eyes going blind. The hairs inside my nose feel like wires, my mouth feels like metal, and my throat is suddenly full of sand. From her to me: "Husband"–the game has changed. Think I am being dramatic? Consider this: the word husband issuing from a woman's lips is an event coincident with a sharp reduction in sex, and the beginning of gaining weight. Ever looked at wives? Nuff said. "Husband"–the game has changed.

She rearranges the furniture in the hotel room, and washes my clothes in the sink (she is singing), and washes me (happy happy genitals), and polishes my shoes, and brushes my teeth (the ones in my mouth), and sprays the sheets with perfume, and has me praying to Buddha at night before the bonking starts, and oils the fan, and takes out the filter in the air conditioner and cleans it in the sink, and clips my nails, and shaves my groin (could've done without that), and puts a Welcome mat outside the hotel room door in the hallway, and hangs wash outside the window, and cleans the curtains, and prepares picnics on the bed, and poses for pictures, and takes the shelves out of the mini-fridge so that she can stuff more strange Thai food in there, and sets up a little Buddha praying place on the window sill complete with candles and incense and flowers and daily food and drink offerings, and has some sort of long intense mysterious conversation with the maids, and fills the bathroom up with so many woman items it looks like a cross between a chemistry lab and Frankenstein's surgery . . . and . . . and she lets me pound her like a demented carpenter hammering a nail.

Words almost fail me . . . it is the now extremely rare girlfriend experience in Thailand and I have fallen into pudding. The Thai female girlfriend experience for the monger tourist in the Kingdom has almost gone the sad way of the Dodo bird and the smiling gogo girl; but I have, against all odds, managed to blunder into a prime specimen. Since I am charming, and have the physique of an Adonis, and am very attentive and loving to her; she believes that she has chosen wisely and I am going to be 'husband'. Because this is her reality; to say that our nights are fun is an understatement. Reminds me of the old days. So everything from my point-of-view is extremely satisfactory, and I want it to go on. In fact I am going to be ethically challenged, and not favorably disposed to anything that would imperil the continuing of this nightly bonk and love fest from this fabulous woman. Let me repeat: I am going to be ethically . . . ok, you get the point. You never know when it is your last meal in life, and you never know when you are going to be served sex in abundance again. A practical man feasts on what is before him, and tells the waiters to keeping bringing more food.

On our fifth night she says, "How old are you?"

Well, I am fifty nine years old but that is not an age that husband seeking Thai women are going to be happy about. If those words leave my lips the licking, and the bonking, and the kissing, and the laughing, and the air conditioner filter cleaning will stop. I am one of the lucky ones regarding my aging and my appearance and I routinely get guesses of 38-45 years which is doubtless the category she is assuming. But I am not 38-45 years old, I am 59 years old. In one more year I will be sixty and the time for bluffing will be past. I have outlived my doctor. I have outlived some of my friends. So what did I do?

You know what I did not do. Of course you do. You would have done (or not done) the same thing. I did not tell her I am fifty-nine years old. I did not tell her that I am not somewhere between thirty-eight and forty-five years old. I did not tell her that in one more year I will be sixty years old. I may not be the brightest light bulb in the hallway of Life but this simple equation I can figure out. So . . . another happy night of bonking like dogs, and grunting like pigs, and laughing like children. That's right. I did what I had to do. You couldn't have gotten the truth out of me with coal hot tongs, and a wire hooked up to a train set transformer. I believe at the right time and for the right reasons I stepped up for all men everywhere and displayed the results of ten thousand years of exposure to women and sex.

Let the lying begin.

Stickman's thoughts:

And I bet the Thai girls think just the same with Western guys. "I did what I had to do"…