Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 190

OPPORTUNITYS LOST

I am a tourist to Thailand. I've made a lot of trips for a lot of years so the experience does start to become cumulative after a while. Expats love to tell me that I don't know anything, or that I can't know anything based
on counting the total number of days. But that is some truth and a lot of meanness. I know a lot. You shouldn't have to eat one hundred shit sandwiches to know what one tastes like. One should be enough. Anyway, it adds up. In addition I
find Thailand interesting so I write about it, and I read about it, and I discuss the subject with other Thai enthusiasts, and I enjoy researching the subject of Thailand both contemporary and Siamese. However, no matter how much I enthuse, or
how much I learn, or how many trips I make; I am a tourist. I am not an expat. Expats are natives in terms of habit, and territory, and time, and opportunity. Tourists occupy none of these categories. I have some expat friends who live there.
One difference becomes clear. How clear? Staring into alcohol clear water in the mountains and seeing the trout under your canoe clear. Gunshot going off next to your ear clear. I think I can feel . . . no, I do absolutely and definitely feel
a lump in my testicle clear. Anyway, back to theme: I do not have enough time in my little tourist touch-and-go vacations to the Kingdom to chase down every love opportunity that presents itself.

Expats, however, can get the job done. They have the time, they have the territory, and they have tactical and strategic advantages the tourist can only dream about. This last trip in June / July I had an unusual amount of angels holding
up palm trees on the boardwalk that I just did not get back to. A crying shame. The memory of these women of Eden that I did not get to become Biblical with distracts me during the day and the night here in the States. Oh God what a loss. Oh Jesus
in heaven what a loss. Oh God most loving savior what a knife in the heart gut ripping psyche shredding loss. I am now in my second decade of going to Thailand every six months so I am well acquainted with the Beach Road boulevard shopping district.
But this last trip . . . my God where did they come from? And as always–so many women, so little time.

Example: I am bulleting down Beach Road on the way to pick up Da in Soi Diamond off Walking Street when I see an escapee from the Garden of Issan holding up a palm tree. I lunge for the buzzer button, leap from the truck, slam ten baht into
the wife's hand, and run over to this new female wonder. Of course I nearly get killed by a speeding motorcycle but no matter. I've got to be quick. Pattaya Gary has probably already spotted her from the second floor terrace of Starbucks.
This goddamned guy is so good looking I know I can not beat him head-to-head in the boulevard sweepstakes so I have to run like a soi dog dodging traffic.

He and the other opportunity spotters that inhabit the Starbucks vantage point are your constant competition. Armed with WWI brass artillery spotting scopes on tripods, or expensive German binoculars, or cumbersome astronomy telescopes stabilized
with sacks of coffee beans, or two toilet paper tubes duct taped together; they peruse and examine and photograph and note the boulevard offerings with the efficiency of third generation Swiss bench craftsmen looking for dust mites in $10,000
watches. Stoked on Starbucks caffeine they are able to identify boulevard love children with the precision of whale watchers who know each barnacle and crooked flipper. And with sidewalk motorbikes at their command they put the mong in monger
and the eff in efficiency. I tell ya–to see so much energy and time and emotion in the service of love would bring a tear to my eye if I wasn't such a manly man. Anyway, she may be pretty and you may be on vacation, but the race is to the
swift and it behooves you to know how to smash the overhead baht bus buzzer, hurl yourself out the back end of the truck, and slam the coin in the driver's hand in seconds. I once witnessed and stopwatched Mr. Union Hill perform this bit
of monger athleticism from baht bus buzzer to coin slap in the driver's hand in nine seconds. That included the time it took for the bus to slow down; plus he was carrying a forty pound sack of onions, a three foot teddy bear, and he had
his wife with him. Great men are great men for a reason.

The great baseball pitcher and philosopher Satchel Paige once said–

"Don't look back, something might be gaining on you."

That's why when I spot the future Mrs. Dana I have to hustle like a robin at a worm convention because who knows–Pattaya Gary or one of his dedicated monger cohorts might have spotted her first. They might have already crossed Beach
Road and be on the way up the boardwalk. Or if she is a downstreamer they might have already jumped on their motor bikes and be heading for a rendezvous opposite the Royal Garden Plaza Mall. The love road should be a happy road but to look over
your shoulder and see some expat lugging a WWI spotting scope and tripod gaining on you–is to know what fist clutching at your rising aorta fear is all about. Even worse is to spot two of them coming up your backside. You know the big guy with
the shaking palsy, and the ropey veined legs, and the German binoculars is the blocker–and the other guy is going to get your girl. I love it when I go home and someone asks me at the office if I had a relaxing vacation. Relaxing? Everyday was
a fight to the finish in a war zone of expats and pussy.

Anyway, the escapee from the Garden of Issan holding up the palm tree is named Ting. If she is eighteen years old she just turned eighteen as I leaped across the new Pattaya City plantings on the curb side of the boardwalk. Chinese face,
four and a half feet tall (thank-you Jesus), and so sweet I feel like a bucket of dirt talking to her. I felt pretty handsome and clever running up to her; but now that I am face to face with the devil's temptation I feel as if I am retarded
and there are boogers hanging out of my nose. She looks like something you could put in an ice cream cone and lick till your tongue was paralyzed. But I've got to pick up my every night longtime honey Da at the open air bar across from Superbabies.
Back to the highway and into another baht bus. Never saw Ting again.

Ting is probably now the toy of some billionaire Korean shipyard owner. You know the type I mean. You see them on Walking Street with their fifty year old compact bodies, and their thick black oiled hair, and their incredibly expensive jewelry.
And they do not look like nice guys. Anyway, I missed Ting. She and I will not be spending the rest of our lives laughing about what the children are doing. I will not be surreptitiously dropping coins on the carpet so that she has to bend over
to pick them up. An opportunity lost because I am a tourist stretched like taffy betwixt and between social engagements. She is now dreaming up new things to buy for her horizon sweeping condo in Seoul because she is bored. Total time practicing
her new profession before she hit pay dirt? I guess about thirty minutes.

Example Number Two: I am bulleting down Beach Road on the way to pick up Da again (God damn this woman) and I see a woman holding up a palm tree. Same palm tree–different woman. What is this–a franchise? Anyway, this opportunity won't
last more than ten minutes if I don't . . . I lunge for the buzzer button over my head, leap from the truck . . . ok, this one was called Poo. Never again as long as I live on this planet will I think of Poo as something that you do not want
to step in. This Poo I'd stuff in my pants, and smear on my face. Sweet Jesus on a cracker where do they come from? This one looks like innocence and sex have come together for the very first time in the history of the Universe. Two spiral
armed wheeling galactic essences pinwheeling into each other and creating a woman beyond imagining. I feel like Adam staring at Eve. This Eve has a smile that would neuterize Kryptonite, and a chest that . . . ok, but I have an appointment to
meet Da at the bar. Hey, what am I married to this woman? This longtime every night Da thing is seriously cutting into my mojo. Anyway, a few words with Poo and then I am back to the highway . . . have to pick up Da. But I'll be back for
Poo. You guessed it. Never saw her again. Another opportunity lost that the expat would have been able to capitalize on. She is probably now in the mountain top chalet of some Swiss industrialist. Total time in her life as a prostitute: one hour
max.

Another Example: There is a skinny skank who sits on the concrete wall near Soi 13/0. She is too lazy to even get up and stand in the way of the down stream spawning farangs coming from the Soi 6, Soi 7, and Soi 8 end of Beach Road. And in
her complete indifference to putting the slightest bit of effort into her chosen profession she perfectly illustrates the power of women.

Woman is . . .
Man must become.

A man must compete, and produce, and dance like a drunken bear in a Russian circus to earn bread and garner attention. A woman does not have to do anything to earn her bread, or to garner attention. And this down market gutter skank does
not do anything. She has with the philosophic skills of the barely brain synapsed cut right to the core of womanhood and she ain't doin' shit. She just sits there. I have seen her for years and never talked to her. Always a skank at
a distance. Mistake. Oh God, what a mistake. Oh sufferin' Jesus and burnin' witch on a cross what a horrible horrible mistake. Pride goes before the fall and I thought she did not come up to my extremely high monger standards for whores.
Right there. Right there on the temple. Put the barrel there. Just shoot me.

This trip I sat next to her and her hand was in my pants in a flash. A very good sign. But it gets better–'no condom' no problem, and 'ass love' no problem. Sweet Jesus on a cracker how much pleasure have I forfeited
over the years? But wait, it gets better; much better–up close her face is beautiful, and spooky Malaysian featured with those really high cheekbones I like. But it gets better. Hold on.

Her mouth and lips are huge. She has lips that could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. She is blessed with lips that could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. She has . . . mesmerizing. Hypnotizing. Stunning. Mind numbing with their
promise of pleasure. I sit and stare at the face and the lips with the bitterness of pleasure lost. Pleasure some wily expat has probably been mining for years. And we are talking strip mining folks. You couldn't keep clothes on her in a
hotel room if you chained them to her. She'd do a Houdini and be naked in the time it takes you to put that sliding lock in the little slot on the door.

And it gets better. She is skank all the way. A Phd. in Skankdom. Don't know what that is? I'll explain:

Pretty girls that lay on their back and point their feet at the ceiling, or pretty little gigglers that can put their feet behind their head make for interesting visuals, and riveting memories, and fun man stories later; but they are only
the Bachelor's degree and Master's degree freelancer graduates. Phd. Skanks just wordlessly strip naked inside the door, lay face down on the bed, stuff the corner of a pillow in their mouth, and stretch their arms up overhead for balance
and stability.

There used to be a Bangkok cruiser in the Nana Hotel carpark who would tell you her name was Boom–Boom. At first you would think she had misunderstood your question (what is your name?) but she hadn't misunderstood your question. She
had made the final commitment and her name was Boom-Boom. She could have made a fortune off of me but she moved on. No cell phone, no watch, no urgency, no complaints. Just on her stomach while the doctor operated. Another woman named Mel in Pattaya
would lay on her back in the shower after we were through bed bonking and refuse to leave the hotel room until I had given her a golden shower. Since it is hard to make the private parts work after you have been bonked to death it was often quite
humorous. A naked woman squirming at my feet in the shower making appealing demands and I couldn't do it. Hysterical. You had to be there. Marry me honey! I love men who turn up their noses at skanks. More for me. Honk if you love skanks.

Anyway, I'll be back in February. God I hope my giant lipped, high cheek boned skank princess is there. And if I spot Poo or Ting my Soi Diamond princess Da will just have to wait. Priorities. Probably have to rent hotel rooms in two
different hotels to keep various love affairs from running into each other. Oh how sweet it would be to occupy the opportunistic territory of the expat. Where I could be the doctor of love with ruthless efficiency. I'd get me an eye patch
and a pirate's spyglass and assume my rightful position on the second floor terrace of Starbucks with Pattaya Gary and the other guys. No more Poos and Tings getting away. Poo and Ting . . . god what horrible losses. And no more lazy ass
curb sitting skanks left unappreciated and lonely. No more . . . hey expats: how about chillin' a little bit. Leave some palm tree leaners for me. I'll be back in February.

Stickman's thoughts:

Skanks is the perfect word for the women on the "boulevard"… Dana, don't you feel you have been skanking it for rather a long time now and it is time to go a bit more upmarket. I have to say that it in my recent trips to Pattaya, I almost feel like crossing the road when I see the state of the humanity on the "boulevard". Honestly, some of them are so incredibly unsightly….and I could not ever imagine doing the deed!