Thai Thoughts And Anecdotes Part 196
"Although it smacks of seamanlike efficiency; to say that we got our anchor and sailed out is not strictly accurate. It leaves much unsaid." H.W.Tilman
A week after I have gotten home from Thailand and there is testicle trouble. The right testicle is big and hurting. And believe me when I tell you–I am, in the manner of the sea poet H.W.Tilman, leaving much unsaid. Gee, I wonder why my right testicle is swollen? Hey, it's a miracle my tongue is not big and hurting after the time I spent between Da's legs. And no it did not taste like chicken.
From my office at the college I call Ida the nurse and tell her I think I should be tested for STDs. Next day I go to the clinic run by Dr. 'O' (we only accept cash and do not tell anyone what we do here) and she shows me the form she has filled out. Holy Christ, I didn't even know there were that many STD (whatever that means) things. And it is going to cost $147.00. So I have a relook and do some rethinking:
"Look Nurse Ida–I don't want to be tested for HIV, or most of these other things. I did some research and most likely it is Gonorrhea or this other thing I can't pronounce and no one can spell. $47.00. Better."
Ida and I have done a lot of intravenous work together pre-and-post Thailand trips so I am thinking that she is going to take a blood sample and send it to a lab where some gorgeous flat-chested, flat-assed Vietnamese woman will look at it. WRONG. She hands me a stick with a cotton ball on the end and explains that I have to stick it up my penis and twist it around for a while. No fun. Hey, there is never a tranny around when you need one.
A couple of days later Ida calls me at the office to tell me that the tests came back Negative and I do not have whatever we tested for. She speculates that I just have 'testicle beaten to death while humping prostitutes syndrome (TBTDWHPS).'
Great. By the time my right testicle is normal again it will be time to get back on the plane and wing my way to the Kingdom. I love my life.
"To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women."
-Conan the Barbarian-
Some pleasures are predictable and pleasurable until the repetition starts to erode the pleasure. Man talk is like that. I love the company of men in the Kingdom in the bars. Particularly bars inhabited by men from a specific country. For example: if I wander (stumble) into a bar inhabited by men from England, or men from Ireland, or men from Australia; I just know it is going to be a great time. I'm an outsider, and everyone is happy; and the jokes will be on me, and I will laugh. If it is a bar stuffed with the Scots or New Zealanders I won't understand anything that is being said but it will still be fun. Talk of sport and politics and women. Great bar times and laughing and talk of sport (ok, soccer and cricket), and politics (ok, President Bush is a penis head), and women.
Talk of women. Man talk. Lots of it and endlessly repeated. Men with the puffed up chests of pigeons telling stories that poorly conceal the central theme: they are manly men and they gave her what she needed.
Ok, let's do a little regrouping here. A little mental and dignity retrenching.
The lowest skill that a man can practice is having sex with women. Sex is a woman's currency to get what she wants. You have to use money to get what you want. She doesn't need the middle step. Here in the United States all you have to do to get sex with a woman is mention that you are in a band, ask her what her astrological sign is, and tell her that you love her. The legs open. She was looking for Mr. Right but you seem to have cracked the code. Cheap goods cheaply sold. So men bragging about sexual exploits are men bragging about winning at an easy game. When children do this you smile indulgently.
So the next time you are in a Scottish, or Irish, or German, or Israeli, or Aussie bar and you see a short white guy come in who answers to 'Dana'–just give me a break. No more stories please about how you are a great lover. Let's move on to something else. If you are under age seventy you can tell me how you shave your back. I still haven't puzzled that out. If you are over age seventy you can tell me how you keep your balls from hanging in the toilet water. Man talk.
Not to put too fine a point on it guys–my face and figure is not now and will never in the future grace the cover of a romance novel. I have never in the past, or presently, or in the future going to be in the rape dream of any woman. And yet I am going through women in the Kingdom like prunes through an old lady. So when you are going on about how you banged this woman, and made this other lady cry, and have a stack of love letters from an Essan princess, and a list of cell phone numbers on beautiful 'sure things' — you are bragging about doing something I am doing. So just cool your jets. You are not so special. It's the Kingdom. A social-sexual house of mirrors where nothing makes sense and the wallet is king. Relax. Luxuriate in your good luck but take a chill pill. We are all banging pussy like demented carpenters. You are not special.
Let's try to move the Man Talk along to other subjects. For example: I've got a thing called a stud finder in my tool box. Will that work in tranny bars?
DANA GETTING DRESSED TO HIT WALKING STREET
4-stroke 50 degree V-Twin, 9.9:1 ratio, single overhead penis shaft with 2 testicles per cylinder, boars hair hydraulic adjusting cam tendons, Boss Hogg lifters, urethra semen ejection port, staggered slash cut black silk family jewel holders, 38 amp steroid and testosterone charging system, big dick drive with mamasan torque compensator, carbon fiber reinforced waist band . . .
And that is just my underpants!
UNION HILL REWRITES WORDSWORTH
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on
high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing
in the breeze . . .
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads
in sprightly dance . . . –William Wordsworth
Union Hill version–
I staggered lonely as a farang
That belches on
high o'er bars and beers,
When all at once I saw a gang
A host, of golden girls with sexy leers
Upon the stage, beneath the lights,
Flirting and dancing
Oh what a sight . . .
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads
In sexy dance . . . –Union Hill (Bangkok poet)
LUG NUTS TO BB'S
Heard during the last Stickman Writer's Party at the Old Dutch restaurant in Soi Cowboy:
First Time Stickman Party Guest: "So how tough is this guy Dana?"
Union Hill: "Tough you say? Stuff his mouth with lug nuts, kick him in the ass, and he'd spit out BB's. How tough you say? This guy gargles with razor blades, stores ferrets in his underpants, and has barbed wire in his armpits."
New Stickman Writer: "Yeah, but how tough is he really?"
Casmeri: "I once saw him enter a Thai contest that involved pounding a finish nail into your knee. Because he was a farang they gave him the longest nail. No ploblum. He used the biggest hammer. Then he pulled the nail out with his teeth. I've got pictures."
Group of muttonhead new Stickman writers: "Well, that sounds tough we guess."
Gary from Pattaya: "How tough is he really? He used to put pieces of jagged glass under his eyelids in college to stay awake during final exams–his hobby was giving himself papercuts–and he used to pay people to drag their fingernails on the blackboard"
New Writer: "No–really?"
4BathroomsJJ: "He once took way too much Viagra and got the medical condition called priapism: so he tore off his arm at the elbow so that he would have something to beat on his dick with and make the thing go down. That's tough."
"Stickman Party Newby: "I guess that sounds tough."
Peter of Washington Square: "I once saw him give the mamasan in the Obsessions bar at the NEP 10,000 baht and then have every tranny in the place kick him in the balls 'till they couldn't lift their legs anymore. When it was over he was smiling and I had a hard on."
First Time New Stickman Writer: "No, but really–is this guy tough?"
500 Baht Walt: "I once saw him dig his eyes out with a wooden spoon so that he would not be able to see what his girlfriend's body was going to look like in the future. Tougher than me I tell ya–and my hobby used to be firewalking on lava beds in Hawaii."
Another First Time Stickman Writer Attendee: "Ok, I guess he sounds tough . . . but still . . . "
Foster Foskin: "Tough? Really? I once saw him get stuck with Stickman's bar bill after he'd made 175 submissions to Stickmanbangkok.com. He didn't even wince. Now that's tough."
So if it wasn’t gonorrhea, then what was it? Torted testicles are not usually a figment of one’s imagination.