Researching Thai Tottie

I was introduced to the Stickman site by my old school chum Jeremy Forbes-Hamilton. I bumped into him a few weeks ago at the Cricket club on ladies evening. I usually avoid these bashes like the bubonic plague, having the women there tends to put a damper on the fun with every one behaving themselves, which is bloody boring hey what! But father was away on business again so mother insisted I squire her to the bally thing. My mother is a formidable woman; she was one of the last debutantes to have a coming out season and one of the first (allegedly) to shag Prince Andrew, Prince Charles and Prince Phillip on 3 consecutive days so you don’t argue with her, not if you want to keep your eardrums intact that is.

As it happens I am glad I went because old Jeremy F-H turns up with this dark skinned little oriental poppet on his arm which caused quite a stir amongst the wives of the club members. Toothsome little morsel she was, slim as a stick with long black hair flowing down to her ass and a face like an angel. I figured she must have been a high class escort he hired for the evening cause old Jeremy fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down; he certainly couldn’t pull a tasty popsey like that in open play.

The club member’s ladies are fearsome creatures like the Mem Sahibs who ruled the British Raj 150 years ago. They are all stout hideous dragons to a gal and all have rear ends like two Fortnum and Mason bags full of shopping. So the appearance of a stunning little Asian thing looking half their age and at least a quarter of their weight didn’t go down too well. The fact that all the blokes in the club couldn’t stop ogling her made things worse and I can guarantee none of their wives will let them have sex again for the next six months, if ever! Bloody good thing from the state of most of them I say, you wouldn’t know which fold of flesh you was in with any of them.

Rather have a good meal myself.

I was engaged to one of them a few years ago. Henrietta is the daughter of the Duke of Dagenham who owns a far portion of Norfolk. Sweet little thing but she split with me, the bitch. Claimed I gave her a dose of the clap and my plea that I must have caught it off a communal cricketer’s protector didn’t seem to wash with her. Damned unreasonable I say.

Saw her last week in Harrods, fat as a walrus with a brace of snotty nosed kids and a better moustache than me. Lucky escape hey what?

I manage to collar old JF-H on his own in the bog; with Percy in hand and in full fluid flow I had his undivided attention and joined him against the porcelain.

“Hey you old rascal where did you find that tasty little piece, did you get her from old Ratty’s pimping emporium?” I asked.

Ratty, Nigel Ratcliffe was an old school chum who runs an escort agency, he has sorted me a few shaggable items in the past although he always charges me an arm and a leg for the experience.

“How are we fixed for a threesome later if I bung five hundred towards your evenings cost?” I continued.

His reaction was as violent as it was unexpected I thought he was about to have heart attack.

“No Algie you don’t understand she is my wife!” He exclaimed.

My own reaction caused me to pee down my left leg but he continued.

“I found her through a legitimate introductions agency, she is a lovely girl. I met her in Thailand last November and married her at Easter. She has a masters degree in Economics and her family are bone fide members of society in Bangkok”

Giving my Tadger a vigorous and totally gratuitous shake I continued,

“Bugger me Jeremy they give away degrees in lucky bags and you can get a Masters with the coupons off Corn Flake packets in Asia.”

“By the way does she have a sister?”

He gave me a dirty look and stormed out. No sense of humour some people.

He didn’t stop at the bash too long after that, I think the icy glares from the female elephant herd made him uncomfortable. Before he left I managed to get a good squeeze of his eastern poppet’s arse though. Sweet it was, like two soft boiled goose eggs in a silk handkerchief.

I stood J F-H lunch at a little Brassiere near his office in Canary Wharf the next day. By the time he had put himself outside a nice £250 bottle of claret He had forgiven me. I was fascinated by his companion of the previous evening and wanted to know more.

I knew something of Thailand and had been there on holiday with the family some years ago. Don’t remember too much about it we stayed at the Oriental in Bangkok and somebody’s mother’s boathouse or something in Phuket but truth be told when you have money one exotic holiday paradise is much the same as the next one.

No I was more interested in the place as a source of tottie. I had never given Asian fanny much thought but if old JF-H could collar quality crumpet like that it was worth a look. Over a second bottle of wine Jeremy gave me the low down on how he met his missus (boring) but by the time we had polished off the third bottle he was in his cups and he gave me an account of his adventures with the Bangkok naughty night life before he met her.

By the time I had bundled his inebriated carcass into a taxi he had whet my appetite. Just before he went comatose old Jeremy mumbled something about a website called Stickman I should take a look at which would explain all. It was only 4.30 so I thought I would slip back to my office in the City for an hour or so.

Back at the office my computer was switched on so I Google Stickman and Bangkok and up comes this archaic looking thing all black like some satanic ritual site those Goth kids get their rocks off to . Bugger me there was some stuff on it, so I go to the reader’s submissions which old JF-H said would be the most enlightening. Well toss me off with a spiky wicket keepers glove there are thousands and bloody thousands of stories to read. Bugger that I could not be arsed to read all them, so I buzz my secretary to come into my office.

Moira has been my secretary for 10 years. How do I describe her to a sensitive soul? She is about 5’4 tall and as wide as she is high. Aesthetically challenged (that’s PC for incredibly bloody ugly) horn rimmed spectacles and frizzy red hair, I wouldn’t shag her with Jeremy’s dick (and that is really horrible, pale freckled and a yard of foreskin covered in lumps that look like rice crispies… ugh). She turned 55 last week and is definitely spinster of this parish. I have no doubt she will have “returned unopened” engraved on her tombstone. She certainly wasn’t my preference, she was chosen by the old man to make sure at least some work was carried out in my office. He said if he had left it to me I would have recruited some brainless blonde bimbo with big tits and a miniskirt and a typing speed of 5 wpm.

Too bloody right I would.

But in fairness Moira is loyal, highly efficient, works like a coolie and covers my arse at all times. Especially with my father who also happens to be my boss.

I should introduce myself my friends call me Algie but you bloody peasants can call me Algernon Wright-Barsterde. Yes that’s my moniker, don’t wear it out. Its Old English, my ancestors came over here with the Norman Conquest, 1066, Battle of Hastings, Old Harold getting an arrow in his eye etc. By the stirrings in the trouser area I reckon I will have somebody’s eye out with this if I don’t find a floozy tonight.

I work for the family business Hunt, Lunt and Cunnington; Bankers to the Gentry for 300 years. You serfs wouldn’t have heard of us as our clientele is very selective. We had the privilege of being banker to the Royal family for 200 years until a mix up with a receipt for some tart her son Bertie was squiring prompted Queen Victoria to move her account to those upstarts at Coutts. My great grandfather took over control of the Business in the 1920s and there has been a Wright- Barsterde at the helm ever since.

Anyway in the twinkling of an eye Moira is standing at my desk notepad in hand bristling with enthusiasm and efficiency. I explain to her about the stickman site and tell her to get one of those fresh faced young lads on the graduate programme to read through them for me. Tell them its important research, cultural background for entering the SE Asian market or whatever. With the slightest of nods and a “yes sir” she left the office committed to the task.

I turn 35 next week and despite a few dental imperfections I am without doubt the finest specimen of English manhood you lot are likely to encounter. I carry a bit of excess around the midriff but you don’t knock a 9” nail in with a toffee hammer do you what! I don’t want for feminine company but I am getting bored with the Sophie’s and Camilla’s in my social circle and a half decent call girl in London has been costing the best part of a thousand quid. I don’t stuff (much) charley up my nose like most of the wankers in the city so I can easily afford a tart every night but you can still get bored with it and occasionally fancy a bit of a change.

The other motivation for this sudden interest in Asia is I am short of an idea for a vacation. I usually spend a month on Anthony Westminster’s yacht (or more accurately his father’s yacht) he has moored down in Monte Carlo, but that is off the agenda at present. This is due to a slight mishap when we were there at Easter. Old Tony was showing his party piece of igniting his own farts to two French Fillies we had picked up. This was ok when he did it on the frugal diet of our school days but three days of Escargots au Pastis, Terrine Foie de Canard and a case of very young Beaujolais the effect was disastrous. The explosion could be seen in Corsica and required fire tenders from as far away as Cannes to deal with the subsequent conflagration. We escaped without too much harm other than a little scorching to Tony’s anal hair and a determination never to repeat this trick in the vicinity of inflammable soft furnishings.

Apparently the insurers claimed the policy did not cover the ignition of ones bodily gases and refused to pay up. Tony’s old man has now got to write off about £5 million but as he is a personal pal of the current Chancellor he will no doubt get some tax concession to clear it.

On the way home I popped into Fathers club on the Strand to see if there was anyone there to have a chinwag with. As there was only the usual bunch of flatulent dodderers from Halitosis Hall (aka the House of Commons) asleep in armchairs, I return to my flat in Chelsea.

I give old Ratty a ring and ask if he has any oriental tottie on his books, he has and promises to send one round to the flat in an hour. With some time to kill before she arrives I spark up the computer and take another look at this Stickman thing. I have a quick scan of some the most recent reader’s submissions. There is a variety of subjects covered but because I don’t have much of an attention span I quickly got bored with the tales of sad old tossers being taken advantage of by tarts half their age, until I got to some stuff written by two geezers Aha Wendigo and Blackest Bart. Most of the stuff they were spouting was clearly intended to be deliberately provocative but what they were saying made eminent sense to me.

Mind you they pissed me off a bit bragging about how rich and handsome they were which shows they ain’t got no class. I know from my experience with the barrow boys who call themselves venture capitalists that swan into our Bank on occasions, if a chap has to swank about the money he has, he usually ain’t got any. I reckon if ever I saw those two oiks in any decent London restaurant we would throw bread rolls at them. I would love to meet them just for the pleasure of saying to them “hey you colonial bumpkins I would just like you to know I am considerably richer and more obnoxious than you.”

My train of thought was broken by a knock on the door. I opened it to see a pocket size vision of loveliness standing before me. Even with 4” heels on her bright red shoes she only comes to my chin. Sprayed on designer jeans, silk blouse giving just a glimpse of a lacy bra struggling to contain a pair of magnificent mammaries, a sweet little face, big doe eyes, long silky black hair, 8” diameter hoop earrings, the effect was quite breathtaking

“Well ain’t ya gonna let me in then ya dozy sod. Me names Nut by the way I don’t usually do house calls but Ratty said you were an ‘armless old sort. It’s three hundred quid an hour smoking is extra as is the tradesman’s entrance and I don’t do kinky stuff now where’s ya bathroom?”

She managed to say this in one sentence, without once drawing breath.

“Yes please come in” I managed to stutter “the bathrooms just through there.”

The Estuary accent and her exotic oriental appearance were incongruous and quite disconcerting to my delicate sensibilities.

She enters and disappeared into the bathroom. She must have been in there 3 hours (alright 20 minutes). How clean does she want to get her mudgeon and just how clean can one get. When she finally emerges with one of my big towels wrapped around her she instructs me” Now you go take shower.”

“Bloody hell” I exclaim I had a shower yesterday morning, how many showers does a bloke need in a week?

“No shower no shag” was her unequivocal response so I obliged and jumped in the shower.

I avoid giving myself a rub to make the old Tadger look bigger. The English tarts love the punters to do that because you are doing half their work for them. I come from the shower so clean you could eat your dinner off me.

I sit on the bed and admire her shapely but clearly augmented breasts bursting through the towel she still had tightly wrapped around her.

“Goodness my dear” I exclaim “what a beautiful pair of breasts you have”

“They aught to be they bleedin well cost enuff, ten grand in Harley street and I could have got em ‘alf that price in Bangkok”, she replied.

Are you from Thailand?” I asked (although thinking more likely Tyburn from her accent?). “Only I was thinking of going there on holiday myself.”

“Yes I am Thai but are you gonna shag me or talk me bleedin ead orf?” She retorted

“I told ya I don’t do the kinky stuff, if ya want to sit and talk that will be extra.”

“No I think a shag will be quite in order.” I quickly declare.

After some surprisingly imaginative foreplay we get down to the task in hand. Now I am not one of these cads or bounders who detail the intimacies of his horizontal activities, however she climbed aboard me like a national hunt jockey with her feet high in the stirrups and sets off at a fair gallop. As we approached the final furlong I revealed a couple of tricks I have learnt which had her screaming as we passed the finishing post.

Khop khun ca she purred as she dismounted and lay with her head on my chest. In the post coital languor she gently murmured” Buy me something to eat and I will tell you what you want about Thailand.”

My offer to send out for Chinese takeaway was met with an “I don’t eat that shit, get a big pizza but no anchovies.”

By the time the pizza arrived we were both robed in my silk dressing gowns and I had opened a bottle of presumptuous Chianti. We sat at the table in my dining room and she devoured the pizza as if she had not eaten for days. She had dropped the cockney flower girl act and was now quite friendly and talkative.

The same age as me she had lived in London for some ten years. She recounted her life story which I imagine was quite typical. Poor childhood in the poor North East of Thailand, married young, husband abandons her on birth of the child. leaves child with her mother and joins the bar industry in Bangkok. Moves to Pattaya and meets an Englishman who brings her to UK. He tells her he is a transport executive but turns out he’s a bus driver and she leaves him at the first opportunity. Thai friends advise her to work in a massage parlour and eventually join the escort business in which she makes a comfortable living.

She told me about the Bangkok scene and some of the scams which are quite ingenious. She suggested I steer clear of Patpong and stick to pay for play in Soi Cowboy or Nana for my pleasures. I was strongly advised to avoid freelancers, part timers and the extremely expensive ordinary girls in discos and department stores. Her final advice was not to fall in love.

We enjoy a repeat bout of carnal gymnastics until 2.00 when I call her a taxi. She left a couple of grand better off but I had gained some interesting insights. I now believe a Thai girl’s couche must be the Eighth wonder of the world and acknowledge I may have caught Jasmine fever.

Next morning I stroll into the office around 11.00. There is a cup of steaming hot coffee and an impressive looking document waiting on my desk. I sink into my executive chair and pick up the document. About 3” thick nicely bound and very professionally presented. I peruse the cover. Below the stark instruction

Confidential It read:

An analysis of the Stickman Bangkok website:

A study of its relevance to the discerning gentleman tourist.

A most imposing title I thought although the sub title below it (A newbies guide to sex mongering) may have detracted from the effect somewhat.

I open to the first page to see the Executive Summary and peruse the first few lines.

I am interrupted by a phone call informing me there a panic in the city by way of a run on sterling with the pound currently worth 5 Matabele gumbo beans or something. Not that it bothered me as my personal worth is safely tucked away in the Cayman Islands or in the hands of those fat gentlemen in Zurich. However with Father away I must look concerned for forms sake so I take a stroll to the trading room. Our trading room is manned by about twenty greedy oiks who despite the Armani suits are East end costermongers and cockney barrow boys to a man. The stock exchange and most financial undertakings are little more than glorified casinos or high street betting shops. The two techniques for manipulating the markets Trash and Cash or Pump and Dump are used almost daily to profitable effect in our Bank. Everything else is all smoke and mirrors to give the illusion to the peasantry that we deserve the obscene salaries and bonuses we award ourselves.

I walk around our trading room looking purposeful and resolute stopping at each computer terminal to berate, insult and generally demean each of the traders. Within 10 minutes I have completely demoralised all of them humiliated most and at least three are in tears from my gratuitously offensive remarks. My work is done and I can return to my office for lunch.

That’s what motivation is all about. I am glad I once read a book on management; mind you I never got past the chapter on delegation although this Machiavelli bloke seemed to know his onions.

I take lunch at my desk and continue to read the article there.

There is no question this document is quite impressive. The chap who prepared this dossier must have burnt the midnight oil to complete it in an evening. I turned to the front cover again to see who this paragon was. It read:

Prepared for A Wright-Barsterd by Alex Shaw.

Clearly a bright young lad, I must keep my eye on him he or will be after my job. Oops forgot for a minute my father OWNS this Bank so my job is quite safe. Phew a microsecond of self doubt there, must be careful, maybe the doctor can give me something for that.

1. Fascinating stuff, it is divided into sections;

2. Thai culture and etiquette,

3. Thai travel reports,

4. Hotel/restaurant recommendations,
   
   Scams,

5. The bar scene in Patpong, Nana, Soi Cowboy, Pattaya and Phuket.

6. The girl done me wrong tales (the thickest section),

7. Success stories (the thinnest section).

The next section covered esoteric subjects like the propensity of Thai women to chop off the manhood of philandering partners and feed it to the ducks. It also gave a fascinating account of the infamous Eden club. Interesting!

Each section had a page or so of narrative backed by two or three copies of the reader’s submissions as examples specific to the subject.

There was also a section giving a critique of some of the quality contributors to the site: BKKSW, Cent, CMKelly, Dana, IndyUK, Korski, Holt, Meier, Phet, Thaities, Union Hill and Frank Visakay.

Now I am not easily impressed (Easily pleased but not easily impressed) but I was bowled over by the effort this bloke had put into preparing this report. There was definitely a business opportunity selling copies of this document to visitors embarking on a visit to Thailand. It would be a lot more useful than buying the Lonely Planet Guide written by that bunch of tree hugging celibates and ageing hippies they employ. But I couldn’t be arsed, I don’t need the money and I don’t want the work.

I turned back to the executive summary and reread it. The final sentence intrigued me:

• It may be expedient for the discerning gentleman of means to consider an educated Thai lady already resident in the UK as a more practical alternative to visiting Thailand.

Interesting thought but the die was cast; it was a trip to Thailand for me.

I looked at the clock, bugger me it was 4.45 I had been engrossed in this document for a couple of hours, time now for a bit of a work out and reading about the Eden club had given me an idea. I think a little physical workout is required, I feel a visit to Madame Irene’s House of Correction for a little light flagellation is called for.

I buzzed Moira and within the twinkling of an eye she was at my desk notepad in hand, so I issued my instructions:

“Moira, I fancy this Thailand thing for a month, book me a flight for next week and a hotel in Bangkok for two weeks, I can phone you from there to book me a hotel in Pattaya or Phuket for the following two weeks.”

After a few moments pause for thought I continue,

Don’t book me in the Oriental (bugger the Somerset Maughn connection too many of Fathers friends stay there) and don’t bother with places like the Landmark or Marriot, (so what if they have full conferencing facilities what do I want with conferencing facilities). Apparently they also charge “corkage” if you bring a filly back to your own room…charge you double occupancy. Yes I know I can afford it but I am buggered if I will pay them for greed under the pretence of morality.”

“I tell you what” I continued, “have a look at this Nana hotel for me it seems they understand and cater for the discerning single gentleman.”

With a nod and a “yes sir” she turned and walked back to her desk.

“Oh and by the way arrange for that Shaw chap who wrote this… ahem research paper to meet me here tomorrow afternoon. I am inquisitive to see him. If anyone wants me I am at the… err… gym.”

I put my jacket on and leave the office.

I have an interesting evening at Madame Irene’s Spanking emporium and witness a fascinating incident with Tristan Grosvenor and a Margaret Thatcher mask but as it does not contribute to this story I will keep it for a later time. I am a simple man of few words and would hate to be accused of stretching a story out.

The next day I arrive at the office at 11.15 and my morning is spent on the telephone to my broker and chatting to pals about the impending Cricket club annual banquet. I was on the phone when I spot someone entering the waiting room that acts as Moira’s office. I just catch a glimpse of an interesting female form through the glass partition that separates Moira’s office from mine. It was one of those rare occasions I was actually working; talking to one of the few customers my father trusts me to deal with so I couldn’t get up to get a better look. Even with a limited view I could see she was a toothsome morsel, slim and well turned out. One of the perks of my job is I get first look at all the female job applicants but I was not scheduled to interview anyone today as far as I knew.

I can only see her rear view and that looks promising, dark black hair cut in a fashionable bob above a long slender neck. The light grey suit is also well cut and expensive probably Chanel. The skirt is marvellously tight and I can just discern the undulations of delicious shapely little buttocks…the hemline is an inch shorter than would be considered business norm which is fortuitous as it displayed a superb pair of legs. Long slender and shapely, even from here I could see they were unadorned by nothing more than a smooth tanned skin. I catch a quick glimpse of her profile and joy of joy I think she is Asian possibly Thai. The stirrings in my nether regions were becoming evident and I had yet to see her frontage.

After what felt like an eternity the prat on the phone finally ended our conversation. As I replaced the receiver the office door opened and I was confronted by a vision of raw Asian sensuality entering the room. She glided with a feline gracefulness. In answer to that eternal question “would you?”

Too bloody right I would!

My scrutiny began with her Jimmy Choo shoes up her dark tanned calves, the muscles taught from her 4” heels. Then up past her delicious thighs encased by her tight skirt with an impossibly narrow waist band. A simple elegant white blouse covering the pert breasts that led naturally up her smooth slender neck to her exquisite face. High cheekbones, full lips, eyes like dark limpid pools I could hardly get my breath. I am certain my heart stopped for a full minute.

Please take a seat … I squeaked like a kid who had been breathing from a helium balloon. She offered her hand which I rose to take forgetting the formidable trouser area tumescence her presence had evoked. It had clearly not escaped her attention and she flashed a smile which promised such erotic delights that it flooded the senses.

She took my hand and shook it firmly

“The name is Shaw, Alex Shaw or to be accurate Alexandre Shawattanra.”

I am Thai, My father worked at the Thai Embassy in London. I was born and went to school here, studied at Cambridge, then my MBA at Imperial College. I am currently doing my PHD at the LSE whilst working in your futures division.

This introduction saved me a lot of preamble and so I got direct to the second question that entered my mind “How do you know all that stuff about Stickman and the naughty bar scene?”

She took the chair opposite and began my enlightenment.

“After I finished my MBA I returned to Thailand and worked for a time at the Thai tourist Authority but the inbred morons they employ have no idea what the real dynamics of the tourism industry are. I quickly realised that irrespective of their elitist perceptions it is sex tourism that actually drives it. I also got bored with the inertia and nepotism inherent in Thai business so I returned to the UK. I have some exciting business ideas but need to better understand finance, so I joined your Bank. It was only then I learnt about true nepotism.

Hmm…I let this comment go as it was said with a smile and I was more concerned with keeping my raging erection under some semblance of control.

“I am thinking of visiting Thailand myself and I believe your dossier will prove invaluable to my enjoyment of …ahem the country’s unique culture. I continued, “Perhaps when I return to London you would have dinner with me?”

In response she crossed and uncrossed her legs like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct, I catch a merest glimpse of pink and all my self control evaporates.

“I look forward to that Khun Algernon or maybe we can do this before you go. However, do you really need to visit Thailand for what you are seeking? Maybe what you need is right in front of your nose” she purred and unashamedly repeated the Sharon Stone manoeuvre. I only narrowly avoided an untimely precipitation of events in my nether regions.

Hmmm… maybe I should seriously consider her proposition. A week with her would certainly assuage my carnal inquisitiveness and save a 12 hour plane journey, foreign food and mixing with Johnny foreigner. It is certainly a tempting suggestion. What should I do?

What would the veteran mongers of the Stickman community recommend?