Single For A Week
Day 1, Saturday
At Bangkok Suvarnabhumi airport, I kiss wife and daughters goodbye.
– Too bad you can't be with us, says my Thai wife. Everybody at the cousin's wedding will miss you a lot!
– Yes, I will miss everybody in the family a lot too, I say, and I half-way mean it.
– Anyway, with my work situation and the financial crisis, I continue, you know I'd better stay busy in Bangkok these days.
The credit crunch had also helped me to convince the wife to get very cheap tickets for her flight up-, or rather down-, country. The return flight date on these tickets cannot be changed.
– See you Sunday in a week here at Suvarnabhumi, I say and cuddle wife, daughters, assorted teddy dolls and bears one last time.
Back at our family home, I pack a bag with a few trousers and shirts and shorts, I also bring my phone (and charger!) and my ugly replacement glasses. I lock the place, walk three blocks into another road and hail a cab to Sukhumvit. The driver seems polite and considerate, I might have more use for him, so I ask for his phone number.
At my destination on Sukhumvit road, a pal of mine has a 'party apartment' in a strategically located one-digit-soi. This pal owes me a favor, so I had forced him to hand me the key for his party apartment for a week when wife and daughters are upcountry. I want to be single again, Single for a Week, maybe one last time in my life. Live out the naughty boy in me, and maybe get the naughty boy out of me along the way. Wife and daughters will be away for one week and I will roam Sukhumvit grounds, with the Single Week apartment as my local base camp.
Here's my first naughty deed: At a big shopping center I buy a second hand mobile phone and a prepaid SIM card. Altogether that's cheaper than a Bangkok short-time, and so much more useful: no revealing ring, number or text will ever appear on my regular family and business phone. I also buy a few cheap shirts that make me look like a tour group tourist.
I had pondered to buy decent condoms too, but don't buy them: I am not after that kind of action. That's reserved for my resolute wife who even at my age knows how to make me wobble. What I want is just sensual massage and a caring hand. I could even get that from the wife, but am shy to ask as I am lazy to fully reciprocate; I want to be in the hands of skilful service for a fee (see my recent Cheating for My Marriage submission for more on my thoughts).
From the shopping center, I return to my Single Week apartment by skytrain. In the train, I turn on the newly bought 'Single Week phone' to change the settings. The attractive Thai lady sitting next to me watches interestedly, because the mobile's wallpaper is a lively animation with huge winking eyes and lots of sweet smiling 'hello kitty' cartoon figures in baby colors. But that's just what I want to change first.
I find the settings for the wallpaper. The other wallpaper options have insignificant names, so I just try one. I click. Oh, too bad – another silly animated cartoon in pink and blue. At first I don't even realize what it's showing. Only after watching a while I understand: This animation on my second-hand cell phone's sizable color display shows a man making love to a chicken with breasts.
The attractive Thai lady sitting next to me watches no more.
What happened to Nana? No fun in there. The only place I like is Obsession, the ladyboy bar. These creatures have such a coquettish look on them, sulking in a funny way when their offers aren't taken, I like it for half an hour. Besides, some look real good, even though I wouldn't want them around the house.
There is this obviously real women, my waitress, who keeps standing close to me. Soft, petite, nice roundings, but no stunner like those on stage. At least real, I think.
– All ladies have dicks, explains my soft caring waitress.
– Yes, sure.
– But can boom-boom!
– Yes, sure.
– Which one you want?
– Ok, you take me, demands my soft caring real female waitress. And she is actually a sweet cuddly thing, a genuine female to boot, maybe worth to kick off my Single Week.
– So you are a real lady, right? You have no dick, right?
– Why, of course I have a dick too.
A year ago I had written Gay for a Day for Stickman and I had received a few nice e-mails of readers who understood my desire: Being a solid married heterosexual, but wanting to bonk a guy once, just to get over it and move on. One reader wrote in to confess he had the same desire and that I could expect my gay guy lust to return once a year or so. I had laughed then: no, I was done with my gay phantasies. My guy had been great fun in bed, je ne regrette rien, but that was it, period.
And a year later, yes, I did want to bonk a guy – again. I already had the plan to visit the gay club Babylon a little later during my Single Week, when I had developed a bit of a beard for more incognito. But now I was here in this bizarre ladyboy bar and 20 pre-op Lara Croft lookalike wannabes gave me very amusing, entertaining come-on smiles with friendly pouts. At least more entertaining than in the straight bars.
Ah, what, I'm Single for a Week, right? Here in the Obsession ladyboy den, I order one such tall cutie with braids, dick and high heels to my table. He/she speaks no English, so now my Thai comes in handy. We go through the bar talk script and I get a few knowledgeable squeezes. Doable.
We make it to a short-time room within Nana. He/she is rather shy, actually claims I am his/her first farang costumer and mimics surprise at the size of an average western-size pecker.
Fondling his/her concrete breasts is no delight whatsoever, so I soon resort to his microscopian dongle. Squeeze, tissue and then squeeze, tissue, shower and then shower, and then we're done. It's none of the sensual pleasure, even sensation I'd described in my Gay for a Day submission. Interesting though. Been there, done that. We both know we won't meet again.
Day 2, Sunday
I enter a small massage shop in a Sukhumvit backwater. In this shop, you order a Thai massage for around 800 Baht per hour, payable to the cashier downstairs. With your service girl, you retreat to a prison cell on the second floor and get barely any Thai massage. Instead you shower with her and get a HJ (500 Baht tip), BJ (1000 Baht tip) or FS (1500 Baht tip). These fees are payable directly to the service girl. The prices are not signposted, but well-known. The service girl gets nothing from the 800 you paid to the cashier downstairs.
No girl is visible around reception, so I ask the cashier to see the talent on tap personally. And no, a photo album would not suffice for me to chose from. So about five gals appear from the back room and lean against the reception area's wall. I am not hardened enough to inspect the choices in all seriousness. Instead, I quickly scan the faces and chose the nicest smile. Looks are not a consideration when I politely point at Lek.
Up in the prison cell, Lek and I hit it off immediately. Right from the start in that narrow shower box we laugh and talk and tease and sing, anything from girlish to darn naughty. What a fun gal.
And ten minutes later, Lek (one kid, unmarried, from Buri Ram) doesn't disappoint either. When I leave, I almost know I'll meet her again. I wonder what she thought back then.
Actually, Lek becomes the highlight and the anchor of my Single Week. Later I even ferry her to Pattaya for a night (talk about bringing owls to Athens, but she's worth it). I've already posted a separate submission exclusively about Lek, just a couple weeks ago, called Working Girl for a Week. There you'll learn more about Lek, a 'single man's best girl friend'. Here in this part of my Confessions of a Bangkok Husband I'll continue with the other events, gal-by-gal.
I enter a small pharmacy on Sukhumvit and ask for Kamagra, the Indian Viagra copy. I instruct the pharmacist to cut the pills in half for me.
He's just cut one pill when a whole bunch of Russian tourists in shorts and floral shirts enters the place. Immediately they bark orders at the pharmacist with an English accent worse than mine. He has to fetch sun crème, plaster, nose drops and what not for the Ivans. All the time my half-cut stack of green pills lies on the small tray near the cashier, while I stand around, waiting. Anybody can guess that those tablets, and so many, meant to cure erectile dysfunction, are for that grey-haired 50ish westerner standing around, looking not only conspicuously inconspicuous, but also dysfunctional you-know-where.
The Russians need at least ten embarrassing minutes until they've shouted out their last order for mosquito spray and corn cure. Only then the pharmacist returns to cutting the green pills for me.
Which I utilise that very evening. I enter another small massage shop in a Sukh'm side soi and that one's like a beehive. When I come and when I go, two hours later, two or three horny guys hang out at the counter and place their orders: you book a 'Thai massage' for around 800 only to walk up with your girl and do the naughty for an extra price. Ten girls sit in a tiny prison room on a hard wooden bench. Most cater to Japanese's, with fair skin and red hair. No one here smiles like Lek, instead everybody tries to look oh-so-uninterested, but they can't escape my polite pointing and smile.
What I get, technically, is sure one of the best naughty massages in all of my Single Week. The gal is Aenn from Ubon Udon, one kid, unmarried. She's obviously well instructed from the hello wai to saying goodbye at the establishment's door. And for all in between.
Interesting though: the small, but this time very orderly and fresh looking massage room cannot be locked. The door even has a tiny window that cannot be veiled. Technically, people can enter the room any time. They could peek or even film through that window. Come to think of it, maybe they have hidden CCTV in those rooms anyway.
In the shower, Ann washes me profusely with lots of attention to sensible parts. On the bed, she goes from lame Thai massage attempts slowly, but steadily into more naughty activities. She doesn't ask what I finally aim for, she doesn't say the usual 'I take care you, ok'. You know already I don't even like full-on sex, I just want to relax and enjoy the friendly cabin crew. But the way Aenn works me is so professional and purposeful, and also relaxing and disarming, that in the end she kinda gets what she wants: me in a Thai brothel condom and the full job.
The whole experience is just a tad mechanical and there is much less personality than with Lek earlier today, or some other girls later on. One thing Aenn has going for is her body, not at all petite and fragile. She's more like a cheap Thai Jennifer Lopez copy, tall, well rounded and cushioned in a pleasing style. That kinda frame also makes me more interested in a full-on job.
I hadn't even asked Aenn for her price list before – very dangerous. I had planned to ask prices when she changes from 'Thai' to naughty, but the way she worked me had simply ruled out any brain-controlled conversation. In the end, Aenn charges just the usual 1.500 Baht. I tip her 200 for technical excellence and for not demanding 15.000. She probably guesses we won't meet again.
Day 3, Monday
The Babylon is a large gay club not far from Silom, in quite a noble pocket of Bangkok. I pay around 250 Baht to get inside. This earns me a key for a locker. In there I find soap and two towels. Together with a few older guys in the locker room, I take off completely and depose my dress in the locker. I wrap one towel around me and wander around the spacious, clean and pleasant complex.
Most men hang on deckchairs around the walled-in garden pool, usually with a towel around, some completely naked, at least inside the squeaky clean, sizable pool. It's 90 percent farang, and they all look like well-heeled, middle-aged, decent and successful persons: Your dentist. Your tax-consultant. Your boss. People like that. All in this gay club. The few Thai guys there are all young studs, some passionately kissing gray-haired, western branch managers and accounting clerks.
Next to the pool I see a glass-walled air-con restaurant with dignified waiters in black-and-white. They serve customers wearing the default Babylon towel or just wearing their scrotums. Another glasshouse with view towards the pool area contains a gym.
The whole setup is very clean, relaxing, orderly and upmarket without being painfully snobbish. Very few tattoos and cigarettes. Remember until now I've only paid 250 Baht. Is there a club like that for straight people?
Steam wafts out of some dark rooms. 'Don’t wear gold or watches here', says a sign I pass upon entering this mysterious area. A few nude, colossal men sit on the wet, hot floor in almost darkness, obviously waiting for something – hopefully not for me: I make it out there quickly.
A pin board announces foam parties and such. Every announcement has a sentence like 'And best of all, it's only men, men, men.' Funny thinking. I ask a ladyboy-ish guy behind a desk for a massage appointment. I get to choose between exactly two kneaders waiting to be picked from a bench. Again, they look healthy, clean and perfectly respectable in their pool attendant attire – the pride of the neighbourhood. If I remember right, it's 800 Baht for two hours of Thai massage, payable straight to the cashier.
One masseur has a benevolent smile and a less skinny build, so I grab him. He leads me upstairs to a very tasteful, upmarket massage room and asks me for my air-condition preferences. I take off my towel and lie down on the massage work bench in the nude. My guy then descends upon me very expertly for almost two hours, unfortunately without the slightest advance to my expecting nether region. He keeps his benevolent, caring attitude though and we exchange a bit of small talk. A likable guy. (From Mae Nam Khao, Isaan, no kids.)
Yes, the massage room is upmarket, but it still has a row of massage benches only separated by thin curtains. We have the room to ourselves for some time. Only in our last 20 minutes together, when I need privacy most, the bench next to us gets another customer/masseur couple, hidden by the thin curtain with 'tribal' patterns.
But hours ago, I downed a Kamagra for a reason. So despite the semi-public situation I whisper to my massagist if he could treat that sensitive, neglected area down there. He agrees with a jovial smile and rubs his hands. I manage to talk prices and he asks if 200 for this extra service was okay. I have no objections and within a few minutes I'm done quite nicely – not an outrageous sensation, like a year ago, but very pleasant after all.
All the time while finishing and then wiping me off, my attendant murmurs 'Oh yeah, wow great, aha, that works, oh, look' to himself, with an approving, reassuring voice. I am in good hands. While he's at me, I feel the urge to see and feel more of him, to wrap him out of his pool attendant dress and grab something of him too. But that's not possible.
Anyway, I am done nicely and it's pure physical, there's not the slightest pretension of love or special affection. It's very easy to connect and then to disconnect. Nice. Still it's a friendly, buddy-like feeling and I believe we are both content with the outcome. I guess he know we won't meet again.
I leave the place around 5.30 p.m., just before dark. The thought of being there after dark scares me.
I sit alone in a pub, a little off the Sukh'n craze, and, after my Babylon gay adventure, I miss wife and daughters madly. What am I really up to? Am I scum, a Suck'm'weed farang? But wife and daughters are on this major family wedding up-, or rather down-, country. We had talked before on the phone (on my regular phone) and they missed me too, they said everybody missed me. I need someone to relax, a voice of reason. And what – I call Lek in her massage store. She arrives within 20 minutes (see previous submission). And after 20 minutes of talk she excuses herself back to her business.
Still time enough for some evening action, I think as I watch her disappear. Just when she leaves through the pub's door, she passes a well-dressed, farang businessman on his way in. They don't look at each other. But this business man gives me a sceptical look – I look at him – and see, I know him, and he knows me: He works in my field of business and we used to talk before on functions and gatherings. I remember he's married to a Thai lady too and they have kids.
Business and family wise, he's in about my situation. We have even more common ground, as I am just about to discover.
His look says, how come I meet you in this part of town.
– How come I meet you in this part of town, I ask him and point to the bar stool next to mine.
– Well, he says – and nothing else. He settles and orders a drink.
Maybe he savours the Sukhumvit delights like me, only to return to his lone, ageing Thai wife and innocent kids after he's done? But then, this pub is not a girlie bar, it's more quiet and in something of a 'dead arm' branching away from the maelstrom of seedy Sukhumvit river. He's a little drunk, I figure.
And there may be something working in him.
– You know, he says, my wife believes to have evidence that I cheat on her. Last weekend we had quite a nasty quarrel. It's peaceful now, though.
– How can she believe you're cheating, I ask. Interesting topic.
– Okay, no need to tell me, I interrupt him, even though I am dieing to learn from his experience. So far, I never talked with anyone about cheating. I feel lonesome in my straying (I'd love to talk things over with my only real friend, the wife). I haven't told him that I am cheating either, but maybe he just assumes that I am unfaithful, because we met in this off-Sukhumvit locale.
He gives me another sceptical look.
– Nah, it's no drama, he says. The quarrel started over some small issue, I already guessed there's something else behind it. And, yeah, when we were shouting at each other, she suddenly yelled: You play around with other ladies! I found condoms hidden in an envelope around your business papers!
– Oh mon dieu, I say!
He gives me a dark face.
– Yeah, and she said that when I return from business trips to Hong Kong or Singapore and we make love upon my return, that I have 'less water'.
Mais non! I know quite sure that my lady would grab the kids and leave me immediately. Or maybe she'd kick me out instead.
– Oh no, I say. So what happened? Did she leave you? Bring a knife? Did you explain, excuse?
He raises one eyebrow.
– No. Nothing much happened in the end. I simply didn't answer and that was ok. She discovered that assumed evidence years ago. But she only spoke out now. She said that she decided to ignore the evidence. She said it was obvious that I cared a lot for her and the kids. So she believed I was only a bit playing around, getting over my midlife crisis.
And with a sarcastic grin:
– She said she knew that I still love her and that I didn't cheat on her a lot.
– So, your wife believed you were straying and, true or not, she lived with that assumption?
– Yes, it looks like that, she kept quiet for years. She didn't ask for any details, or for a defence. She has arranged herself with it. And then, after all that yelling, we had gorgeous sex, much better than – he stops.
He checks his watch, looks around, finishes his Gin Tonic:
– I gotta leave. Nice talking to you. See you around.
Well, interesting indeed. I wonder if that kind of thinking is common with Thai ladies? Do they fear to lose their husband for good if they seriously threaten his extramarital games?
At Annie's massage, I explain my desires precisely to the mamasan: I say I like a long quality time in the tub and wholesome massage all over, including some HJ and BJ, just slow and relaxed, and that I don't need real boom-boom. She gives me a look as if I am a very naughty monger indeed. The mamasan then suggests a skinny massage lady who is at least no more ugly then the other girls on tap. According to the mamasan, my massage therapist is around 35 years old which seems plausible.
So I go to the room with Noi from Nong Khai Dao up in Isaan, unmarried, one kid and actually 45 years old. Noi does deliver an extended and very sensual high-quality time in the tub with all my desires thoroughly fulfilled. For once, here's a lady who listens to customers' requests (relayed through mamasan) and doesn't simply follow her everyday routine.
When we finally shift from tub to bed, I learn that Noi used to work in a regular massage service near Pratunam market. She says she had a lot of female Indian customers whom she had to please manually. As the area was police controlled, things had to be very low-voice.
– So you played them with your fingers, I ask.
– How many fingers you use, I inquire. Maybe I learn something here.
She holds her whole fist into the air. I look at her in surprise.
– Indian lady very big here, she explains.
As we have some 20 minutes left, Noi wants to drag me into more sex, but I manage to get her back to regular massage. She is an agreeable and very service-oriented lady who deserves a decent tip, even if I know we won't meet again. What I don't like is that the management shouts 'time running out, Noi' down the corridor and may even interrupt us early if Noi is requested by another customer while still doing me.
Day 4, Tuesday
Something went awfully wrong, again.
– Woah, she smiles, she stretches, she giggles: I came two times! Thanks very much!
Now I wanted to lean back and let the lass work on me. Instead she got me pedalling to make her climax – and then I even pay for having the honour of taking Khun Prostitute Bee to peak 5 and 6 out of 13 this week. For a moment I ponder to ask her jokingly to pay for my services; but I've seen how much such a joke can actually shock a working girl, so I refrain.
When I pop into this tiny massage store around noon, the long couch has only two ladies on shelf. One is a tattooed hooligan, so flirtatiously smiling Bee remains the only usable option. Well, nice enough. One kid, unmarried, from Baan Boom Bong up in, of course, Isaan.
At least the room has a usable lock and it is very orderly decorated with a bit of Thai silk to mimic regular wellness places. The music from overhead can't be turned off.
I invite her to get a drink, so she orders a Fanta (30 Baht) and a Bacardi (120 Baht), the latter remaining untouched all the while.
Bee's even shy to undress in front of me. Nice. While we take a shower together, Bee's mobile phone rings. She stands in the shower door, watching me interestedly (now me a bit shy), and small-talks to the phone in Thai. I even shout back a few remarks in English.
Starting the massage, Bee says on the phone she had talked to her sister-in-law.
– Oh, and does your sister-in-law know that you work naughty massage?
– No, of course not! I told her I am in my apartment.
– Haha, but the shower was so noisy. And remember I shouted something in English towards the phone, because you took the phone to the shower door. Your sister-in-law must believe you take a shower with a farang!
– Oh, oh! Now I don't know.
Then, at my request, and visible for me, she fully turns off her phone. But maybe she's not being polite: Bee only wants to avoid another involuntary massage room broadcast of her naughty activities.
Which get into full swing after she casually drops that default phrase 'I take care of you, ok'. As her hand technique is nothing special, I sigh and resign to just another forced-upon-me ordinary mating session. Also I sense if I demand HJ and BJ only, it might be too much work for her. On the plus side, Bee is another rather tall, sturdy build, another wobbly Thai J.Lo copy, and thus more interesting to get actually into than your average local mini damsel.
So I sigh and agree to FS but this time I am still rational enough to ask for her price.
– 2000 Baht, special price for you!
Hey, hey, 1500 Baht is the going rate. It takes some talking and moaning to get Bee down to one-five. She finally agrees, but sulks. So we need some joking, teasing and even singing to make her smile again under her false eyelashes. Finally, her coquettish, girlish smile returns. Stupid thing.
Bee still has to learn. While I depart from the massage shop, Bee stands in the open door and waves me goodbye until I finally make it around a corner. The whole soi watches me walk away, being cheered enthusiastically by a certain prostitute Bee from Baan Boom Bong, Isaan, who right in her doll's face still wears false eyelashes, 1500 Baht and two sweaty climaxes. We won't meet again.
This massage place is in a midrange hotel off Sukhumvit road. In the small massage office they can't show me all the ladies personally, 'too many of them'. I ask for a gal with brains and good massage knowledge, so they suggest around five from their photo album and bring them to the office. In real life, the gals in stock don't look at all like their studio shots, but anyway there's one with a friendly smile. You pay 2300 Baht to the cashier for a two hours massage 'including everything'. From that, the lady gets 1400; even if you book shorter assignments for slightly less Baht, she'll always pocket 1400.
I had been attracted to this place because supposedly you get treated in regular hotel rooms with a bathtub – that would be a nice change from the crammed massage boxes I had seen so far. And my chosen lady leads me to a room that's easily five times bigger than anything in the other naughty massage places. But while it's clean, bed, floor and curtains look worn. I learn that all rooms on this hotel floor are not let to regular tourists, and the regular rooms on other floors supposedly look better. Only short-time customers are regarded low enough to get the more run-down section.
Entering the bathroom brings more disappointment: The tub is not built for pleasure. It is so small that you can hardly share it even with an Asian lady, especially considering my personal water displacement. Interesting also, my girl doesn't allow me to bring the beer into the bathroom, she's very strict about that.
Now I have booked a two hours 'Thai massage'. But after the tub, the lady gives me a few rude thumps and goes:
– My massage not good. You want sack [sex] now?
– Oh, why, I have booked two hours of 'Thai massage', haven't I?
– I want sack now! I am lazy to work more. You start!
Just the opposite of what I came for. Why did the two ladies in the office offer me this masseuse? I had clearly mentioned that, besides brains, I need some kind of massage action.
But then, my girl this time is not the usual unwed Isaan mom. For starters, she hails from Bangkok city and is a child-less 24 years old. In the looks department, she's way ahead of Lek and other masseuses I meet during my Single Week.
And Wan is no idiot either: She talks not only a lot about Buddha and her parents. She also has various daytime jobs including something in a design studio and in a café. The next day Wan has planned a business trip to Chiang Mai.
– Oh, you go to Chiang Mai by train or bus, I ask.
– Why, I take my car of course.
Then again, this assignment shows you can't go for looks and age, you can't even go for looks, age and brains. My Bangkok lady in this clean, but dilapidated hotel room lets me work my way to satisfaction, but she is not helpful and continues to wear a bored or slightly sceptical look. Give me stretch marks and a childish Isaan mindset any time, if she understands my needs, is caring, service-minded and supportive. Less brains, more heart. When we say goodbye, my Bangkok stunner Wan's look says what a sad monger I am. We won't meet again anyway.
I phone Lek to my apartment. It's our last night. We meet once again. She believes that next morning I'll have a week-long business convention in Naklua near Pattaya. I actually believe we won't meet again. Still we go out for a bite in a busy grill restaurant geared to Thai customers. When I happen to turn around I notice a group of tattooed Thais two tables away; one lady there gives me interested looks.
I stare back: She's Bee's colleague, the tattooed massage lady on offer this morning, the one I didn't pick. Lek busy dismantling something, I nod the ugly tattooed one a jovial 'see you later, alligator'. Then I turn back to Lek, decided not to look behind me again.
Day 5, Wednesday
I take Lek to the bus station and call my taxi to Pattaya.
I had asked the taxi driver to pick me up at 10 a.m., but ten minutes early he already calls me from the curb side. I had met him last Saturday, travelling from my family home to the Single Week apartment, and thought he's a considerate and polite guy. He claims he had been 'executive driver' for top Mercedes managers in Bangkok.
The taxi driver explains that we will do just a short detour through Bang-na to pick-up a friend of his.
We pick up the taxi-drivers friend, another polite middle-aged man.
We enter the toll way and – stop for gasoline immediately.
The gas station ran out of the required NGV fuel.
We leave the toll way and stop at another gas station which is supposed to have required NGV fuel. There's a long queue of cars.
– All the gas stations have queues like that, says the driver.
– No, I reply, the previous one had no queues, also not for regular petrol.
– Yes, because it was on the toll way. There's never a queue there. But now we left the toll way.
We made it to the tap. We'll get fuel in the very near future. My driver says:
– Let's all get out of the car please.
– Why do we have to get out? It's sweltering hot.
– Safety first! [In English.]
We are on our way to Pattaya. I had brought newspapers to read on the road, but the driver and his friend like my fluent Thai and drag me into a political discussion. They make unusual, highly controversial statements about the country's highest personnel and I feel most uncomfortable.
Finally on Pattaya Beach Road. I have printed the exact hotel location next to soi XY. The driver doesn't trust my printed map and looks around somewhere else. Thus we poke around in dusty, empty Beach Road/Second Road lots before I can finally convince the driver to take the correct path to the hotel.
– Sorry for the delays, says my driver with a guilty face.
– Sorry for the delays, says the driver's friend.
As I mentioned, they are polite.
I enter the relatively small hotel lobby. One lady's at reception, typing, but doesn't take notice.
I arrive at the reception counter. The typing, and chewing, receptionist still doesn't take notice of me. The porter boy sits on the corridor towards the rooms and gives me a worried look.
The typing and chewing receptionist must have noticed something I believe: She now looks at me, chewing in silence.
My room is ok (ish). The room overlooks the pool. A topless farang woman with a set of remarkables lies next to the pool. I take the camera.
At least three other men watch the topless lady from their windows and balconies. One is a dark-faced Arabian looking like a suicide bomber.
Even other guests on other deckchairs ogle the topless western lady.
On my way out, I see the previously topless farang lady in the hotel lobby. She's with two infants and an industrial-strength body-builder. They talk Russian.
Maybe I should simply give it up. Only use Lek and the wife.
I had tried a girl in Sabai Dee Massage, but she was so mechanic that I left her after the initial tub rub.
– What, no sack [sex], she asked, seriously surprised.
She was young and dumb, even though I had seen a nice smile on her in the fish bowl. There, in the bowl, she also had attractively long, curly hair. Then, in the massage room, she undressed: her evening gown went onto the hook, her underwear went onto the hook, and then her curls too, her curls went onto the hook too.
Great body, mini brains. We had talked about certain secondary towns in Thailand and she had advised repeatedly, 'don't go there alone, you can't meet ladies there like in Bangkok or Pattaya'.
After that, undone, I had checked the surrounding massage parlors named Sabailand and Sabairoom. The girls in the bowls looked young, dumb and tattooed. I didn't pick one, did not even finish my beers on the observation decks.
Now, disenchanted, I walk down a small soi from Second Road towards Beach Road. Every 20 meters there's a new massage shop with ten cheering, shouting ladies inviting me. But for Pattaya I don't know the massage protocol, so I walk on.
Around the fifth massage shop has one lady smiling a tad different: She looks mid-thirties, genuine, down-to-earth and pretty enough on top of that. I have no idea what will happen on the premises, but I ask her for an oil massage. She asks one of the younger ladies standing by to do me.
– No, I thought you will give the massage, I say to this elder lady, who seems to be the boss.
– Well, normally I don't do any massage, I am just the manager.
– Well, ok, I can give you a massage if you want.
It's 300 Baht per hour. Pat leads me upstairs to a simple massage compartment that's only separated from other compartments by curtains. When I confirm my wish for oil massage she says with a smile:
– I come back in three minutes. Please take off everything. With a strong stress on everything.
Ok, great. Here we go. A Kamagra still lingers in my bloodstream. When Pat comes back I still wear my slip, because I need another confirmation to drop it. And she insists that the slip has to fall.
Two great hours of oil massage and talk ensue. And it is only oil massage in the non-naughty sense. Fortunately the Kamagra doesn't really kick in while she works me and we talk about Thailand, politics (without embarrassing controversial statements) and how to choose the right oil for oil massage; she's very picky about that.
During massage, Pat wears shorts and T-shirt, she has a well-built body. Pat is an un-wed mother from Phitsanulok, 35. She started this massage shop only recently. She says that in the very beginning of her own business 'I went with men two, three times', but she stopped that.
Finally she takes me to a shower and washes me off, including privates, as if that was just another body part. Too bad she isn't into naughty. We exchange phone numbers and I sure hope to meet her again.
I think Walking Street isn't for me. Whether bars or a-gogos, it's all noisy and hassle. I stumble into one a-gogo, called What's Up, if I remember the name correctly, with many totally nude girls. Some splash in a shower which looks almost like an in-house waterfall. Other naked girls do the kind of gymnastics that make you look up all the way into their uterus, all under hammering rock music.
I work my way back out of What’s Up and, looking back one last time, by accident ram into the back of an American punter who only wears boxers and a muscle shirt with stars and stripes. He looks fiercely at me as if he’d happily pick up a fight.
– Short-time how much, I joke at him.
– Don’t ever think of barfining me, he bellows, don’t! He takes it all serious.
– Guess I can’t afford you anyway, I murmur more to myself and rush out the door.
I've read something about a bar called Pump Station in soi 13/2.5. All the ladies sit in front of the bar. I walk inside, past them, because I don't want to be seen with them on the street. I sit down at the counter, promptly followed by one lady. I grab a drink in a green bottle and the lady next to me says:
– Hi, how are you?
– Thanks, fine, I reply. And how are you?
– Well, not so good today!
Are Pattaya bar girls supposed to talk like that?
– Oh, too bad, what's the problem?
– You know, some customers don't respect me! They talk bad about ladies working in the bar. They don't talk polite!
– Oh, sorry to hear that! How many customers did talk impolitely to you?
– Four or five today already.
– Well, at least you had some customers after all and made some money.
– No, we did not go upstairs. They just talked bad! They did not even order a drink!
– So, what do you do, 'upstairs'?
Gop is 24, an unwed mother from Rama Buri Nam, up in Isaan. She explains that Pump Station is a blow job bar (I should have guessed, probably). The grand total for me would be 780 Baht.
I follow Gop up around ten staircases, we must be in soi 15/5.5 on 12th floor by the time we reach an empty, chilled-down bar room. Gop makes me sit on a bar stool at the counter.
The counter is not a solid block. It is a shelf on thin stilts.
Gop passes under the counter and turns on a porn DVD. I ask her to stop that, but she presses Pause. So for the next half hour the screen shows a frozen, blurred porn image, about the only light in the dark room.
– Take down your trousers.
– And your slip too, of course!
Gop sits down on a tiny chair opposite of me. Her head is under the shelf. I don't see her anymore.
An ice-cold hand grabs my pecker.
– Aww, Gop, you have such cold hands!
– That's not my hand. I just clean you with a cold towel!
Cleaning the awaiting customer's privates with a cold towel, is that a good idea?
She wraps me a condom. Then, for five minutes, Gop under the shelf plucks, deplumes and tears my organ like an elephant unrooting an edible baobab tree. Is she still angry about all those impolite farangs today? Gop delivers the worst 'sex' I ever had. I have no interest to teach her something and call it off. Gop dives up from under the shelf. I make her sit on a bar stool opposite of me, now eye to eye.
There we sit, Gop and I, in this empty, darkened bar, lit by a TV screen showing a frozen, blurry porn scene. Gop wears jeans and T-shirt. I wear a shirt and – no trousers. My pecker lies dead-flat on the stool, another Kamagra wasted.
Gop asks what's wrong and if I require any special care. She says we could go to a private bedroom, for 400 Baht more. But it's useless to instruct her something. Still, Gop's a tad different, as is the whole place, and I'll investigate now.
There are around five bar stools and then, five more comfortable bamboo chairs along the wall in my back. Gop confirms that sometimes ten customers get jobbed at the same time. She also confirms that anytime right now another Thai-Farang pairing could walk into the bar room, take seats next to us and get down to business.
Gop had started our conversation in English and I had stayed with it. Her English pronunciation is surely better than mine, and her word pool is not bad either. While we sit there in the dark, lone bar, opposite each other, me still with a bare cock, I learn that Gop had been married to a US-American. He's also the father of her three years old son. They divorced after three years.
– Did you marry at the amphur [district administration] or just with a wedding party, I ask.
– Just with a party, she says with a low voice.
Currently her ex and her baby-son are holidaying in Hua Hin, Gop says. Next week, the ex will return her son to her parents up in Rama Buri Nam. She says she and her ex-husband are still in touch, but couldn't stay together 'because we fight too much'. Her ex knows that she works in a blow job bar.
Wait a moment, that's interesting. I can well understand that a guy leaves this lady behind. But Gop is the mother of his son, a son he still supports and takes along on his holidays. And he lets the mother of his son work in a blow job bar.
To me, that's blasphemic.
I don't know. Each to his own. But for me, personally, part of why I adore my wife is because she gave birth to our two awesome children. Don't get me wrong, the wife's a wonderful person in her own right, but as the mother of my daughters, she even gains more, almost divine, status with me. She makes me more complete not only through her own personality, but by having born our daughters.
Let the mother of your child work in a blow-job bar? How could you, ever, explain that to your child.
Gop says that her son will soon follow his father back to the US. Her son will stay stateside, go to school there.
– Your son might stay overseas for many years, I say to Gop, you won't see him grow up. Don’t you think you will miss him?
– No, I won't miss him. I want him to have a good education and a future. In Thailand is nothing for him.
Understandable words from an untalented blow job girl. I think her ex left her because of her wretched blow jobs. We won't meet again.
Day 6, Thursday
I phone Pat, my mid-30ish massage lady from Day 5, and we agree she comes to my hotel at 3 p.m. for another oil massage. As my place is a tad difficult to find (ask my taxi driver), I tell her we meet on the street sign for soi XY, a very easy meeting point exactly on the corner with Beach Road. I ask her to phone me when she leaves her place towards me. So I'll know ten minutes ahead that she is coming soon.
I take a shower in anticipation.
I'm still under the shower, when Pat phones in that she already arrived at our meeting point. We had agreed to meet at 3 p.m. and we had agreed that she phones me when she leaves her place, but here goes. I rush into my clothes and then downstairs to the street sign, our meeting point.
Confused: At the street sign for soi XY, I see no Pat. I walk around the corners, check the other side of the road, but there's no Pat either. Now this is the easiest meeting point you could think of. It is hot too.
I call Pat. She claims she is at the meeting point.
– What? Pat? Where are you? Do you see the street sign for soi XY I told you?
– But I am here already!
– So why don't I see you?
– Wait a minute. Krrk.
I wait a minute, even two, walk around, no Pat. My phone rings.
– Hi, she says, I am here now. I don't see you. Why don't you come to the meeting point?
– What, I go, I don't see you, our meeting was the street sign for soi XY, I am there, but you are not.
– Wait a minute. Krrk.
Still no Pat. I go back to my room alone. The street action made me sweat so much I need the next shower. I develop a Plan B for this afternoon, because Pat obviously plays stupid games with me.
Forget Pat. I think I will check out soi Buakhao now and step under the shower.
While I'm still under the shower, Pat phones in that she already arrived at the meeting point.
– What? Where are you? Do you now see the street sign for soi XY I told you?
– Yes, I am right there of course! Right under the street sign.
I rush into my clothes and then downstairs to the street sign, our meeting point. There's Pat.
– Now was it that difficult, Pat? This street sign for soi XY is the easiest meeting point in all of Pattaya.
– Yes, but my friend told me that soi XY is near the 7-Eleven over there. So I waited at the 7-Eleven.
– And you didn't look for the street sign I always mentioned to you?
– No, because my friend told me already it's near the 7-Eleven. So I waited near 7-Eleven.
In the room, she makes me undress completely again and we get into a nice, relaxing oil massage with easygoing talk and nothing else. Again we agree on two hours, at 300 Baht per hour. At one point she says, 'when you feel bored you can always call me, maybe we can meet for a coffee'.
Pat says that she also learnt therapeutical body to body massage and we could do that next time. I never heard of that. She would be topless then. It's strictly non-naughty, but, according to Pat, therapeutical body to body massage was still a bit awkward, 'because we can get horny, both of us'.
I'd surely love to try that, I prefer anything by Pat much over forced naughty action which in Pattaya seems no fun for me.
Nosey me, I ask if we could do that body 2 body job in Pat's apartment. Some months ago, she had stayed together with a young female friend. But then a 65 year old German moved in with the young Thai and they quarrelled every night, causing the young lady to flee into Pat's bedroom, with the German following and hammering on Pat's door. So Pat moved out and found a condo at around 7000 Baht per month for herself. Pat says:
– I think we can do the body to body massage in my condo. But I am not sure if I may bring in farang men. I will ask security and then I call you back, ok? But tomorrow I am busy, I must buy wall paint for the massage shop and then do some painting and renovation there. Maybe after tomorrow?
That's fine with me. Again, the oil massage is pleasant, but remains non-naughty almost until the end. I haven't even swallowed a Kamagra because I already guessed that nothing would happen.
– Eh, asks Pat with an impatient voice, and you don't like hand-job and happy ending or not or what?
– Why, of course I like that, I go. I thought you don't do that.
– Oh, why not, I can do that sure. You like or not or what, huh?
– How much would that be on top of the regular massage fee, I manage to ask.
– Up to you.
I should have clarified the price, but the expert massage together with the sensual oil smell so far had made me rather will-less. And even at that point in my ongoing massage studies, I am a tad shy to discuss prices when the deed is about to happen. Let's hope that without a Kamagra I deliver timely.
Interestingly, Pat first fully concentrates on my upper inner thighs and applies a string of fast, strong strokes. I never saw that technique, but when after a few minutes she finally takes care of my thing, she needs only few more minutes there. It is almost too fast and I miss the smiles she shares when she does regular massage and talks to me. Anyway this lady has profound knowledge of the male system and for a whole string of reasons I'd sure like to try the body to body massage she offered. During today's massage Pat had again worn tight shorts and a T-shirt and I'd definitely like to see and feel more of her.
Pat disappears in the bathroom to change into more modest dress for the return trip to her massage shop.
I hand Pat 600 Baht for two hours of regular oil massage, the agreed price, plus 600 Baht more for the HJ special. She looks disappointed, but doesn't articulate. I hope to meet her again.
Pat's pats made me hopeful again that satisfying treatment might be available in Pattaya. I stumble around soi Buakhao and see 'Eden Steam Jacuzzi Massage', a relatively large, flashy building. Now that sounds like the right place for me.
One Eden Massage girl out front has a hearty smile and I ask her to show me the menu. I opt for 2 hours of oil massage and she takes me to – a communal massage hall with ten chaises where one guy already gets a rubdown. What is this?
Fortunately I spot something like an open hotel room and ask if we could use that one too. I agree to pay 200 Baht extra. My lady does a skilful massage and is fun talking to. Still Fon, at a childless, unwed 35 years of age from Pak Pook Bao, Isaan, somehow oozes frustration. Like on other unwed, childless ladies around the globe I sense this pretended notion of 'Why? I am happy anyway!' on her.
After ten minutes, Fon and I crack jokes and insults like old friends, with her sometimes even hitting and choking me playfully. She says she likes Pattaya's Bamboo music bar and I suggest we go there together. She agrees, if she may bring two friends along. Oh no. We exchange phone numbers.
Finally she starts to massage my upper thighs quite seriously. She tickles the hair peeping out of my slip and says 'uh, what's that?' I invite her to find out, but she says she will not.
– Why not, I ask, are you scared?
– No, I am not scared, but I don't know you long time.
What kind of argument is that in Pattaya? I walk down undone to drink a hot tea at the massage counter. Fon introduces me to the two massage friends she would like to bring to the Bamboo bar with me – they look like two more frustrated spinsters. I walk out undone. She probably doesn't know, but we won't meet again.
I stumble around the bars and a-gogos of soi Buakhao. Not my kind of place. I walk into one totally empty bar I believe called 'Lolita's'. Only when I walk out one minute later, a girl on the street says 'blow job bar' to me – I run away fast.
Maybe I should simply give it up. Only use Lek and the wife. And Pat, if I can get a grip on her. Yes, it's Thursday night already, my Single Week is slowly running out, and I can't waste any more precious time with frustrating non-naughty treatments from frustrated spinsters or young tattooed dumbsters. Ladies I don't want to meet again. I have to make plans and decisions for more quality action. And I do.
It's late at night but Lek, my steady massage girl friend from Bangkok, had explicitly allowed me to call her 'any time'. So I ring her up and ask her to take a taxi to Pattaya tomorrow, Friday, afternoon, after her massage school. She agrees happily, but says that on the morning after that, on Saturday, she and some friends from her massage school had arranged a massage workshop in her school.
– No problem, Lek, I say, I am glad if you keep learning. Saturday morning I have a business meeting anyway [with Pat, hopefully]. I'll get you on a taxi back to Bangkok early Saturday morning.
– Ok, says Lek, on Friday I can leave school at three p.m. I will meet you in Pattaya at 5 p.m.
And there's another lady in Khon Na Boom city up in, of course, Isaan. Daeng. Years ago, Daeng has been my very special good time friend for quite a while. I'd like to see her to get a happy ending for my Single Week. And I know I may call her late in the night. Rrrring – lucky me, Dang wants to meet me on Saturday night.
So here's the quality itinerary for the rest of my Single Week:
Friday morning: Get airplane ticket and hotel reservation for Khon Na Boom city, Isaan, for Saturday afternoon.
Friday noon: Nothing naughty, but try to book Pat for Saturday noon.
Friday afternoon: Meet Lek arriving from Bangkok.
Saturday early morning: Send Lek back to Bangkok.
Saturday noon: Hopefully a body to body massage in Pat's apartment.
Saturday afternoon: taxi to Suvarnabhumi airport and overnight trip to Daeng in Khon Na Boom city.
Sunday noon: fly back to Bangkok, clear the Single Week apartment, prepare the family home and welcome back wife and daughters at Suvarnabhumi airport in the late afternoon.
Great times ahead.
Day 7, Friday
Nothing naughty this morning! I keep myself a day virgin for Lek. But I visit the spa of another three star hotel and request a regular oil massage. On the premises are three elderly, dignified masseuses wearing expensive silk, glasses and a motherly look. Plus there's one more innocent, lovely, young masseuse. I smile at her like a faun in love and am lucky enough to get her, even though quite likely the elder ladies perform better. But I guess they have resigned to the fact that the young one attracts more customers.
It's all one big room, obviously meant to imitate a luxury longhouse, but this time I don't request extra privacy. My girl has extraordinarily soft and caring hands, is that her youth? She is even shy to talk to me, but I find out she hails from Ubon Udon, not married. So one thing is sure and I ask her:
– So you have a baby up in Ubon Udon staying with your parents?
– No, no, no, I have no baby! I am not yet married, so I have no baby, why do you think so?
She is downright shocked, she blushes and stops kneading me for a moment. The elderly dignified masseuses in the room gasp indignantly. Vraiment, how could I ask such an unlikely, even offending question. Fortunately we won't meet again.
I get Pat on the phone. She says, yes, we could do that body to body massage tomorrow in her apartment. 11 a.m. would be good for her. But we should call each other again next morning.
At my hotel's business center, I manage to book a room online in Khon Na Boom city, Isaan, for my Saturday night date up there.
For the airplane ticket I take a Baht bus to a rather spiffy looking travel agency I noted earlier. I ring the Baht bus to stop and hand the driver 100 Baht through his window. He gives me a stash of change back through the window and speeds away.
The Baht bus driver returned only 80 Baht to me. It should have been 90 Baht.
The travel agency starts to work out tickets for me. My clerk is clearly insecure and inexperienced; two other employees who look more experienced keep playing PC games on their terminals.´
And the ticket is not yet in my hands. They say I do have a confirmed seat, but they can only issue the ticket tomorrow. I should come back tomorrow to pick up the ticket and to pay.
I leave the frustrating ticket shop and hop on a Baht bus to visit another travel agency. I have no intention to return to this spiffy looking, but incompetent ticket outlet.
On the Baht bus, I get Lek's phone call: She's waiting at our meeting point already. 1 hour early! Again, I had asked her to call me ten minutes before she reaches meeting point, but she only calls me when she'd already arrived. I quickly hop off the Baht bus and take a motorcycle taxi straight to our meeting point.
There stands my Lek at the meeting point, beaming! My innocent 'school girl' with a little shoulder bag. I am aroused immediately (and forget about looking more for an alternative airplane ticket to Khon Na Boom city). Read all about Lek & I in Pattaya in my previous story Working Girl for a Year.
Day 8, Saturday
Lek and I are on the street, waiting for the taxi back to Bangers she had booked by telephone. I tell her that today I have to fly back to Paris for a while because of job problems and a family emergency. I say that I am uncertain if and when I would return. Lek looks somewhat shocked.
Lek's booked taxi still doesn't materialise. Several phone calls later the driver finally manages to pull up.
I return to the travel agency that had promised to have my ticket today. They have to start the reservation and ticketing procedure from scratch, all over. It seems like their 'work' from yesterday had been useless. Only 40 minutes later, I actually hold a ticket in my hand.
I check the taxi booths on Second Road for a taxi back to Suvarnabhumi later that day. Finally I make an agreement with Miss Jaeng: I'll pay 1000 Baht for the trip to Suvarnabhumi including all highway fees. I write down my hotel's name and address very clearly, including my departure time, 15.15 p.m. that day.
Lek showers me in SMS messages. Pat though doesn't answer my calls, texts and prayers. My highly anticipated body to body massage in Pat's condo fades away. Too bad: I'd really like to get to know more of Pat before I disappear back into the lull of family life. But I won't keep myself any longer for Pat. I fear we won't meet again.
I find myself on soi 14/2.5, where a shop advertises massages in 'individual cabins with private showers'. I grab a lady out front and let her take me upstairs. Yes, the cabins have showers and stone walls. Still the walls don't reach the ceiling, so you can hear the neighbouring cabins. There is only one air-conditioning unit cooling several boxes.
Dao, my masseuse, looks like 25, but is 37, an unwed mother of two hailing from Moon La Bang, not far from Pattaya. Her massage doesn't win a prize.
Dao remarks lamely that I have a third leg growing and I reply lamely that it needs massage too. We agree on 700 Baht for that part of the treatment. It should be only 500, but I am shy to haggle with my middle leg already in her hand.
Dao does me with a very steady mid-tempo beat and lots of Johnson baby oil. At first I like it until I realize she doesn't intend to step up the speed. After some lengthy effort I even remove her hand from my member because even at her age and in her profession, Dao doesn't know how to a do a guy.
Dao immediately continues to massage my upper thighs. I hear talking and giggling from two other partitions, including Thai with a French accent. My memories in the dark massage box drift back to the good times with Lek and how perfectly Wan had squeezed me and somehow I get back into delivering mode. So I redirect Dao's hand back to my central extremity.
Just so, almost by accident, I happen to come.
– Ok, shower, says Dao.
– Oh, please, let me relax five minutes on the massage bed, ok?
– Ok, suuuure!
She dons me a towel and starts massaging me again. Now her massage feels very cosy and I cuddle up like a newborn in the fresh towel. I then sit up to get to the shower, but she jumps onto the massage bed and starts a head and shoulder massage. Great again.
I shower and dress. Dao comments that most farang guys wear boxers for underwear and asks somewhat indignantly why I had a short slip. I explain that boxers are too hot and a short cotton slip was better for the hot climate, especially to not overheat your genotype that's kept in that external rosy pocket for better air cooling. Dao understands.
Dao gets a tip and I guess we both know we won't meet again.
More texts from Lek, but still no sign of Pat on my mobile phone. Soon my taxi will come, take me to Suvarnabhumi airport and one night later my Single Week will be over.
I miss Lek madly. The shock adieu this morning, minutes before her taxi pulled up, was too hard. Her SMS texts are sad, but without pressure or bad feelings. I actually like her.
I call Lek in her massage workshop and ask her to come to the airport three hours later for another goodbye. Lek happily agrees.
A closer look in the shower reveals a thick layer of old, rancid Johnson baby oil on my glans. Good I discover it now. It takes quite some work and shampoo to remove.
I stand on the road, waiting for the taxi booked for 15.15 p.m.
The taxi driver calls in where I am.
– Soi XY of course, just like I told Miss Jaeng at the taxi booth, I shout.
The taxi driver calls in again to ask where my hotel is, he can't see it. Turns out he is in, haha, Naklua, on another soi XY over there.
Finally: my taxi. He complains about the wrong directions, Naklua instead of Pattaya city, but with that he can molest Miss Jaeng at the taxi booth. I sit down on the taxi's back seat and demonstratively open my magazines.
I ask the taxi to stop at terminal 2, entrance 2, and kiss him chok-dee without a tip.
And there's Lek, my steady Lek, waiting for me to say Goodbye another time.
Touchdown in Khon Na Boom city, where in the very reasonable local top end hotel a very polite receptionist greets me happily. It's clearly her pleasure to have me here with her under one roof. Now that's a change from my unwelcoming arrival in Pattaya. Shave and shower, call Daeng who arrives soon after with Le Smile, and we set out for a good garden restaurant (not so hot up here) and a couple cold ones.
Before midnight Daeng and I are back in the room and my friendly Isaan lady does what she does so wonderfully and passionately and always on top of the situation. At 37, she's not the youngest, but body and soul are fresh, fresh, fresh.
Day 9, Sunday
I tickle Daeng good morning and she grabs the occasion. Then, while she showers, I hide a few big ones in her purse. The breakfast buffet is not bad either.
Back in my temporary Adultery Flat on Bangkok's Sukhumvit Road to clean up. It's like cleaning up Lek memories.
There's my Adultery Phone with revealing numbers and messages. I take out the SIM card and break it several times. But maybe all the numbers and messages are not on the SIM card, but in the phone? What to do with the phone? I drop my Single Week Adultery Phone, cheaper than a Bangkok short-time, on the kitchen tiles and step on it several times with my street shoes. My Single Week phone crumbles under painful noises.
Goodbye Pat, goodbye Lek, I liked you.
I wipe the Adultery Phone mess into the 7-Eleven plastic bag that's still there from the Heineken and ice tea bought with Lek some days ago, after coming back from the temple and a dinner with her friends.
I take the plastic bag and my travel bag down to the street. The plastic bag goes into a trash bin. Me, I hail a cab back home.
I trash my family home just a bit to show that a helpless single male had been living here for a week. I put a lot of drinks in the fridge and start the air-con in several rooms. I shower intensely with my usual soap. I inspect glans and surroundings for any more revealing Johnson baby oil fossilisation.
At Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi airport, I kiss and cuddle the family welcome back to Bangkok.
– We had such a wonderful time, beams the wife and the daughters nod enthusiastically, holding new teddy dolls and bears.
– Too bad you couldn't be with us, smiles the wife. Everybody asked for you and missed you a lot!
– Yes, I missed everybody in the family a lot too, I say and I mean it.
– Anyway, glad you're all back and we are one family again, I say and I mean it.
– You really save me from insanity, I say, and I mean it.
You've been a busy boy.