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A Tour of South East Asia, Part 1





What follows are some lurid and uncompromising accounts of my experiences in South-East Asia, with the lurid and uncompromising parts cut out. I hope these notes will be of some use to someone – the least that can be said for them is that they are up to date.

First I will provide some background to my exploits. I am more or less a low-life loser with a hand to mouth existence. My interactions with women can hardly be described as high class and my menial jobs have supported my life of beer, one night stands, and when I can afford it, an urban street whore. A good win at the race track made me consider a last fling in South-East Asia. Although I am based in England, to avoid repetitive translations I will stick to American colloquialism and US dollars throughout. Everyone knows where to find the pussy, but there is always a good measure of ambiguity in the whereabouts of the fanny.

I begin by reproducing journal extracts from my tour which began in Cambodia. I chose this particular hotel, The Lucy Star, because I set the hotel search engine at low to high price, and this one came out on top – or bottom, if you know what I mean. Whether this is a good or bad strategy I will leave the reader to decide. For me, it was certainly interesting.

Sunday, the Lucky Star Hotel Phnom Penh – Day 1

I call it a hotel – I suppose it’s really a guesthouse – but it's a place to sleep, even if in some forsaken corner of the metropolis. For example, the breakfast table at which I now sit has a menu entirely in Khmer, and the restaurant – I call it a restaurant – it is just a trolley stall on the street, but you get the idea – at my little plastic table, the only thing I recognise as food looks a bit like what we back home would call a fried egg, though what kind of creature laid it I can't even guess.

I am digressing to say that I am currently estimating the probability that some of the floating debris in my teapot are flies. The Khmer people around are staring at me and my breakfast. I forgive them, they can’t help it, and I believe they are wondering; ‘Is there a farang so poor that he has fallen to this?’ Everything is clean enough, or at least the dirt is red hot, and the tea leaves are equal to it. At least most of them are not flying. I thought about asking for sugar and milk but then realise I don’t need it that much. This is a good discovery; the tea is doing me good and will keep me occupied for at least an hour.

Later that same day

The evening started out so well, yet my honest intentions paved a path to insanity. I had been judicious in my choices – I knew I needed to get near the riverside, but the moto boys were clueless in their comprehension of my requests; I am well out of the tourist area and English is not heard much around here. The word ‘river’ is repeated back to me as ‘livel’ – I could be understood by talking back in similar colloquialisms but I am aware that it would also sound ridiculous. My info on the city and my budget, aimed me exclusively at freelancers and since the collapse of the fishing industry it is the only food men still go out to hunt. Yet tonight, even that, was not to be.

I ended up in Walkabout, the only destination of the many I suggested that they could comprehend. As I walked in I realised it was where old Viet ladies go to die – or at least retire to. I had a drink upstairs and tried to strike up a conversation with an old guy who was on his own. But it was freshness that I aspired to, and suddenly I found a place that looked more interesting – a bar called ‘Skirts’ – open only two weeks, and if it did not turn out to be my kind of bar at least it had my kind of name. After two drinks, a half-assed attempt at a massage by the only girl in the bar, and a chat to the young Khmer owner, I wandered into the Black Cat bar on the corner.

Before I got there, I suddenly I realised I had to go back to my spiritual home; the Martini bar.

Incredibly, a moto guy outside called Soya took me there without a fuss and said he would wait for me (they always say that). Soon we will all be eating, not literally, but his namesake – genetically modified or not.

The sign at the entrance always cracks me up; ‘No guns or hand grenades’ – a reminder of the days when the city was a much more dangerous place.

The Viet ladies no longer line up along the fish pond (not to be confused with the fish bowl which you get in soapies – this really is just a fish pond) – but now sit in a circle of around eight girls at a big table right at the entrance to the bar, so you can’t miss them as you walk in. Unlike the brown and plump Khmer ladies, the Viets are white and skinny and they look ravishingly ripe for ravishing – which is my intention, anorexic or not.

No doubt about it, I am the oldest, fattest and baldest Farang on the block – but my argument is this; do the girls who star in bestiality movies not look as if they are enjoying it? It is more than possible they are not – but they look as if they are enjoying it because will enjoy their pay – and these Viet girls will be rewarded for making this beast happy too, and I will leave them a memento; a photo of my wallet, and they will take it out when I am far away and recall me with fondness.

So when I walked in I give them a cheery hello, although I didn’t know any of them at that point (but could have once had on encounter with one of their mothers). Some of them half-heartedly returned my greeting, others just looked bemused as I got up to the bar and got a beer and then ordered a pizza at the food counter. My instructions were to make it thin and well done and they seemed to heed this as if they didn’t always do it. But this is one of my lasting memories of the city.

The days of happy pizza and hash hanging in plastic bags in the market have gone for ever – but I can confirm that the Martini Bar in Cambodia still sells a good crisp and thin margarita – as long as you tell them to.

Now I got to the Viet table which now conveniently has a vacant seat, and I was surrounded by what I perceived as seven of the most desirable girls imaginable. The little ones on either side of me were soon massaging me but did not have my full interest – it is the really anorexic girls who took me by storm. One of them said to me; ‘I want your dick.’ The names of these two are Mai and Fon. Just as we about to leave the pizza arrives – I had forgotten about it, but it is a good leaving present – although Mai and Fon make sure they take a slice before we go. It was a short visit to Martini – I had one drink, a slice of pizza and remembered that the big room we sat in actually has no roof.

Outside Soya already has the bike revved up, the combined mass of the girls is probably equal to my own bulk, so really there was only three of us on the bike – although little Mai was sat on the tail light. I gave Soya the incentive of an extra dollar if we made it back with both girls still on the bike.

So this was my most expensive night for girls; I was fifty dollars lighter and three dollars of that went to Soya. Is the hotel girl friendly or not? I don’t know – they simply ignored the girls when I got my key from the desk. A half a minute after entering my room there is a knock at the door. It was my security guy. He has been trying to pimp women on me all day and now realising I am not celibate he is trying to sell me condoms.

‘How much?’

‘Three dollars.’

‘Fuck off – the three of us have just ridden from Martinis for that – anyway, these girls like to ride bareback.’

One thing I've found out is that you can say what you like in these parts as long as you do it with a smile on your face.

I shut out any continuation in negotiations and the girls are already undressing; Mai is smiling and looks up for it but Fon is much cooler and hard business nosed – like most Viets – in fact Mai is very brown and I have to ask her if she really is a Viet. She nods and giggles as if she has been asked that before. I undress while Fon is unwrapping a fresh Asiatic condom.

Monday, the Lucky Star Hotel, Phnom Penh – Day 2

Dawn did not break gently over Phnom Penh. One second it was as black as pitch and in another it was starkly bright. You may believe that just I dozed off as daylight gradually phased in – but I know better – this morning, dawn had said ‘fuck it’ and didn’t bother the usual transition. Dawn, like me, just wasn’t in the mood.

For the first time I looked around me. I was in the small bed and quite alone. I could have easily accommodated the two skinny Viets in alongside me but, thank Christ, they had gone.

So many times I have woken up next to a woman and had to spend my earliest and groggiest minutes, not reflecting on what I could remember, but on how to get rid of her.

The big bed was a tangled wreck, but it also was empty. I had woken up around four in the smaller bed (the girls had left at 2.30) and indulged in a good pull on my wire fuelled by the events of the evening. A good pull! There is a redundant word here. Make a note of it fellow mongers – for once I did not over or underpay for the right to reach the state of orgasm.

It was with some satisfaction therefore that I finally opened my eyes and with more than a little relief to have expunged the nightmares of pain. Yes, several times I had half awoken; denouncing myself as a pervert or a faggot, as realism and understanding invaded my blissful slumber.

I had declared my abstinence from drink (hell I don’t even drink) and my refusal to buy not even one lady drink; in fact I intended not to spend money at all unless it was to buy fuel to fire my loins.

And yet, dear fellow mongers, I did all these things, and in abundance! There was sexual debauchery as intended (patience, I will get to it) but the alcohol flowed like blood in the Tiber. The familiar spiral of descent was triggered beginning at Walkabout and ending at Martini. With the Black Cat Bar most strongly featured, three chubby bar girls, a duet from the Philippines and the boys from Minnesota; throw in a bunch of Vietnamese whores and you had the makings of what left me without much in the way of what could be called an apparatus of procreation. If you will excuse the coy euphemism. This is StickmanBangkok, not some crude mongering site.




Stickman says:

It's an art form to be able to write about night-time fun in South-East Asa without including all the gore. You managed it beautifully. I look forward to part 2!