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A Tour of South East Asia, Part 7

  • Written by Anonymous
  • March 31st, 2016
  • 7 min read


Black Pagoda Patpong Bangkok



Pattaya 8.24 pm

I’ve hidden the contents of my mini-bar except the water, stashed away all valuables, shit, showered, shaved and got out the pink massage voucher I have put aside at great hardship (but why else are we here?). Earlier I had passed a little Indian restaurant and thought, ‘That smells good, what a nice meal I could have with that 500 baht’ – but I've travelled 6,000 thousand miles to eat pussy, not curry.

In about 30 minutes I will go out and pick a little masseur off Beach Road and, unusually for me, negotiate with great inflexibility. I will firmly state my price and not compromise. That is because I can only haggle clinging to the bottom of my wave lashed little rock.

It doesn't appear so lamentable if you can get a bit of purple into your prose.

Siam Guest House 11.04 pm

Sometimes I wonder if I would not be better off at home trawling for street whores rather than paying an enormous price to fly thousands of miles to pine for something I can't afford. I have little motivation tonight but I’ll give it one more try – say another hour then I’ll just go to sleep. I can't even afford to abuse myself – it would burn up too much of my precious bottled water.

One hour later

I wasn’t prepared for this. I see her sitting flanked by two taller girls. I want her so much that it disturbs me. All three appear reserved and humourless – pretty ladies indeed, but frustratingly unresponsive. I observe them for some time (well, stalk them really – but this is Pattaya and you can get away with that sort of thing here). I had that tingly little feeling I get when I fall for someone – it's just my common sense leaving my body through my dick.

I am frustrated by a tubby nerd who starts chatting to my girl, she was now standing and towering over him. Eventually the nerd moves on, I suck in a fart and brace myself to go up to her. If she could have read my mind, she'd have punched me in the face. The voices in my head may not be real, but they have some good ideas – but a guy should always be careful with his thoughts – they may become words. Suddenly, mine did.

When you are in doubt and don't know what you are going to say it’s best to do it quickly and mumble a bit; ‘Will you give me a massage for 500 baht?’ She looks confused and then looks at her companions for help. They look equally blank. I am becoming awkward, beginning to reek of desperation. I suck in another fart and try to look cool. Eventually she shakes her head.

‘OK’ I say tamely, and move on with a lot of the swagger missing from my walk. As I walk away I can feel my ego deflate in one long fart. I’m sure they heard it but I don’t care anymore. No one is listening until you fart. Not only that, I think I must have followed through; that one definitely had a lump in it. It happens; sometimes you just have to wipe your ass and call it a shit.

I have no hard feelings for the girl who rejected me on Beach Road. I won’t call her a slut – she is a bitch. A slut will have sex with anyone, even me. A bitch will have sex with anyone but me.

She and her friends are still there three hours later, maybe she just didn’t understand me, but I still felt rejected. Me, rejected by a street whore? It can’t be that I was only offering 500. I should have been assertive, or learned to speak a bit of Thai – I think they like that sort of thing. Who am I kidding? It was the fucking money – I know they like that sort of thing.

Into the small hours, 16-17 March 2012, Beach Road, Pattaya

For at least fifteen years the minimum freelancer price has been 500 baht on this street. Is it still the case now? My negotiating position is strong; I remain without principles, but more pertinently, without more than 500 baht in my wallet. And, incredible as it may sound, I am becoming hungrier for food than either pussy and even beer.

I dismiss these thoughts and put together a strategy. What I will put to the girls is this; ‘I’ll have a massage with a happy ending (hand job or even a smoke)’, and put it to any who make eye-contact, speak, look friendly – but do not turn their back on me and wretch. I may even go back for the ass of that German guy.

It didn’t take long. Soon I had one – and right at the bottom of my street as I was on my way to get that curry. She wasn’t interested in my pathetic negotiation she just wanted to get into my room, my pants, and as it turned out, my life – or maybe would just settle for a leasehold on my wallet. Her name was Nong and she was working as a maid in a hotel and supplementing her income on the street. They all have a story.

The rule of mongering thumb was followed; they always appear much more stunning in the dark of the road than they do in the unforgiving neon of the room. The fall is often around two points on the 1 to 10 scale. This one struck me with even starker disillusionment. On the road she was an eight, back in the room she has fallen to a four.

In her defence, the girl is keen; very, very keen. Too keen for the purpose I have planned for her. There comes a point in all the lives of the girls, bar girl, freelancer, or just a young, poor Isan woman becoming not so young, that the men she now meets become potential husbands. This lady allowed herself to fall for me tonight and I was so kind and caring that it is was not entirely unexpected. I can be a sensitive bastard when I try. A man can't afford to be arrogant with only 500 baht in his keks.

I’ve had bigger women. It wasn’t quite as the old gag goes, she wasn’t so fat that when I pulled down her pants her ass was still in them. The hanging gluteals sort of dropped out when I got them to her knees. Life imitates humour and humour imitates life. And yet, what I had before me was no joke – it was only costing me 500 baht – but I could have got a few cans for that.

She dived into bed before I could get a good look at her. It is probably best not to know. I put out the light and got in beside her. A hooker has the advantage over a drug dealer in that she can wash her crack and sell it again – I don’t think this one had even done that.

If she would only stop talking. I asked her to get her head under the sheets – it was the only way I could think to shut her up. She seemed enthusiastic and announced dramatically, 'Better hold onto your nuts, this is no ordinary blowjob.' It wasn’t. I was suddenly gripped by the most intense pain. I screamed, ‘IT’S ONLY CALLED A BLOW JOB – YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FUCKIN’ SUCK NOT BLOW.’ It wouldn’t be the last time on this trip I would be forced to go into upper case.

She dismissed the massage and insisted we fucked like a couple of rabbits. And from about 1 until 6am, when she hadn’t actually had the sceptre of my passion in her mouth, she talked. She fantasized outlandish productions in which I starred alongside her on her rice farm. Did I encourage her? Yes, I believe she had caught my deflated ego on a rebound of dejection and I was trying to bolster my feelings of insecurity by giving myself a bit part in her rice paddy. This has happened to me at least once before. I should know the danger signs. Every thirty minutes or so she stoked me up and demanded my further amorous attention. All I really wanted to do was sleep – I had a two-day journey ahead of me to Phnom Penh and hadn't energy for it through lack of food.

With the activity we had burned off in steam, the six litres of water I had stored up for my journey, as well as the hotel water from my fridge had gone. My chances of survival alive were running out. This worried me; a man dies faster and more painfully from thirst than starvation. He cannot live on mere carnal pleasure. I wasn't going to stay alive on the fruits of love – even if I was throwing the skins all over the floor.