The Gogo Guru, Part 5

 

Later, I went to Midnite to barfine my Bargirl Buddha, but couldn’t see her anywhere. No problem. She was probably around somewhere – upstairs with her friends, perhaps. So I found the mamasan and asked, “Where’s Noi?”.

“Have two Nois,” she said. “Many Nois in Thailand.” She said something to a waitress, and moments later two tattooed skanks, as unlike my Bargirl Buddha as you could imagine, were presented to me. I shook my head and tried to describe her, but even as I went through a list of attributes, I knew it was useless: long black hair, big black eyes, big breasts, slim waist… about a third of the girls in Midnite could fit that description. Then I remembered the Naga tattoo. “She has a little tattoo, here,” I said, pointing to my left breast. The two skanks immediately pointed out various tattoos on their well-used bodies – a bit like the Ugly Sisters trying to put on Cinderella’s glass slipper.

“No,” I said, waving them away, but they hung around, still hopeful.

“What number?” said the mamasan, always eager to get a barfine for one of her crew.

“Naked,” I sighed (that was the only time I have regretted that a bargirl was naked).

“What about these two?” urged the mamasan, desperate to get her two skanks barfined. “Special offer! Happy Hour! Two for the price of one!”

The two skanks wiggled in a manner that they hoped was alluring, but it only put me off even more.

“I’ll take the two drinks, but not those two,” I said. “Look, are you sure there isn’t a girl called Noi with a small Naga tattoo above her left breast?”

She gave me an enigmatic look, then gave up on me. The skanks went away too. Moments later, a waitress brought my two-for-one happy hour drinks. I heaved a big sigh, and knocked back the first  in one go. I was heartbroken! She wasn’t there, and nobody had ever heard of her. I began to wonder if the whole thing had been a Singha-fuelled illusion. After all, a night long of Mindful sex is too good to be true. If part of it was a dream, maybe it was all a dream. Such wonders don’t happen in real life do they?

I was jerked out of my reverie by a voice from the next seat. “Ah don’t blame yer!” The speaker looked like a cross between a pit bull terrier and a nightclub bouncer, but seemed friendly enough. “Tha could do better in Manny!”

Manny – Manchester, and I recognised the Lancashire accent. “Or Donny,” I said.

“Ah, a Yorkie!” he said with a gruff chuckle. “Can’t stand ’em! But in your case ah’ll make an exception. Anyhow, ah’d rather ’ave a Yorkie than them effin’ Nips. They overpay an’ put t’ prices up fer everybody. The name’s Barry, by the way, but they call me Bazza.”

I couldn’t help thinking that he was being a tad racist, especially in his use of that old wartime slang, but I made no comment. After all, you don’t want to be on hostile terms with either a pitbull terrier or a bouncer and he had the qualities of both. Instead I just said, “Pleased to meet you. My name’s Byron.”

“Anyhow, not many in ’ere. They prefer Baccara an’ the schoolgirl look. Me, ah like Midnite an’ the nude look – an’ a good ’andful o’ titties fer free! An’ if yer go in one o’ them dark corners yer can even get a blowjob. An’ they ’ave short time rooms upstairs, no need to pay fer a short time ’otel. What was all that abaht, anyway?”

I didn’t mind telling him. In fact, I welcomed a sympathetic ear, but it was obvious that any talk of Bargirl Buddhas, Mindful sex or Enlightenment would be met with a scornful laugh and the word, “Shite!” (or stronger). So I kept it simple: “I met a girl here last night. She was good in bed so I wanted to barfine her again – but nobody seems to have heard of her.”

“What’s ’er name?”

“Noi.”

“They’ve got two Noi’s here.”

“I know, the mamasan told me.”

He laughed his gruff laugh. “Not them two! The mamasan wa’ just tryin’ to palm ’em off on yer. What does she look like?”

I sighed and repeated her description: “Long black hair, big black eyes, big breasts – oh, and a Naga tattoo.”

“Naga?”

The pit bull bouncer types don’t take much interest in culture.

“Snake.”

“Oh aye! I know ’er.”

I was all agog. “You know her!”

“New girl. Started a few weeks ago. Knockout knockers – but shy.”

“Where is she then?”

“What do they call it? ‘Gone home early’.”

“Huh?”

“It means, ‘barfined’, but sounds better. See, if yer think some other bloke is bangin’ the livin’ daylights out of ’er, you might be put off, but if yer think she’s gone home cos she’s sick, well, you might barfine ’er another day.”

“Barfined?”

“Yes.”

“Who by?”

“I don’t know. Some bloke.”

“What was he like?”

“American accent, tall, thin, bald.”

“Don!” I gasped.

“Yer know ’im?”

“Yes.”

“So yer friend took yer girl?”

“It looks like it.”

His features hardened. “If anybody tried that on me, ah’d…” he smashed his right fist into his left palm with such force that the couple in the next seat jumped. “An’ as for her…” he added, making a strangling gesture. This was too much for the couple in the next seat, who clearly thought they were sitting next to a homicidal maniac and moved to the other side of the bar.

I didn’t blame Noi. Don had probably told her a pack of lies – that I’d gone off with another girl, or gone back to England. I blamed Don, though. I could see it all now. When I told him about my Bargirl Buddha, he thought she sounded like his perfect soulmate, so he was determined to get her at any price. He couldn’t even wait until next Monday when he would have had a clear field! Instead, he had come here early, told her his lies, and barfined her. But how was it that the mamasan denied all knowledge of her? A bribe, probably, to cover his back. He would make out to me that she had left the bar, while shagging her long time – mindfully, of course.

“Hey, don’t take it so hard!” said Bazza, patting me on the shoulder with a force that made me gasp. “We come ’ere to ’ave fun, don’t we? Me, ah leave all t’ crap back in Manny – an’ there’s plenty, ah can tell yer! Me brothers in prison, me wife’s got Alzheimer’s, an’ ah’m out o’ work.”

His words hit home. He was no philosopher and probably left school at 16, but that one-liner had more wisdom in it than all of Don’s sophistries. I repeated it to myself (in Standard English) to make sure I had learned the lesson: “We come here to have fun, so leave all your problems at home.”

“An’ speakin’ o’ fun. Ah’ve a yen fer that un’ theer. She’s got bags o’ fun bags an’ a smile that ’ud cheer up a Scrooge. OK, she’s not much to look at, ah’ll grant yer, but look at t’ way she laughs wi’ ’er friends.”

Moments later, she was by his side, buck naked (as was the custom in the Midnite of old). He said something in his broad Manny dialect and she replied, “Can speak Angrit, but no understand. You German man?” At which they both fell about in fits of laughter. Then he got up and did the Basil Fawlty thing: a finger under the nose to represent the toothbrush moustache and a Sieg Heil salute. They both laughed again, though she probably had no idea what it was all about. They were getting along like a house on fire – and why not? A working class lad from the neglected North of England has a lot more in common with a working class lass from the neglected North of Thailand than a middle class charlatan like me (though being from Donny helped to keep my feet in the ground).

He sat down again, leaned towards me, and said, in a low voice, “She’s what we call a two-bagger. Paper bag on their ’eads when they’s ugly an’ two when they’s butt ugly. Anyway, ah didn’t come ’ere for faces. Ah can look at faces any time. Ah came here fer these,” and with those words, he grabbed a double handful of titties and began to wobble them about – which made Fah giggle again and her tits wobble even more. Then, seeing I still looked like the spectre at the feast, he said, “Why don’t yer take ’er friend?”

“Sister,” she corrected. “Her name Neah.”

“Sister!” gasped Bazza. “Bring ’er over! Ah’m goin’ ter be shaggin’ in stereo tonight! It’ll bust me budget! All ah’ve got is me Job Seeker’s allowance. An’ it’ll bust me balls an’ all! Never mind! That’s what ah’m ’ere fer!”

Soon he was laughing and joking with Neah and Fah and getting more titty than he’d ever dreamed of because big-tits ran in the family (on the female side, of course). He leaned over to me and whispered, “All ah need is another two paper bags an’ ah’m away!” then rocked with laughter at his own joke, which also rocked the girls (one on either knee) and made their wobbly bits wobble even more – much to his delight.

It was infectious. I felt my spirits rise, and was determined to share the fun. Our little party had an excess of mammary magnificence, so what else could I go for that was delightfully superficial? I scanned the bar – pigtails! Just the thing! Without overthinking it – which is what I ended up doing when I followed Don’s methods – I signalled the pigtails over.

The old Midnite was dark (you know why, now) so choosing a girl was always a hit and miss affair. I’d been lucky with Noi, and it turned out that I was lucky with #68, Pigtails, nickname, Pau. She wasn’t much to look at (I even leaned over to Bazza and said, “Got a spare paper bag handy?”), but she was friendly and funny – and, what is more to the point, up for it.

The five of us had a bundle of fun – laughing, joking, Tequila shots and dancing in the aisles. Bazza wanted to shake his booty on the stage, but Neah held him back (only just! He was like a pit bull straining at the leash). Then Fah suggested the short time room upstairs and off he went, with a wink and a word to me: “Ah’d like to take ’em all night long, but when yer on Jobseeker’s Allowance…”

It was make my mind up time and, once again, I decided not to overthink it. I just said the magic word (“barfine”), handed over the 500 baht, and a few minutes later, after she had got changed, we were away.

It wasn’t Mindful sex that we had, but it was almost as good. If I had to call it anything, I’d call it Harley sex. We had a long doggy style session with me pulling the pigtails like Harley handlebars  – gently, of course. After all, I don’t want to get bad karma. Don might end up being reborn as a snake, but I was hoping to be reborn as a man – so I could discover Thailand all over again!

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NOTE: Somewhere along the way, this memoir turned into a story. It began factually enough: I really did meet #40 Top Knot, the Gogo Guru and the Bargirl Buddha, I elaborated on the Gogo Guru’s philosophy in the retelling and made up his interest in Blake. I also made up the story of him going off with my Bargirl Buddha. From then on, the story, and characters such as Bazza and #68, Pigtails, are entirely fictional. But that’s not all. I got interested in my characters and the problems (and girls) they were wrestling with, and ended up developing the series into an 18,000 word novella entitled Gogo Guru.

 

 

The author of this article can be contacted at : rumblejungle2019@gmail.com