Ambition

by Julie Burchill

  Pope sighed. ‘Susan. I never asked Miss Malaise to do that. When I met her she was a film actress. A bad one, but a film actress. When I started paying the rent on her flat, I presumed she would continue to be a film actress. I didn’t know she was going to throw in the make-up towel and give me a poor imitation of a mad housewife giving away the best years of her life, now did I?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Do you think I’m a New Man?’

  She turned and looked at him, incredulous. ‘What?’

  ‘A New Man. I’ve been seeing things about them in some of my publications. See women as equals, want women to enjoy sex, want women to work and be tough. All that jazz. Don’t respect women who are chaste and don’t despise women who are whores.’ He preened. ‘I think that’s a perfect description of my personal self. Yes, I’m definitely a New Man.’

  She fell against his shoulder, laughing helplessly, her bad mood gone. He put his arm around her and pointed at the window. ‘Look.’

  The sky was red, like a delight or a warning or both. ‘Where are we?’

  He pushed her away, straightened up and smiled. ‘We’re in Bangkok, Susan. Where else?’

  In the master bedroom of the suite at the Hotel Oriental, the girl looked at Susan. She was tall for a Thai, a few inches under six foot, but with the distinctive skin; skin only marginally less golden than Shirley Eaton’s in Goldfinger. She had long slender limbs and long, dark, heavy hair cut in a fringe; her eyes were delicately slanted and unusually pale. She was probably Amerasian, though she wore the traditional Thai woman’s national dress: a shiny black monokini and high black heels.

  Susan turned away from the mirror and looked at Tobias Pope. ‘Will I do?’ she asked sarcastically. ‘Do I need contact lenses? Liposuction? A lobotomy?’

  ‘Who’d know the difference?’ He looked over his copy of Fortune at her. ‘You look great. Too beautiful, in fact. Thai women are too short, and most of them are titless wonders. They aren’t actually the raving beauties that the maladjusted men who frequent them make out. Sure, they look pretty good if no white woman has given you a tumble in ten years, and of course the Elephant Man himself could find a girlfriend out here if he had the spending cash. But basically they’re for men who want boys or children or both.’ He yawned. ‘And, of course, they’re basically very decent girls, which is always unattractive in a woman to any red-blooded man. The majority of them won’t suck cock, for instance. They say it’s a crime against Buddha.’

  ‘I thought they did everything. Can I put my raincoat on now?’

  ‘No, you won’t be dry for another ten minutes. Also your nipples are the wrong colour. Sungita, see to it. No, everything but. That’s why they have these fancy routines, pulling strings of razor blades and Pershing ground-to-air missiles out of their twats. To distract from the lack of blowjobs. Personally, I know what I prefer.’ He put down his magazine. ‘What do you say, Sungita? Take your hands off that white woman and answer me.’

  The chic Thai girl in the black smock was pouting fiercely with concentration as she put the finishing touches of brown body make-up to Susan’s nipples with a small brush. She had already applied the golden all-over tan with a small damp sponge, and artfully attached the liquid plastic at the temples to Chinese the eyes. Now she smiled at Tobias Pope, politely rather than flirtatiously. ‘Thai girls always pleased to see friends from West.’

  ‘You like us farangs, Sungita? Why’s that? Our pasty skins? Our paunches? Our hairy legs? Drives you women crazy, does it?’ He smiled slyly. ‘Or is it our dollars, our deutschmarks and our yens?’

  Sungita laughed. ‘I personally am married Thai man.’ She began to pack away her brushes. ‘I finish. I go?’

  ‘Yes. Beautiful job. My man outside will settle. I’ve told him to give you one hundred American dollars. Make sure he does.’

  Overcome, Sungita left the room backwards and bowing. Susan watched her go.

  ‘Hey big spender,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘You may mock. But I could fuck her for five dollars. As a gentleman and a hygienist, I prefer not to. Have you heard of Vietnam Rose?’

  ‘What’s that? Disinformation with discharge?’

  ‘Nearer than you think. It’s a vile Oriental venereal disease whereby one’s organ turns outward, like a rose, and one urinates as from a watering-can.’

  ‘And they said romance was dead. Can I put my raincoat on now?’

  ‘Relax, I’ve seen it all before. Come and sit down.’ He patted the sofa beside him and looked petulant. ‘We never talk any more.’

  ‘You sound like a wife.’ She sat beside him on the paisley eau de nil satin sofa, an Oriental idea of English restraint.

  ‘Is it any wonder I sound like a wife when all you’re interested in is that career of yours?’

  The satin was slippery against her high gloss monokinied behind.

  ‘It’s your career as well, Mr Pope.’

  ‘Tobias.’

  ‘I can’t call you Tobias.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s a . . . it’s a silly name.’

  ‘You see? Always an insult. That’s why men come here – it’s the last capital of conceit for Western man, the last bastion of an illusion that women have trampled all over in their stilettos. Here, men can kid themselves that the girls don’t do it just for the money – I’ve actually had smart men say this to me – but because they love Western cock. Like hell they do. They leave school at twelve, or they’re refugees, or they’re sold by their families. But one reason they certainly don’t do it is because they love their work.’ He rolled Fortune into a tight tube and rapped her smartly on the nipples with it. ‘Unlike you, madam.’

  ‘Don’t, you’ll smudge me.’

  ‘You wish. Yes, prostitution is prostitution – it’s shit work, like cleaning out sewers. No one who had an option would do it. Your thick Westerner says it’s in the blood of Thai women, to fuck like rabbits – garbage. It’s an economic thing, as straight-forward and unerotic as that. You look at your middle-class and upper-class Thai women – do they fuck like rabbits? Do they hell – they don’t even fuck their husbands unless they say please. The poor fuck for money because they’re poor, not because they like it, in every country. And these girls are less suited to it than most – they’re a very religious people, like all stupid peasants.’

  ‘Aren’t they supposed to smile rather a lot? Maybe that’s what gives Westerners a false impression.’

  He sighed at her stupidity. ‘Of course they smile. You’d smile if you were one step away from the gutter and you saw your next meal coming. Not to mention the next bowl of rice for your family back in the country. That smile hides a thousand frustrations. It’s a mask. But we like it, because we know our own prostitutes too well. We’ve seen the repulsive fly-on-the wall documentaries: we know they hate fucking us, we know they’re all dykes and junkies because they hate it so much. We know their heartaches better than we know those of our own wives. And that’s not the biggest aphrodisiac in the world, especially for the inadequate geeks who come out here. Here they can still pretend that the hookers are happy. They’re not, of course – just foreign. Which often seems the same thing to stupid fucking Westerners.’

  The windows were open, and across the balcony came the smell of incense and sweat mingled with the sound of wind-chimes, tuk-tuks and disco music. She pulled on her raincoat and walked out through the French windows, shivering.

  ‘Hot to trot, my dear?’ Pope called from the sofa. ‘You should pardon the vulgarism. We Americans, you know.’

  ‘Just restless. And nervous.’

  He came up behind her. She felt his sinewy hands on her neck, an attempted murder disguised as a massage, and he briefly removed one to gesture at the sparkling city.

  ‘Look at it. Thailand was practically the only South East Asian country never to be colonized. Too clever, they thought. And now it’s the world’s brothel. Too clever by half, I’d fucking say.
There’s a lesson there, young lady.’

  ‘Which is?’ She leaned back against him. In a way, he was home in a strange land. She knew his methods, and his madness. She couldn’t be mad at him.

  ‘You have to lose control to gain control.’

  ‘Which fortune cookie did you get that out of, Mr Pope?’

  ‘Very funny.’ He gestured again. ‘But look. Ten million people on a mud flat. Every time someone flushes a toilet it sinks down a centimetre. And talking of toilets, there’s half a million whores in Bangkok and not one orgasm per night between them. There’s a madam in this town, a charming woman – earned twenty million dollars from bars and massage parlours. One night over cocktails at the Embassy, I asked her the secret of her success. She threw back her charming head – and she had a chignon that my wife never got quite right – laughed and said, “I run the greatest acting school in the world.” There you go – straight out of the whore’s mouth.’

  ‘I see.’ Looking too long at the city lights had made her dreamy and docile. Neon – that was what modern female hormones reacted to, not testosterone

  He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her round, opened her raincoat and looked at her. ‘You look wonderful. And you’re going to have a great time.’ He laughed, closing her coat and buttoning it paternally. ‘Just think, when you’re up there on that stage tonight, you’re going to be the only girl in town not faking an orgasm.’

  The Faster Pussycat Go-Go Bar’s exterior was pink, Susan noted, as she alighted from the tuk-tuk, reeling from the mingled scents of orchids and open sewers. But inside the air was blue, as men in the uniforms of the US Marines ordered their drinks and girls for the evening. Girls were everywhere: beautiful and plain, tall and small, aged from fifteen to around thirty. Many of them wore what looked like National Health spectacles, giving their bikinis and high heels a look of perverse respectability.

  ‘Come, my dear.’ Tobias Pope made for a door marked PRIVATE. Susan followed him. A tall, dark Marine, the only handsome man in the room, caught her by the wrist.

  ‘Hey, sexy girl. You want drink? Sit down and take your coat off.’

  She shook her head and broke away.

  ‘Can’t you wait till we get inside the door?’ Pope laughed. He rapped smartly three times, then opened the door. Susan followed him inside.

  A woman of middle age, her hair short and blue-black, her dress a high-necked, black and skintight satin cheongsam, was standing behind a large desk. She came out from behind it now, holding her hand out to Pope. She displayed an expensive pair of French court shoes and ridiculously good legs; her figure was unimpeachable. She reminded Susan, in both luscious looks and dry manner, of Maria in the New York dyke bar – Pope obviously had a series of such managerial madams stashed all around the world.

  ‘Monsieur Pope!’

  ‘Enchanté, madam.’ He kissed her hand respectfully. ‘You look excessively well. And business?’

  ‘Business is always good.’ Her English was clipped, high and excellent. She looked at Susan. ‘Is this your friend?’

  ‘Yes. Open your coat, Susan, and let madam set what you’re hiding in there.’

  Susan felt her face burn. She closed her eyes and held her coat open, feeling like a flasher. She could feel the woman’s eyes stabbing into her like the cold steel implements of a surgeon.

  ‘Hmm.’ The woman nodded. ‘Very good. Very, very good.’ She walked back to the desk and picked up a telephone. ‘Hello? Yes. Will you send Oon in, please? Thank you so very much.’ She replaced the receiver.

  ‘Oon’s still here?’ Tobias Pope raised his eyebrows. ‘Wasn’t she going to marry that Australian dentist and live a life of suburban bliss in Sydney?’

  ‘Ah, she got bored. She came back within eight weeks. She’s the one girl I have who really loves her work. For Oon it’s a vocation, not a job. Like being a nun.’ The woman sat on the desk and smiled at Susan. ‘So you have a fantasy to be a bar dancer for a night.’

  Was that what the lying prick had told her? ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. I take it you can’t do any tricks?’

  ‘Tricks?’

  ‘Have you ever pulled a string of razor blades out of your vagina? Can you smoke cigarettes with your anus?’

  ‘Sorry. There wasn’t much call for that sort of thing where I came from.’

  Pope and the woman laughed. ‘Have you ever been fucked by a donkey?’

  Her stomach plummeted. ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Well, you’re out of luck tonight. Our donkey died last week and we haven’t bought a new one yet.’ The woman lit a black Sobranie. ‘The girls are climbing up the walls. OK. I’ll buy it. You don’t need tricks, I have Oon for that. You have a good body and I take it you can dance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. You’ll do.’

  There was a knock on the door. It opened and a girl stepped soundlessly into the room.

  She was genuinely and undeniably beautiful, the Thai dream girl that Westerners seek and so very rarely find. She looked like a model for some Oriental airline, with waist-length, poker-straight black hair, delicately slanted eyes and classic, almost Western features. She was pale gold all over, wearing white slingback high heels and a white bikini bottom.

  ‘We meet again, Oon,’ said Tobias Pope. He sounded almost lustful.

  ‘Sure,’ said Oon, She had an unusually low voice for a Thai. She looked questioningly at the woman in black.

  ‘Oon, a favour if you please. This young lady wishes to join you for the night’s entertainments. Will you take her under your wing?’

  ‘Sure.’ She turned to Susan. ‘Wanna come and make up?’ She had a slight American accent.

  ‘Go along, my dear.’ Pope held the door open and ushered them through. ‘I’ll leave you in Oon’s very capable hands and see you in about fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Will you be in the club?’

  He pointed upwards. ‘Walls have ears, my dear, but ceilings have eyes. There’s a two-way mirror above the stage. Madam and I will be up there. I’ll be watching over you the whole time. Like God.’

  The woman in black laughed, went over to a cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky. Tobias Pope closed the door behind them.

  ‘This way,’ said Oon. They passed through a hot, narrow corridor to a small room lined with mirrors and hung with clothes. ‘You English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to go to London. I really like your pop groups. Curiosity Killed The Dog.’

  ‘Cat.’

  ‘Cat. I like the Police too.’ She lowered her lids and looked at Susan with a parody of lust. ‘That Sting. I’d like to eat out his asshole.’

  ‘I’m sure he’d be very flattered. Why don’t you come to England?’

  ‘Ah, it’s too far. I’ve just come back from Oz. I married this guy. I thought it might be quite like England. But it sucked.’

  ‘You speak great English.’

  ‘I only go with Aussie and American guys. We all have our own speciality. Lots of girls go with the Germans and Japanese. Often they’ve got more money. But the Germans are fat and the Japanese are short. Most bar girls don’t really like fucking. But I do. I’d rather be with a good-looking guy who can fuck than some rich ugly German.’ She sat on a dressing table and fumbled in her purse, pulling out a cigarette. ‘Thai stick – want some?’

  ‘I’d love some. I feel quite nervous.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ She lit up and inhaled deeply. ‘You like to fuck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it’s no problem. Lots of Thai girls, they don’t like to fuck. For them it’s a problem.’

  Susan sat down next to her and accepted the reefer, holding down the smoke until she spluttered. But the calming, euphoric effect was almost immediate.

  Oon handed her a glass of water. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

  Susan let the raincoat fall from her shoulders.

  ‘Mmm!’ Oon inhaled and bounced enthusiastically. �
��Fantastic! Is that a tan or make-up?’

  ‘Make-up. Will the men realize I’m not Thai?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. They won’t be looking at your face. They’ll be sitting on it.’ Oon laughed, bitterly but with a kind of lustful relish. She pushed a tray of cosmetics at Susan. ‘You’re welcome to share these if you’ve left yours behind. Red lipstick, lots of eyeliner.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Susan took another lungful of Thai stick and selected a red lipstick.

  Oon got up, smoked the last of the reefer and put it out. Picking up a hairbrush, she stood behind Susan and began to groom her. ‘OK, here’s the schedule. We go onstage and dance to a couple of records. Then we take off our pants. You keep dancing, I do my act. Then we make love together. Then guys come up and fuck us. OK with you?’

  ‘OK.’ She felt dreamy and distant. ‘Do we have any choice in the men?’

  Oon shrugged. ‘First come, first served.’

  ‘We can’t pick them?’

  ‘Why? See someone you like?’

  ‘There’s a Marine out there . . . tall, dark. Looks a bit like Michael Douglas.’

  ‘Oh, him. That’s Italian Johnny. He’s great. He’s a fantastic fucker. OK, I get him for you. Though that means I get his short friend Vinnie. They go everywhere together.’ Oon sighed good-naturedly. ‘OK. As it’s your first night.’

  ‘Only night.’

  ‘You might like it, you never know. You might decide to stay. Wait a minute. Open mouth.’ The Thai girl put down the hairbrush and blasted Susan with Mint Spot from a small aerosol. ‘Don’t want you to stink when I kiss you.’ She smiled mischievously and pinched Susan’s nipple, hard. ‘Come on. It’s show time.’

  The small stage was a catwalk, running down the middle of the room. As Susan and Oon stepped out on to it, disco music began to play – Anita Ward singing ‘Ring My Bell’.

  Oon whispered, ‘You stay this end, I go other. Just keep dancing till I come to you. Good luck.’

  She felt both calm and mildly excited as she began to dance dreamily, straight-backed and on the spot. Oon was more energetic, waving her arms above her head and kicking her legs; obviously she had learned to dance from Americans, Susan thought smugly. Men were drifting at a rate of knots from the bar to the stage, looking up with frank, interested lust at what appeared to be the two beautiful near-naked dancing Thai girls. The bar girls on their arms looked bored, allowing their facades to slip for a moment while the attention of their meal-tickets was temporarily distracted.