by Al Culler
I battle my way through the farang hordes who seem to be overwhelming the central tourist area, tempting to let loose with my stun-gun on the larger, slower moving sightseers. Crossing the main drag by the Night Market, I make a couple of locals’ day as they vie with each other to run me down in their absurd auto’s. I keep looking for the famed beautiful Northern lasses but they have all fast-exited to Sin-Central, leaving a motley collection of jailbait hill-tribe gals and out-to-lunch katoeys. Dodging both these potential embarrassments, head down towards the Ping River.
Half a dozen beer bars, cruise on by until I find an interesting lady. A rarity, actually from Chiang Mai, claims to have lost her office job. A whole clans of Buri-ram girls, who couldn’t pass even the cursory medical down south and whose sisters had cannibalized one infamous beer bar area so ruthlessly than the locals nicknamed it AIDS Alley, give me delightful scowls as I get into the conversation with the CM gal. I leave, though, after I find out all she is interested in is dragging me into the upstairs short-time room for a ruinous 1500 baht. Obviously spoilt by being a star in one of the local dens of vice.
The touts in the night market and tuk-tuk drivers compete to see who can be the rudest as I cut back to beer bars at the back of the bazaar. The tuk-tuk drivers notorious for taking single white males on a tour of the brothels and massage parlours but dipping the pristine Culler member in sea of spent Thai semen has never appealed. Spying a new bar set-up I wander on in only to find it’s populated by gays and katoeys, one of the latter follows my rapid exit, trying to jab his/her finger up the crack in my ass as I hop, skip and jump out of there. Looked so vile that application of the 24000V stun-gun would’ve come as a welcome relief to the creature, might even have reconnected some blown brain circuits!
Across the way, I settle down to what appears to be a beer bar populated by real, live gals, though these days of cosmetic excellence you can never be entirely sure; all the old rules and recognition patterns cancelled. Maybe a dozen bars, square that to end up with over a hundred gals; and being an old hand I end up buying a Cola for the only attractive (Surin) babe there, definitely cruising the Zone. Mostly beat her at Connect Four whilst becoming more and more disturbed at the probable youth of my companion. She speaks zero English and has no ID card, which makes me downgrade her to about fourteen, the equivalent of a very long prison sentence and extreme poverty if you even think about indulging. She claims to be eighteen but reduces that to sixteen when I ask her directly. Whatever you think about Thai girls and lying, they are reluctant to do so if you frame the question in a way that allows no vagueness in the reply.
She’s keen for me to a pay her bar-fine and willing to let me do anything I like to her body, down either to total naivety or a youth way misspent. She goes off to the toilet and the mamasan leans over to tell me she is too young to off, something to which I concur wholeheartedly. If she had been legal (over fifteen for non-commercial sex but the locals like to keep that information to themselves), I ponder for a moment the greater immorality - leaving her to a desperate and dangerous life in the bar zone or taking her on out of there and looking after her despite the wild age different. For the record, twenty years old does me very well, thank you very much – a mere thirty years age difference!
She’s well disappointed when I leave without her. I cruise on up AIDS Alley in Zen mode, inured to the desperate calls of the Buri-Ram damsels in distress, heading for Spotlight – a go-go that would barely past muster in Soi Cowboy, these days. There are maybe two attractive gals in CM’s three go-go’s, their attitude problems easily pacified by a 1000 baht note for long-time. Before I hit the Spot, I am stupefied to find my third beautiful lady of the night, another local, lounging in a beer bar…
She lets me buy her a Cola but it quickly become plain she has no interest in my existence. Nineteen says she, confirmed by her ID card. Absolutely bloody perfect, too, even down to some semblance of life in her eyes when she smiles… the ultimate insult, she tells me to come back tomorrow when her elder sister will take care of me.
Spotlight, refuse to buy the only attractive gal in there a Cola just to keep her off-balance, end up completely ignored by all the old Burilam bints who don’t give a shit that the neon radiance gives their dead skin a rather macabre lustre. Ponder hitting on a Chiang Mai disco but they seem to have more men than women or be heavily orientated towards the gay populace (thirty, forty percent of the local males!) – something for which I can summon up no enthusiasm.
Head back to the hotel, accosted by some tubby little Angel who declares that she will do short-time for 200 baht. Her mind spins like an out-of-control fruit machine when I tell her that she will need to find a hell of a lot more money than that if she wants the use of my body; I am a good thirty yards away by the time she susses the insult, starts screaming and running after me. No sense of humour, some people, and I almost bust a gut doing a four minute mile escape routine.
More by luck than judgement, I make it safely back to the hotel. The lift rattles and rolls up six storeys, even this great height not enough to escape the man-eating mosquitoes. The room defines a fire-trap with the tiny balcony protected from Ninja-like thieves by a grid of steel latticework but the ancient air-conditioner drowns out the street noises and deep-freezes the insect life.
The huge bed takes up most of the room, no sooner does my head hit the pillow than someone starts hammering on the door. It’s near the end of the month, the cops have bills to pay, and I immediately assume it’s a police shakedown but open the door anyway, stun-gun primed, ready to fight my way out of there.
But, no, it’s the receptionist, done out in too much make-up and a too short skirt. A single white farang too much for the city to take, a vacuum that sucks up the disturbed and dislocated on the back of the always present possibility of their getting way ahead of the game. Though well educated, she has a solid country body that knocks me aside and leaps on to the bed, moving too fast for me to slow her down with the stun-gun! I am tempted to leave her there, explore the hotel but as I haven’t got any clothes on and it’s that time of the month when police tolerance for naked farang is likely to be zero, I give in, bolt down the door.
She’s a long way from the zone but my cock takes over, no problem as long as she keeps her clothes mostly on – I have zero tolerance for wayward flesh and fat. I’m in that place where my brain and cock have a direct connection and I can come in a minute or an hour or whenever I want, so I give her a good going over, noting along the way the whisky breath and contradictory tightness of her more intimate areas; even going as far to ponder that I might be her first farang!
We both pass out simultaneously, well spent, but in the morning she’s gone. My money’s still intact and not wanting the hassle of some unsuitable lady pursuing me decide to fast exit the hotel. Indeed, fast exit the whole dire (with regard to available beautiful women) city!
Never Say Nana
Staggering up a flight of stairs between the second and third floors of Nana Entertainment Plaza, I looked up to see a hulking monster in high heels, fishnet stocking and clothes only minimal enough to obscure its gender. I flashed back to a mad night in Pattaya when I’d sidestepped, with Ninja-like speed, a similar katoey who was intent on either robbery or mugging or rape; or maybe all three. The creature tottered downwards as my own momentum thrust me upwards.
We met halfway, endearments thrown my way as the creature’s fingers piano-played my body in search of loot - only I’d taken the precaution of stuffing it down the front of my underpants; a position even the most nimble fingered trannie couldn’t penetrate in our ever so brief encounter. The breath of the dead lingered on my body long after we’d gone our separate ways.
Several bars on the third floor of Nana. Too difficult for the crippled and seriously old to make the ascent unless they were willing to chance the lift; most weren’t. Paradise was what? A bar crowded out by about two hundred gals wearing very little indeed. Maybe, but not when a couple of them had place
d blow-pipes in a rather unorthodox position and were pumping out darts. Supposed to take out the balloons, more often than not going wildly wide into the punters! God knows what diseases were thus borne through the air.
I ducked and dived into a relatively safe corner seat. Fended off a couple of the elderly women who thought it amusing to pat the Culler stomach, make like I was nine months pregnant. A gross exaggeration if ever there was one. Spied a real babe just ascending the stage as the blow-pipe artisans exited to rapturous applause. One of the more futile exercises in supposed erotica in Bangkok.
This babe was maybe 20, with a figure to yearn for and a face that would make millions as a model in the West. Her lips bruised with lust and her hair shone with the kind of vigour that would make the day of a shampoo manufacturer. She gyrated to the music like it was hitting her soul and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We made some eye contact and I made with the wide smile but she looked away.
Some damsel in obvious distress chose that moment to leap on to my lap, taking the lust shimmering off my body personally. It took a lot of muscle to stop her opening my fly, only relenting when I insisted she run off for a Coke. The erstwhile love of my life on the stage gave me a withering glance and turned her beautiful face into a visage of disgust as if someone had thrown a switch. Another illusion shattered.
A superficial glance would’ve revealed a passing resemblance to paradise but look a little deeper and a much more depressing picture emerged. Don’t know where the girls came from, half of them didn’t even look Thai, and most appeared to have lost any innocence a decade or so ago despite their youth. Ruined skin and hard eyes predominant.
The babe I bought a Cola for returned, light of limb and all feline grace but her smile would’ve cracked paint and her lack of demureness send even a German sex tourist running for cover. She kept screaming into my earlobe that she wanted to make love, any or every which way...only 1000 baht! That was a Thai form of flattery, as the going rate was two to three times that!
She scowled at my obvious disinterest and thrust an empty glass under my nose. When I ignored her entreaty, she thrust a knee into my groin as if trying to move a reluctant buffalo. I howled with the pain, cracking through even the deep, discordant bass rumble of the music (a sure sign that the DJ was endowed like a hamster) and didn’t even have the breath left to shake a fist at her.
Through clearing tears I saw the girl of my dreams leap off the stage into the arms of a waiting ancient, give me the finger behind his back whilst downing her Cola in one. One of the mamasans kept supplying a new drink and chit whilst the ancient sat with a beatific smile on what was left of his face; each figuring this was their lucky day!
Depressed beyond my years, I caught the Culler scowl reflected in a hundred mirrors and shook my jowls like a mad bulldog; an act that always made young babies (as opposed to young babes) burst into hysterical giggles! Even Thai bar girls aged me by ten years after deducting a decade, or even two, from the age they really figured.
A coven of katoeys - looked like they should be in a rugby team, those shoulders! - stopped in front of me, fluttered their false eyelashes and threatened to join me until I told them no money, no money (farang jonn). A confession that soon got around the room, judging by the way I was totally ignored!
Moving out of the bar, so heavily (if not heavenly) airconditioned it threatened to turn water to ice, the heat was like someone had knee-capped me. I felt dizzy and remote from my body, not helped any when some oversized lout knocked me out of his path. He snarled, gave me a death stare and raised his fist. I didn’t know if I should burst into tears or laughter but managed to scurry away as he rushed into a bar with frightening looking babes out front. The mess his skull was in indicated he didn’t have any worries about AIDS... the newly dead somehow still managed to run about Bangkok with a modicum of energy.
I almost fell down the stairs but convinced myself that I flew along with a passing resemblance to Superman. I’d long lost count of how many beers I’d consumed but knew from habit that any excess would be dealt with merely by throwing up rather than any permanent damage to my liver. As a theory it had the same kind of grounding in reality as the suggestion that Bangkok was AIDS free.
Contrast time but not sublimely so. Entered a small bar, just a couple of babes on the stage and a mass of ancients leering over their drinks. Made me feel like I’d just plopped out of the womb. One of the owners shook my hand in a thoroughly violent manner but made up for it by thrusting a free beer at me. The bottle was deep frozen and my hand had most of the life crushed out of it - don’t know who was more surprised when I caught the bottle with the other hand - yours truly or the owner.
This was where old Thai girls went to die, or get lucky with some ancient who had more money than sense. They occasionally brought their younger sisters, cousins or any other up-country babe who wanted to chance her body, soul and mind to the strange ways of farangs. The one question the Thais had never quite managed to grasp was how come a breed they thought inherently stupid could be so flush with dosh. It just didn’t add up but it didn’t stop them trying.
I downed my beer in one with the intention of exiting fast when someone thrust another bottle into my hand, telling me I looked like I needed it. Some people should look in a mirror some time. This character was from Oz and went on at length about how we should feel guilty at exploiting poor, young, defenceless Thai girls. Laugh? I almost threw up!
He found extreme difficulty in stopping himself from buying drinks for everyone and wasn’t too amused when I pointed out a few women who’d had a decade long apprenticeship in Thai brothels. At a conservative estimate that added up to 20,000 men! I might’ve well have been speaking to a brick wall for all the good it did. He was most aggrieved when I tried to exit without paying for a round for the whole bar. He was only distracted when he found someone had nicked his wallet! The innocent soon find out the meaning of Thai ways when in Bangkok.
The next hour was a blur but one favourable aspect of the city should be noted - you can bumble around drunk out of your head without too much fear of being mugged or beaten to death. Just try that in New York. And there’s always the chance that you will get lucky with some relative innocent from up-county!
Dreams and Nightmares
Imagine a babe with the grace and violence of a cornered panther. The same kind of madness hit me in one of the infamous large Soi Cowboy bars. I entered just as they’d finished their round of shows, which to my sated mind was good timing. Just give me a stage packed full of naked, or near naked, frails any day of the week. Who wants darts coming out of oddly mounted blow-pipes at sixty miles per hour, or to be soaked by soda water when the gals pop the caps off the bottles (using you know what!)? Not this kid, for one, anyway...
About forty naked babes crushed on to a central stage, their heat added to that of the day; the management so sure of themselves that they didn’t even bother turning on a sufficient number of air-conditioners. At least the beer was so cold there were particles of ice in it. My own fault for screaming yen macma at the waitress.
Gulp some beer, look the girls over... click, click, click... one babe out of the mass instantly breaks my heart into a trillion pieces whilst water cascades off my body; turn the bloody air-conditioners on, please. No chance, not when the beer’s going down at a rate that makes the Munich beer festival look tame. Half the customers big enough to be German sex tourists on the loose. Or maybe they’d just emerged from the Oz outback. Old, fat and almost dead tourists coming in by the plane-load.
She’s flashing smiles every which way, overwhelmed by choice as every pair of eyes that can see more than a few feet beam down upon her (and there are a lot of ancients who can’t even make that play!). Perfect teeth picked off by the flashing neon and rotating strobes, though most of the farang were grinding their molars against the depth of the bass, the usual jerk of a DJ out for revenge.
What can you tell from a body? No babies dropped, not even the tell
-tale striations on the upper thighs (exercise can get rid of the stomach when a kid’s dropped by a young girl). Small breasts, huge nipples, all thrusting out and upwards; if they are real no more than eighteen. Same for the concave stomach that some American bitch would pay a fortune in gym fees and not even get close.
Strong shoulders, sleek muscle tone; dead ringer for someone who’s spent her youth in the rice fields. The kind of body you only get after whole generations of ancestors have done the same thing. Same for the black as black skin which would shame an Ethiopian. Green eyes, weirdly translucent in the neon; other worldly - gotta be contact lenses. Or not?
Bitch! She’s looking the other way whilst some grotesque old girl - gotta be fifty if she’s a day, with eyes that suggest she’s still waiting for the GI of her dreams, circa Saigon 1972 - is giving me The Look! I almost fell off the bar-stool, overwhelmed by the contrast. Exit fast or live in hope? No contest.
The old biddy decided to whip her cylindrical breasts up into a frenzy, probably hoping I was going to relive a middle-age back in England spent with some decaying old dear. I waved her aside as the whole flow of women gyrated around in a modern spasm of democracy - it was important that punters all around the bar got a fair view of the better babes.
The bitch gave me a scowl, pumped her hand in front of her groin, accusing me of getting my kicks from masturbation! I cooled her ardour by spraying half my beer over her; bit of a waste, I know, but there you go! Two of her friends had to stop her leaping off the stage on to the innocent Culler frame.
A minor riot would’ve broken out had not one of the mamasans started yammering out the abuse in what sounded like Lao. The ancient dancer was pointed towards the other side of the room after giving me the finger; the wrecked backside reinforcing my views on the avoidance of marriage. Did I look that drunk, or something?