Thai Fantasy #5

At first it seems like a repeat performance of approaching the bar last night. Half a dozen young men seem to appear out of nowhere, welcoming me, urging me to come in, usherning me towards the door. I feel I have no choice now but to go in. It doesn't bother me, the decision to go in was made the moment I stood up. The door opens to more welcoming faces, something is said apologetically and urgently about no tables and the show starting, and I'm manoevred through a surprisingly crowded room to a suddenly vacant space. I wonder if there is a show where it's going to happen. There is no stage, and the ceiling is too low even for a thai to stand up on the bar. A waiter is looking at me anxiously, wanting my order - "Singha Gold" - and he turns and gestures towards the bar.The place is crowded, and I wonder how. I hadn't noticed people going in. Had I been that proccupied? It's mostly Europeans, all men, most of them older than me, a few with young thai friends in tow. And of course most of them taller than me. If I ever figure out where the show is going ot be, I wonder how I'll see very much. I'm just starting to think this might have been a mistake, another case of gulp my drink down, pay and beat a hasty retreat. I don't like how crowded it is, or how noisy and smoky, and it feels decidely sleazy in a way the boy-bar last night somehow didn't. And I feel very, very alone.My beer arrives, my waiter looks relieved, smiles, and vanishes. There is movement on the flooor immediately in front of me. It takes me a moment in the gloom to realise the staff are clearing a space, So that's where the show will be, right in front of me, uncomfortably close. Visions of lurid sex shows or over-tacky drag fly through my mind, and again the urge rises to just down my beer and flee. It's too late. Of course it is, there is no way to get near the door, the crowd is packed even more tightly. I realise there is only one exit. What if . . . no, my mind is working overtime, its like my senses have hit a new height, and its not the beer. Its been building since I got here, the heat maybe, and the brightness, the busyness of everything, the colours and the smells, and the sexual tensions of the last 24 hours.Suddenly the music starts, I recognise it immediately, and am instantly confused. Scott Walker's "Next" - surely one of the last songs I would have expected to hear in Thailand. I can't imagine a sex show to that, and feel relieved, nor can I imagine lip-synching Drag queens. What was approaching panic a few moments is overtaken by curiosity. What is going on here?The lights go out, the crown cheers and whistles, and a spot light comes on. It misses at first, some poor guy is suddenly being looked at groping his companion. There is a moment's laughter then the spot swings to pick up a figure emerging from behind the bar.He is shaven-headed, tightly muscled but impossibly lean, zero body-fat, every muscle cruelly etched, accentuated by baby-oil gleam. He is not handsome, the face is skeletal, pulled into a taut grimace, eyes made-up huge, long curled lashes, silver shadow, thick blue liner. A single silver bullet hangs from each ear. He is holding a white cowboy hat in front of his crotch, wearing what look to be silver filagree chaps on his legs, and pearl handled six-guns are peeping out of twin white leather holsters.I'm close enough to hear that he's singing along, badly, and the words are mangled, parrot learned, god knows what he thinks he is singing about. There is an uncomfortable agression in what he is doing, a palpable anger. He slams the hat onto the back of his head and we can see the chaps are worn over a silver lame loincloth. He strikes poses remembered from countless B-grade fifties cowboy flicks, thumbs hook into the holster belts, he stands legs apart, glaring, then takes an about-to-draw stance, hands out to his sides, before executing an awkward twirl. The hat falls off and he looks threatingly at it. The song is building but he seems to have no sense of its rythms or its context. The guns come out, awkwardly, and are brandished around. The song is nearly ended, he is pointing the guns at people now, the anger in him seems about to explode, but the song is about regret and the loss of innocence, not anger or revenge, and it's French, a Jacques Brel song. Why the cowboy gear? The last few bars, and he swings and faces me, almost close enough to touch. He is staring at me, lips curling around each "Next" as he raises one six gun right at my face, and slowly squeezes the trigger.The lights go out, for a moment in the blackness I'm convinced I have been shot. I know I haven't, but I'm close to panic, freaked, seriously. I can feel my hand shaking as I raise my glass, eager for the cool reality of a drink. The lights are back on, people are moving back into the empty space, conversations are starting, someone is laughing. I'm trying to control my shaking, I start fumbling for a cigarette when there's a hand on my shoulder and I jump."Sorry" and the hand moves down to my waist, gentle, tentative. I look around into wide brown eyes, warm, questioning, friendly and familiar. It's number 15 from the night before. I just want to hug him, big-time. He smiles, and I do.

Thai Fantasy #4

Mama San had mentioned the open-air bars up at Paradise Complex as a good place to start the night, maybe catch the show in one of the go-go bars next door, and of course come back to see her afterwards. Paradise is just up the road, easy to find, it towers over the rest of the place even though its only four floors high. It's a collection of identical buildings, white, shopfronts with apartments above, busy with balconies and archways, each building separated by a walking street. The open bars fill one of the walking streets, and of course I'm early, some of them are not even open yet. The third one up is open, and looks promising. It already has a couple of people sitting there, and the barman is cute.
Its a square of counter, stools on each side, barman inside. He's well in control of his territory, talking to one of the guys seated at the bar, but seeing everything. He looks and smiles at me, brushing thick dark hair off eyes that flash and crinkle as the smile broadens when he sees I'm coming over. Its standard procedure, professional, I'm not that much of a fool. He leans his head slightly towards one of the stools, hair tumbles back over his face and this time a quick flick of his head clears it away. The smile shifts, slightly cheeky, he turns to face my stool, fists on the bar, not palms, strong arms straight out in front. He watches me sit, then leans forward. He's close, so close I get a a faint clean smell of soap, and he asks what I would like to drink.
It was only a short walk, but its hot, and I'm outside, and there's no question of drinking anything but beer. Singha Gold, the excellent local brew. Suddenly what I thought were customers sitting at the bar are on their feet. Coaster, napkin, peanuts all miraculously appear in front of me. Someone is kneeling at my feet. A mosquito coil is lit, and placed under the stool. The barman has his back to me, I take in the broad shoulders and the slim waist, the cute buns. He turns and puts two beers in front of me.
"I always drink with the first customer."
OK.
He stays behind the bar. That's a little frustrating.I don't like the barrier. But I'm fooling myself. He's a barman, its his job. I'm a sucker for barmen, always have been. Waiters too. Always figured it was to do with the white shirt and bow tie, but this guy is in jeans and a t-shirt.
We talk. He manages the bar, he comes from the North, learnt English at school, lived in Australia for a while, Sydney, there was a boyfriend, it didn't work, he was treated badly. Yes, he came to Melbourne, and yes, he liked it, a lot. He manages the conversation as well as he manages the bar, and at the same time. He doesn't miss a trick, orders to his staff intersperse the conversation. A few more customers come and sit at the bar. They seem to be regulars, he knows them by name, exchanges a few pleasantries, indicates which of his staff should look after them. He knows their favourites, everyone looks happy. He stays talking with me.
A few beers later and he moves out of the bar, circles round, a few words to each customer, a gentle hand on the shoulder to one, a quick hug to another. One moves to kiss him, he turns it into an air-kiss, laughing away any awkwardness at the rebuff. Then he's sitting next to me. The barrier is gone, his voice is lower, more intimate. I've been flirting, I know, but this was not expected. He is flirting back, there is no doubt. His hand rests on my knee to emphasise the point he's making. Rests there longer than necessary as he stops talking and just looks at me, dark eyes boring into mine. He breaks the moment, a laugh and that toss of the head. Something is going on the other side of the bar, he goes over, sorts it out, stops to talk to one of the other men,sitting alone over a whisky. The conversation is serious, business-like.
He comes back over as I finish my drink, and stands behnd me, hands on my shoulders. He leans in, calls over my head for one more beer, and stays, leaning on me, his body pressed into mine. He murmurs in my ear, and as he talks his grip on my shoulders grows firmer.
"The man over there owns the bar. He is my boyfriend. We must stop this, it is not fair to you, it can not go anywhere." A quick, hard squeeze of my shoulders and he is gone, over where he belongs, talking business with his boyfriend.
One of the bar boys comes over, stands next to me, his hands clasped and resting on my knee. Am I imagining he looks sorry for me, that he understands. He points to a door next to the bar. "Boy bar. Show start soon. You go. You like."
I finish my beer. I go. The night is still young.