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.