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.

Thai Fantasy #3

Paolo had recommended I try one of the open-front restaurants across from the hotel. I'd been a little unsure about them, but I was in a mood to believe anything he told me, so off I went. The one he'd suggested had two bright blue wading pools out front, full of live crayfish and prawns, all sizes and colours. Behind them a huge display of fish, fresh and bright-eyed on a rapidly melting bed of ice. I barely have time to register this before I am taken to a small table. The place is busy, mostly families, most of them European men with local wives and assorted children. the women are attentive to their men, piling food on their plates, making sure everything is right. We might call it submissive, but the men have surrendered to this some time ago, they are hooked, they look like they cannot believe they are so lucky. They all look content, that life is good.
There are one or two tables with small groups of European men and their local companions. The men in their 60's, overweight and very red from too much sun, the girls - they are young - probably from one of the go-go bars. They are noisy tables,, the men seeming to want to draw attention to the fact they can still get young, attractive women. No-one is fooled, sadly we all know how money talks. One table has two Europeans, they look like father and son, but I doubt it somehow. Their companions are two young Thai men. They are quiet, enjoying the meal, seeming to enjoy the company, laughing a lot, all four attentive to the rest of the group, relaxed. I decide I like that table. Not so the table for two next to me, thirty-ish blonde, a big man, strongly if heavily built, deep tan, with a tiny, very young looking local boy. He is probably legal age, although he doesn't look it, but he has a stunned rabbit look in his eyes, and no wonder. He is subjected to a constant barrage of complaints and orders from his companion, most of which he seems not to understand.
Its like a crash-course in the sex-scene in tourist Thailand.
I have two waiters for my table, one to take my order, while the other sets the table, fork and spoon and a little tray of condiments. The order goes to an ancient Thai lady seated imperiously at a raised desk in the back corner of the restaurant. She is dressed impeccably, layers of rich silk, long, perfectly manicured nails, iron-grey hair curled and waved and piled in a high bun, and heavy, heavy make-up. She never smiles, she is all concentration, nothing misses her glance while receipts are moved around, figures jotted down, tea is drunk,money received and change issued, orders barked out to the kitchen. A glance sends waiters scurrying. She is cool, in control, it is her domain. I guess the staff are all her family - about five generations from the look of it.

I order tiger prawns - Paulo's recommendation - and a beer. The beer arrives, local, Singha gold, not a heavy beer but a full flavoured, slightly bitter, hoppy ale. I like it. The prawns arrive, looking and smelling superb. Two of them, enormous, simply barbecued on a bed of lemongrass, the pale yellowy green lemongrass contrasting with the bright pink shells banded with brown stripes, the flesh pure white. The taste is incredible, what prawns should be all about, the subtle undertaste of the lemongrass lifting it somewhere I never thought such a simple dish could go. It literally takes me away from my surroundings, the conversatons and interactions of all the other tables simply disappear and I am in some sort of food heaven.

The prawns are finished, and I drift back to reality. One of the mixed family tables has been replaced with a local family, three generations, enjoying themselves enormously. The kids are allowed to roam free, but for once it is not annoying. They are not noisy, they're not running or disturbing anyone, and they are under constant subtle watch. A word brings them back to the table to eat more, or be spoken to, or have a face and hands wiped. There is a lot of love and care at that table. One of the kids stops by my table and stands looking up at me curiously out of huge brown eyes. One of the women at the table looks quizzicly at me - I smile, it's OK, and I get a shy smile in return. The kid sees my smile, and his face splits into a huge grin. He starts to turn away, remembers his manners, turns back, palms together raised to his forehead and a small bow, then he's off, laughing. He's about three years old.
One of the waiters returns, a different one again, looks like as school kid and probably is. I ask for coffee, and he leaves a small plastic package on my table. It is covered in red Thai writing, and contains something white. I'm not quite sure what it is. Suddenly I hear a loud popping noise from the Thai family table and I look over. The woman who smiled before is looking at me, holding an identical plastic packet in one hand. Still looking at me she hits the packet into the palm of her other hand, it pops open, and she takes out what I now see is a hand-towel. She smiles again and turns back to her family. Grateful, I follow her lead. The towel is icy cold, pleasantly perfumed, very refreshing. I'm getting to like this place.

The coffee is good, well, good for Asia. Certainly better than the over-stewed mess the hotel offers. It actually comes with real, fresh milk. Now that's a pleasant surprise. So is the bill, about AUD6.00 for the lot. As I'm leaving I get smiles not just from the Thai lady at the family table, but from the whole family, and the three-year old is standing at the front, looking into the wading pools. He points to one of them, smiling, and I stand for a moment watching with him. Briefly, ever so briefly, he leans against me, giggling at the crayfish, then he's off again, something else has caught his attention.

I head off into the night, happy and optimistic. I do like this place.

Thai Fantasy #2

The waves outside my window are lapping gently against the rocks, and I hope I can make it into the morning just as gently. I'm not wake enough to know how all those drinks with Mama-san last night are affecting me. I'm not sure I want to open my eyes yet, let alone think of getting out of bed. But there's some sort of awareness forming, an awful feeling I'm meant to be doing something. Then it hits, I'm booked for a tour out to the islands. Have I overslept, and am I going to be in any condition to go? I haven't even figured out if I have a hangover, but the hotel would have called me if the bus was there yet. I force my eyes open, fortunately the room is dim and so far my brain just feels sleepy. I'm facing the wrong way to see the clock, but it is easier to roll over than expected, and the relief at seeing I still have an hour to go before I leave is almost as great as the slowly dawning realisaton that I do not have a hang-over. I can't figure how I've avoided that.
A quick shower, throw on shorts and a clean t-shirt, grab the camera and down for breakfast. I'm awake enough to remember I didn't disgrace myself the night before. In fact I managed to beat a dignified if hasty retreat as soon as the shower-show ended. Something reminded me to leave a tip for the boys as well as for Mama-san. I was vaguely aware as I left that the dancing boys were getting down off the platform. I was still the only customer.
A handsome face and a flashing smile showed me to a table, poured my coffee and pointed out the various buffets. Only one other guest in there, Italian I'd guess from the clothes and the olive skin, cute - very cute. Is it the tropical heat, the island magic, or just my mood that is making me see almost every man as attractive. I can check him out more freely as I put my breakfast together from the buffet, and he is worth checking out. Good looking, black hair, big, dark eyes, fit. Choice. But its way too early in the day for thoughts like this.
I head out to the foyer to wait for the bus, which arrives a few minutes later. Except its not a bus, not even a mini-bus. It's a car. The driver, a pink-jacketed, gold-toothed middle aged Thai opens the front door for me, and promptly disappears into the foyer. He emerges again a few moments later with the Italian from breakfast, who is ushered into the back seat of the car. Barely time to exchange a brief nod and doors are closed, the motor revs, and we take off.
Half an hour later I find myself in the middle of a Thai long-tail boat. We picked up our guide along the way, twenty-something, razor sharp cheekbones, sporting an impeccably pressed if twenty years out of date cream safari suit, and spouting an amusingly idisyncratic turn of phrase. Non-stop. We chug slowly away from the rough pier, weaving our way through dozens of long-tail boats, only the colour and pattern of their awnings to tell them apart. Down a maze of narrow water-ways between baanks of magroves. Grey water, muddy foliage and grey, looming skies. Not an impressive start.
Suddenly the water opens before us, a huge expanse of vivid turquoise, pierced by sheer sided shards of limestone towering a hundred feet or more. An unreal landscape that truly takes the breath away. We go right through one, a narrow cave, dark and eerily quiet. Most of the outcrops are partially covered in emerald jungle, we can see ladders on some of them - they collect swallow's nests for birds nest soup, but no gatherers, its out of season.
Our destination is disappointing. They call it James Bond Island, part of "Man With A Golden Gun" was filmed here. It is one of the few outcrops that is readily accessible, there is a small beach between two rocky masses, but it is crowded with stalls selling the worst kind of cheap souvenirs, and far too many tourists, lining up to have their photo taken in front of the cave that was "blown up" in the film.
Moving on was a relief, and the Italian and I have finally exchanged a few words. His name is Paulo, from Milan. He is sweet and gentle and funny, and missing his girlfriend - of course.
We have lunch at a stilt village, a Muslim enclave in a very Buddhist country. The village is entirely on stilts over the water. The small parcel of land it is attached to is taken up by a very green mosque. With some dismay I realise lunch is sea-food, freshly and locally caught. Dismay only as I have just seen the sewerage system in the village is straight down into the water.
With that curious love of juxtaposition the Thais seem to have, on the way back we visit a cashew factory. Woman with their hands bound in plastic-wrap to protect their skin from the burning oils in the outer casings, which look like greasy dung, remove the nuts which look like tiny pink brains covered in vivid red veins. The process looks disgusting, the end product is delicious.
Back at the hotel I decide on a swim and some sunbathing. I am just getting comfortable on a sun-lounge when Paulo appears, and sits down next to me. He is decidely chatty now. He strips down to his trunks and I can only think how lucky that far-off girlfriend is. He is lean and well defined, a dusting of hair on his chest, as much at ease in his near-nakedness as he was sprawled in the back seat of the car. And he is funny, genuinely funny. We talk for ages, lying side by side in the sun , temptingly if almost uncomfortably close. And of course untouchable.
Eventually I decide I need to go for a nap before dinner. We promise to exchange e-mail addresses before we leave, and I head up to my room, determined that something is going to happen tonight.

Thai Fantasy #1

First holiday in Thailand, so a long, long while ago. Hired a motor-bike to ride around the island. Nearly killed myself half-a-dozen times before I got the hang of it. Loved the feeling of freedom on the road, the power between my legs and the wind in my hair (yeah, no helmet - stupid). Checked out the bars from the safety of the road, took a while to find the few gay bars, and selected one that looked safe.
Young men at the door, anxious to hustle me in, all smiles and talk. The door opens and its a mistake, not the sort of bar I wanted, but its too late, the way out is blocked by smiling Thais, and there are more ushering me to a seat. I have to squeeze between the two platforms to get there, three shiny poles on each platform, and scantily clad go-go-boys gyrating around each pole. This is so not what I intended.
Seated, do I want a drink ? Well, yes, I need something to do other than stare at the white undies swivelling two feet in front of my face. Do I dare to look higher ? I notice out of the corner of my eye he's smiling at me and I look away quickly, feel like that's rude, but if I smile back what am I getting myself in for? There is nowhere else to look, so I let my gaze go up past the undies, up the slim smooth body and yep, he's staring back, hard. His smile broadens and its so infectious I can't help but smile back. Quickly though, a flash of white teeth catches my eye a few feet across, and there's another winning smile that I have to return. My drink arrives, thank God, a reason to look away.
With my drink comes a whiff of perfume, and a tall, attractive woman, rather overdressed and with a little too much make-up sits down next to me with a dramatic swish of scarf around neck. A woman ? No, hang on, the scarf is a give-away, so are the wrists. It clicks - the Mam-San, not quite a woman, but my hostess for the evening. She introduces herself, her english is excellent, a little unusual perhaps, but delightful. It is only courtesy I buy her a drink, and of course it is top-shelf and brightly coloured.
We talk. Where am I from, how long am I here, is it my first time in Thailand,what do i do, do I want a boy for the night, number 11 is very nice, but she thinks number 15 is the one for me. I am afraid to look and see what she thinks is right for me. Well, if I was buying he would not be the one I find myself thinking, but number 9 . . . . hang-on, what am I thinking. This is not the type of bar I wanted, and that is not what I was planning. I demur, no he is not really what I am looking for thank-you. I order another drink, almost automatically. And of course, the same again for Mama-San.
She seems to sense that I am not ready to make a choice, that perhaps she has pushed things a little early, and changes the topic. They have a show-er show later. I am trying to figure out what she means by a show-er-show, she flutters her hands around her head, then rubs them rather lasciviously down her body, rubbing her breasts gently. I did not expect that. and obviously look a little confused. She points behind me, and I notice a glass cubicle, a shower stall. Oh. A shower-show. A sex-show. Mild panic threatens, what am I doing in a go-go bar with a transexual about to see my first sex-show ? Another drink ? . . . . yes, of course, the same again for Mama-San.
Suddenly - "You like my breasts?" Well, yes, of course, they are very attractive. They are new, and she is very proud of them. She takes my hand, I must feel how firm they are. Yes, I agree, they are, and no, they did not make them too large, just right. Ah, so I like them! Perhaps then if I do not want a boy I would like to take her with me tonight. Before I can stammer an answer - before I have time to think of an answer that will not offend, she giggles, puts my hand back in my lap, and lets me off the hook. She likes to flirt she says, but she has a boyfriend, a Belgian, who is paying for the rest of her operation next month. She does not cheat on him.
I have been aware that the boys change places on the platforms, they rotate along the poles at the end of each song, when they reach the end they get off and sit down as another boy starts at the other end. They sit opposite, stealing glances at me, giggling, I am the only customer. I start to wonder exactly who is for sale here. The attention, although restrained, is almost overwhelming.
Another drink, yes, Mam-San, of course. She is very giggly now, and comfortably familiar, patting my arm or my leg to emphsise what she is saying. What is she saying now? Something about number 15 again, he likes me apparently. He is very accomodating. He will look after me. He is a good boy. It all sounds so comforting, so easy. Mama-san has explained the procedure, the off-fee for him to leave the bar, they can arrange a room for us. She mentions the short-term hotel. I make a mental note, just in case. I can't be taking anyone back to my hotel. Hang on, what . . . am I starting to take this seriously?
There's another drink in front of me, but I need to go to the toilet. Where is . . . oh, behind the shower. Ok. Be quick, the shower show is about to start. Damn, I meant to be out before then. But I am busting. I stand, and manage to squeeze past the the end of the platform. One of the boys jumps up and opens the door for me, another broad, irrestibly winning smile. I smile back. The toilet is clean, thank god. Standing there, unzipping, and suddenly I feel hands on my shoulders. What the . . . they start massaging my shoulders, I glance behind me, it is the bathroom attendant. He smiles. I am lost again. He continues to massage, I try to relax, to enjoy what he is doing and to relieve myself. Now that's hard, I'm not normally pee-shy in a public toilet, but I've never had a massage before while I was trying to pee. It takes some concentration, but it can be done. I zip up, and wash my hands. Hot towels are offered. Fortunately I notice the small tray by the door with the 20 baht note on it. I add another. Big smiles, and a deep bow as the door is opened for me.
I go through the door and literally bump full on into number 15 coming off the platform. He smiles shyly, and I move past him. I look back, and he does the same as he goes through the door. A more confident smile this time. Hell, I hope I haven't encouraged him too much.
Mama-san pats the bench for me to sit on the other side of her, I will get a better view she explains. The lights go down abruptly, the boys cheer and whistle as a spotlight comes up in the shower stall. Two bodies enter, and as the light gets brighter I recognise numbers 15 and 11.
Mama-san is grinning broadly.

Its distracting the way I turn around from the computer, and you're there, not 12 inches away, quietly watching me, that cheeky smile half-formed on your lips.
Its fun the way your eyes sparkle when you tease me.
Its confusing when you stand next to me, and I just want to hug you, hard.
Its uncomfortable if I'm standing up, the way you sit on the desk in front of me, those long legs sprawled either side of me, so uncomfortable I have to move aside.
Its disconcerting when you lay your head on my arm.
Its upsetting I can't respond.
Its distracting that I see you so much.I keep thinking of that Police song "Don't Stand So Close To Me"
What's worse, I don't want you to stop.

February 07, 2006