I had heard that getting a Thai girlfriend was incredibly easy. I had heard that it was so easy that you could get one and not even realise you had entered a relationship! I had also heard conflicting concepts: they want a western boyfriend because they want the money, or they want a western boyfriend because all Thai men are drunken wastemen. What I know now is that paying to play can get you a ball and chain that’s hard to sever as much as a freebie is, and my first experience of a Thai relationship was as accidental as I had been warned it could be.

Way back when, I had been on the island of Phuket for a number of weeks, enjoying the delights of the ladies, sun, and pharmacy. It was sex, drugs, and sunshine. I was having a blast.

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One night I took the walk to the pharmacy that sold definitely-not-fake Xanax and Valium. It was treacherous beach road—especially late at night, such as that night—and somewhat desolate, with only the occasional restaurant or bar along the way. It wasn’t treacherous because of the weather or because of rampaging elephants on speed—it was the lady boy patrols.

Up and down, they would crawl on their 50CC motorbikes. They were reverse-curb crawlers. You, the western gentleman, were the prey, and the hunt was on. They wanted your cock and balls and your money, which is a lot to ask for as far as I was, and still am, concerned. Lady boys are a dangerous species of sex worker; they try to act as dainty and ladylike as they can, but they still have the temper and physical strength of an angry Thai man.

I was returning from the pharmacy, and I was fully loaded when the first, second, and third lady boys approached. Telling these local attractions no was never an easy task; pushiness was the only mode they operated in. The first two took a little back-and-forth before they dispersed, but the third was a seasoned professional sex pest.

One thing about a lady boy on a 50CC is that you know they’re approaching just by the sound of the engine. Much like a police car approaching from behind, the sixth sense kicks is triggered by the sound, and then the dread washes over you like a wave of Chinese knock-off KY Jelly.

“Hello, where you go?” It said.

“That way,” I responded while pointing forward. Keep moving forward.

“Baby, I take you there.”

“No thanks.”

“Come on baby, let’s go.”

“I’m OK, but thanks.”

“Come on baby!”

I just kept it moving. Eventually they would have to get tired of my non-compliance; the big question was: how long would that be? I have met many men since my first time in Thailand who told me they were very surprised by their leap into becoming half a gay. They never thought they would get down with a lady who had cock and balls and be fine with it. My theory is that, like many polite westerners, they just could bear saying no after being asked so many times. They just went with it to avoid any social awkwardness.

The exchange with the lady boy went on for way longer than I was comfortable with and was terribly monotonous. After a while—a long while—they gave up and zoomed off into the distance. Eventually I reached the bend in the road that led to the main strip of bars and restaurants, but it was past closing time. As I turned the bend, the lady boy was there, waiting. They stood next to their parked bike and were staring in my direction. Shit! Was I about to get my bottom cheeks split open? Or, Lord willing, just mugged.

The lady boy gave me their daintiest wave and continued to vocalise their limited sales pitch, which had ramped up a gear by adding in the promise that they would “smoke my cock.” No thanks, man-madam; my cock is not for smoking.

I continued up the street with urgency in my steps. It was so quiet and dark, and there was a rumbling in the sky. Oh dear. During those months, when it rained, it really rained, and it rained and rained and rained. I was not prepared for such rain, nor was I prepared for such violations of my back-passage that seemed to be on the cards. I looked back at the lady boy. They were hopping onto their bike. They were coming towards me. Then the sky opened up and let it rip. I was drenched in seconds.

I dodged my way up the road in and out of any shop and bar front oarning I could. I did this with the majestic beauty of a medium-sized big cat—well, in my mind it seemed like that, but after a few happy biscuits, I was most likely swamping around with the grace of a drunken fat kid.

The rain was ferocious. I was soaked. The lady boy was nearing. My backside was going to get chopped and screwed. But then, like a beacon of light amongst the watery grave I was wading through, a doorway for a bar I had yet to owe money to was a jar, and there appeared to be life inside. As I neared the door, the motorbike sound was curb-creeping very close to the part of my body that needed urgent protection.

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“Hello!” Said a voice in that Asian Welsh.

“Evening!” I said back.

“Want some drink?”

“You open?”

“Open for you, honey!”

I didn’t step inside the bar; I leaped in like John McClain did off that exploding skyscraper. The lady boy bike sound sped up and tore off up the end of the street. I and my cute white-man cheeks were saved.

Inside the bar, there were, altogether, four raggedy looking Thai women. Three of them were playing cards and drinking Sangsom, and the welcoming lady was also looking like she was half-way beyond loaded. They were all not exactly pleasing to the eye, which was fine because they matched the bar. If it was a fully functioning bar, I was unsure how it functioned.

The welcoming lady, who I will now refer to as Big Shoulders, offered me a drink. I chose a big bottle of Leo and took a seat in one of the mismatched, comfy seats available. The whole place looked like it had just been set up after a raid on a local rubbish tip. At this point, I could finally relax and enjoy the spasticating joy of the funny biscuits I’d trekked to buy from the best pharmacy in town.

After the usual “what’s your name” and “where you from?" Big Shoulders dropped some an interesting statement.

“You’re in trouble, Mr!”

“Really?”

“We’re all horny, and you can’t escape!”

This sounds like the opening line to a classic porn sex scene, but this was real life, and I wasn’t sure if she was serious or not. It didn’t matter though; I had enough drugs in me to be down for whatever—except becoming half a gay of course.

For about 10–20 minutes, Big Shoulders continued to make innuendos, not clever ones, and yap to the other girls in Thai, which made them laugh oh so much. I was now in another situation where I ought to be scared, but the drugs and alcohol had kicked in so hard that I was immune to the benefits of fear. Perhaps this didn’t seem like a properly thought-out bar because it wasn’t. Perhaps I’d found my dark fait while trying to find my salvation. How ironic. Fuck it.

Bang, bang, bang. Someone, or something, was at the door, and they were shouting my name! It was female—full female—but I didn’t have a clue who it could be. Big Shoulders answered the door and seemed to know the lady who came bouncing in and jumped on my lap.

“I’ve been looking for you!” She said. I say she because the name escaped me—actually, it didn’t escape me because I swear I never had it! She was a lady in her late 30s or early 40s and cute enough for a few beers and piles of benzos. How she knew I was in here, I did not know. She must have been watching from somewhere on that road. Creepy or cute? Who cares! Fuck it.

We talked in broken English for a while. It turned out she ran a bar at the bottom of the road, and I had met her there. I didn’t remember her for shit! But apparently I must have flirted with her a lot, and she’d taken a shine to my rugged man-face. Even when completely retarded by Xanax and Valium, I was charming enough to woo a bar manager. How fantastic.

The girl, whose name still remains a mystery to this day, wanted to go clubbing in Patong. After explaining that I wasn’t going to do that, she agreed to drop me home on her motorbike. What a stroke of luck!

It was upon dropping me home that she invited herself in and gave me a very enjoyable bedtime exercise session. However, she didn’t just invite herself into my home; she invited herself into my life. In the morning, she was all love and hugs and insistent that I come to her bar later. I did oblige—free drinks were a high possibility.

Once she had left, my friend, who I stayed with, asked where I found her. I told him she had found me. He then asked how much I had paid. I said nothing, as I was still the man who never paid to play back then. He was shocked. He also told me that I was in trouble now because I couldn’t have any other girl in the whole town. I didn’t really think about this at the time, nor did I care to think about the consequences. I was on holiday. Fuck it.

For three days, I was her boyfriend, apparently. We didn’t do much boyfriend-girlfriend stuff, apart from banging and kissing. There wasn’t much conversation, but there were many free drinks at her bar, where I was treated very well by all her staff. I didn’t even give her my phone number or any other contact details; she knew where to find me, though, so what did that matter? The “romance” was short-lived—about three days—and it ended in flames.

At the top of the bar street was a delightful little place where a delightful younger lady worked whose name was Cream—not her birth name; she didn’t have Gen-X celebrity parents—who was tastier than the strongest Scottish salmon drenched in Manuka honey. The first time I met Cream, she boldly informed me that she wanted an English boyfriend. I don’t know what my response was; it could have been words or just a drooling growl due to all the benzos.

On the third night of my relationship with What’s-Her-Face, I was particularly fucked up and found myself in Cream’s bar, and by the end of my time there, we were smooching each other's lips off. Nice.

I don’t really know how A got to B. I don’t know if I spat some sweet lyrics into her ear—unlikely—or took advantage of my messed-up state, but it happened.

I returned to my dwellings, and my “girlfriend” turned up. She was not a happy lady. It started with her being cold and unresponsive. I didn’t do any of the “what’s the matter, babe?” business; I just kept drinking and popping funny pills. Eventually we got into bed, and that’s when, in distinctly broken English, she gave me some limited, choice words about me playing tonsil tennis with Cream. How she knew this, I had no idea, as this occurred way at the back of the bar and out of sight—this is when I first learned about Thai bar girls and their networks of spies—but she knew, and she was unhappy—so unhappy that she spent the majority of the night wailing at the end of the bed like an injured puppy. All night, she wailed and wailed and wailed and wailed while I slept and slept and slept. I only knew she was wailing for so long because my friend commented in the morning—after she left—that I was giving it to her hard last night. No. No, I was not.

I did feel for her, but I mostly felt amused by the heightened dramatics on display—this girl didn’t even know me or understand what I said most of the time. What kind of reaction was this? Retarded. It was retarded. This retard was crying like a retard at the end of my bed and spoiling my holiday. It wasn’t the best experience, but it did give me some cultural enrichment: I understood the ways of the Thai bar girl. It wasn’t some stereotype or myth; they really do become your girlfriend in seconds. You can have the ups and downs of a four-year relationship in a matter of days: the honeymoon period of just sex, sex, sex; the lull where you can’t even be bothered to get sucked off; and the bitter downfall.

I never saw that girl again. I never saw Cream again. I never learned any lessons.