The very first time I went to Thailand, I was hooked. Not because of the reasons you’d find in un-inspired SEO-driven drivel blogs, not I. It was the sheer bizarre laid-back lunacy of the whole place that got me hooked—Thailand is a very wacky country full of wacky occurrences created by a wacky culture and a wacky government.
The very first day I arrived at my hotel in Sukhumvit, I noticed a little paper sign hung in the lift (or elevator, if you are from the land of guns and grits). I don’t remember the full wording, so I’ll paraphrase: martial law has been declared… warning… something like that.
Martial law? The hell is that all about? The term marital law conjured images of western movies and gunslingers, and those images soon turned to pictures of Thai men romping around Bangkok with AK-47s and RPGs.
Not a cool environment for sightseeing.
I was aware of the political problems going on in Thailand. There were frequent clashes between red shirts and yellow shirts; one group supported the government and the other was more traditional and loved the king—though I think, legally speaking, everyone had to love the king in Thailand in order to avoid jail. The social unrest was clearly reaching a tipping point, and therefore martial law was required. What did this mean? No fucking clue. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. I was there to have a good time, and a little bit of martial law wasn’t going to stop my fun! It was the thing that followed martial law that stopped the bloody fun.
I remember the first place I went after the hotel was a grand rooftop bar. It must have been at least 40 stories up, and it dripped with swank. The view of the towering bright lights of Bangkok gave me some butterflies, for sure. Like all big cities, they are tremendously beautiful at night when you're looking over the landscape—it’s when you're down in the streets with the filth that they quickly lose their charm.
After smashing back a few fancy-man cocktails with a friend—one who lived in Thailand and who would be my guide during my whole experience—I was taken to a go-go bar in Nana Plaza. It was as I walked out of the taxi onto the mouth of Soi 4 in Sukhumvit that it hit me: this place was a sensory overload. Loud wacky music blaring from door and corner whilst gaggle after gaggle of hungry little Thai women who yapped so much it became an auditory sea of the most annoying bird chirps man had ever been assaultedby.
It was all lit up by pink, red and blue neon and it was hot as hell. No, fuck that, hotter than hell. It was the place where folk from hell went to get a suntan. This was a situation I thought I could never get use to, but the human is very adaptable as it turned out.
It was all lit up by pink, red, and blue neon, and it was hot as hell. No, fuck that. It's hotter than hell. It was the place where folk from hell went to get a suntan. This was a situation I thought I could never get used to, but the human is very adaptable, as it turned out.
The go-go bar was as filthy as it was loud. As soon as I walked in, I had some kind of rubber truncheon thrust into my hand and was ordered to deliver a good old spanking to some girl who was probably named after something you find in the first or second aisle at Tesco. I did oblige, but it was a light spanking, a man likes to be bought dinner before he dishes out a tender, hard spanking. After turning down several offers to go up stairs and bang dancers’ brains out, we headed to some nightclub that we accessed through an underground car park—which is usually a sign of ‘no… no, no, no!’ But I’d had a few by then, so robbery and death didn’t seem that bad.
It was when I walked into this club that I understood why so many western men came to this country. Before coming to Thailand, I figured it was mostly visited by arseholes on their gap year—or even worse, post-graduate tossers—and I never really knew too much about the sex-tourism and rental-wife angle; oh, and of course the ladyboy lovers. This was when I knew that Thailand was a wonderland of delusion—beautiful, serene delusion—that was funded by men's number one problem: the rogue penis.
It took about 20 seconds for me to receive my first grope. I don’t recall if it was one of the back cheeks, nipples, cock or balls, but all would get molested in good time. It was a free-for-all of inappropriate touching, and it happened the whole way from the entrance to the table we were shown to. As I sat down and processed all the gropes and eyes that had come my way from almost every lady in the venue, I felt like I was a rare breed of man. I was a catch! I was like George Clooney, wallpapered in money! I could shit gold and piss Moet. I could rent a boat and invite every woman in this club on board, and they would all say yes, AND they’d all suck my penis. This place was mental! As the night went on, I did as the British do and got twatted—but not British twatted, as the service was far too slow for that to ever happen. My friend and I would go on to get acquainted with two little Thai women, and we took them home. There’s not much of a story to how I scored with my girl—it was a preposterously low effort. In a country like Colombia, this level of ease would ensure you ended up drugged and robbed by sunrise or kidnapped, but in Thailand, it’s the actual polar opposite. And I know what you’re thinking: She was a hooker. Well, if she was, she wasn’t a very savvy one.
Once I got her into my hotel, I didn’t really know what to do with her. I had no condoms; I wasn’t that into small, skinny women, and I never paid for sex—though I was not expecting to pay. Oh, I forgot to mention, on our way into the hotel, I was confronted by two spectacles that: a, further enhanced my love for wackiness; and, b, further enhanced my understanding of why so many men came to Thailand.
As we exited the taxi—a taxi I didn’t need to take because I was so drunk I didn’t realise the club was next door to my hotel—I saw a very slender ladyboy exit my hotel with initial grace before stacking on their look-at-me high heels and face planting into the grimy Bangkok pavement. Before I could even refrain from giggling, this spectacle was followed by another spectacle of what I can only describe as a fat biker-beard man walzing out hand in hand with the kind of woman you’d betray your best friend for. She was standing and dressed in distress, as if he were resembling a man who’d had an overdose and fallen into his soup. She was so happy walking with this failed ZZ Top roadie, and yet his face was seven shades of devout misery. My later years have helped me understand why his face was like that, but at that moment I was scraping my beautifully chiseled jaw off the filthy paving.
Anyway, back in the room with the little Thai lady, I was getting milked like a cow in a remote Indian village. I’d told the lady that I had no condom, to which she replied, "Baby, I’m clean,” to which I knocked back, “But I’m not!” I was bloody clean; I just don’t rough-ride, and certainly not with strange ladies I’d picked up from a club in a third-world country—or is it a developing country? Who knows. Who cares? No rubber, no boom-boom.
She didn’t seem to mind not having sex at all. She was also very obliging when giving me my handjob, so obliging that she didn’t stop giving them to me. All night long, she milked me like I was spurting out the potion of eternal financial freedom. Even when I had no milk left to yield, she still kept on. I’d had a long flight, so I gave up resisting. It was great. I hadn’t had this many consecutive handjobs without constant whining since I was a horrid teenager.
Once her arm had been drained of all the energy Buddha could bestow on her, she allowed me get to sleep. Usually in such a situation, I would be slightly on edge, wondering why this was so easy—there had to be something going on. But I didn’t care. I felt relaxed. I felt happy. I had zero anxiety. This was incredible and rare. What an incredible first impression!
I awoke to what I think was my fifth milking. The girl told me that she was a hairdresser with her friend, who’d gone with my friend, and had work that day. I asked what time she started, and she said around noon. My friend, who’d taken his dream lover to another hotel nearby, banged on my door. He said we should all go out and get food. I wanted to signal to him that we really needed to cut these broads loose (yes, I use the term broad sometimes because it makes me feel like Humphrey Bogart), but I was feeling so relaxed that I was bordering on apathy. Why would he think I’d want to spend my first day proper in Bangkok, wining and dining a one-night stand? I didn’t even bother to shower.
We ended up at some overpriced roadside establishment. The food was great, and we ordered a lot. It was during the first round of exotic cuisine that I experienced my first of many arse-pisses of the day. This was to be expected. Tropical country, dirty water, spicy food, and enough alcohol to kill George Best’s reanimated corpse—a recipe for liquidity.
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During the meal, I made some small talk. At this time, I had not mastered the delicate art of communication in slow-broken English, so I was spitting out questions and anecdotes at rapid speed. I was told many times by many Thai people that I, like all English speakers, spoke way too fast.
When the bill came, it became obvious that my friend had made a rookie mistake—he’d asked the taxi driver where a good place to eat was. We got fleeced. It wasn’t crazy expensive, but for Thailand, it was bold-faced extortion.
I noticed that the time was way beyond noon and these girls hadn’t mentioned anything about being late for work; I noticed I had not been asked for any money; and I also noticed that the girl kept trying to hold my hand when we left the restaurant. It seems mean that they kept rejecting it, but I’d heard it was common for Thai girls to get the idea that a foreigner was their boyfriend within very short periods of time (this would be later confirmed as a non-myth). I just wanted to get on with my holiday.
Eventually my friend twigged that I wanted some space from the Thai ladies, and he packed them into a taxi and sent them back to wherever they came from. The day was now ours and ours alone.
We managed to catch some sites before heading back to the hotel to freshen up and hit the town for night number two. I had told my friend that I wanted to experience something bizarre and different. I enjoyed the rooftop bar and the club where I turned into George Clooney, but I wanted to experience the weird shit. I was always told about weird shit in Thailand, and I wanted to see it for myself. My friend reeled off some suggestions, such as a pingpong show. No thanks. To this day, I have never understood the appeal of watching a woman fire small plastic balls out of her vagina. It’s not sexy, it’s fun, and it’s not really that impressive. It is weird and goofy, but it’s far too stereotypical for me to even bother with it. After a few uninspiring suggestions, my friend hit the jackpot. I didn’t need to even think about it—apathy was avoided.
Not too far from the hotel, I was taken to a bar in the basement of a fairly swanky hotel. After swatting away a few aggressive ladyboys and making jokes with a Nigerian drug dealer, we were inside and shown to a table. This place was dimly lit, and the atmosphere was a lot more subdued. It was a girly bar of sorts that was mostly frequented by Japanese businessmen. Oh yes, the old Japanese businessman stereotype. That’s why I wanted to go there because my friend said it was weird, and I knew it would be weird because it was sold to me as a “place where Japanese businessmen like to go.”
I wasn’t expecting tentacle porn, used panty vending machines, or women dressed as schoolgirls singing the Pepper Pig theme song (is there a song?) but I was expecting weirdness—and I got it!
The main seating area was full of Japanese businessmen and us two. How did I know they were actually businessmen? They all had briefcases, that’s how! Surrounding this seating area was a perimeter of attractive bar girls, but they were very different from other bar girls I had encountered or have since encountered. They were dead quiet. They stood motionless and speechless, staring at the floor while the businessmen circled the perimeter and inspected them like they were fine antiques! Some of the men would bend down to get a closer look at the backside, and some of the men would sniff their hair, yet the girls gave no reaction whatsoever. Following the inspection, if the businessman was pleased, he would take the girl toward another door that led into the hotel. This was a very well-thought-out hotel hooker bar. But it was also an eerie and gross meat market, and it was weird as hell. Perfect.
“This place is fucking weird!” I announced.
“You wanted weird!”
“I know, but this isn’t wacky weird; it’s sinister weird.”
“I know, man, they don’t even talk!”
“Is that what they like?”
“Apparently so.”
“How many dismembered bodies do they find in the hotel?”
My friend just laughed. One of the staff members asked us if we wanted to make a circuit and find a nice lady. We declined. Thai bar girls do squark and yap too much, but this was a ridiculous solution.
“What was that girl like?”
“Very generous,” I replied with honesty.
“How much did you give her?”
“Huh?”
“Money!”
“Nothing.”
“Seriously?”
"Yeah, bro, I don’t pay to play!”
“Oh right. Good thing you got rid of her man; she would have been your girlfriend by 3 p.m."
“Do they seriously get attached that quickly?”
“Yeah, it’s weird.”
Everything was weird that day. “I don’t get it; why would she want me when I didn’t even spend a penny on her?”
“You still need to give me money for the meal, man!”
“I know, I know! I’m just observing the situation.”
“Think most Thai men don’t work; lots of single mothers too. Foreigners are a better option.”
Looking around at the cold-faced girls getting sniffed by Japanese businessmen, I began to understand why jumping into a relationship with a complete mess like me would be considered a better option.
We returned to the club after eating something that didn’t help my liquid waste problem. I was George Clooney again. Eyes on me and hands on junk. This time, I wasn’t going to settle with the first lady who approached. One after one, after the next, and onto the next one. There was a problem this time. I kept making my move and asking what they were doing later.
"Honey, I’m working.”
Working? Oh…
Yes. Every girl was a working girl. One smooch attempt after another was met with resistance, which turned into a negotiation. My negotiation tactics were flawed; I didn’t pay to play.
“Is every girl in here a prostitute?”
“Er, yeah, pretty much, mate,” my guide finally informed me. Bollocks. As girl after girl was turned away by me, the more they tried to get me rocking. I wouldn’t say they were grinding on me sensually—they just bounded their backsides against my crotch like they were trying to inflate me with their arseholes. I was feeling a type of way. Horny like a sailor on Father’s Day. My guide—he was a guide now, a useless guide—said I should just take one. I reminded him I have never and would never pay for sex. He said it was okay because he’d pay for it. That was worse; now I would be the whore. I stuck to my principals; my guide went home with a 9, and I went home with a frown. Once my head hit the pillow, I regretted not taking him up on his offer. Having been relentlessly milked the night before, I was now spoiled.
The third day we spent mostly in bed feeling like shit before exploring one of Bangkok’s famous shopping malls. I’m not exactly a massive shopping mall fan, or shopping centre fan if you’re a civilised person who doesn’t make statements like they’re questions, but the enormous spectacle of the place was interesting enough. I know I should be looking at proper culture like temples and shit, but I didn’t give a shit. We were done with the mall by just after sunset and had jumped into one of the thousand yellow taxis that clogged up the soul of Bangkok.
The traffic was turd. A traffic procession of the slowest nature. If it was in England, there would have been multiple stabbings. As my friend had offered to buy me a lady for the night, I was quite keen on getting milked again and wanted this to hurry the-shit-up. Then we reached the royal palace. Good, I can say I saw that, I thought to myself. A motorcade came roaring out and parted the Yellow Sea like Moses.
“Is that the King?” I asked my friend.
“Ssh man!”
“Why?”
“Don’t mention the k word, bro!”
How the hell would saying, “Is that the King?” ever constitute les majesty? This prolonged heat exposure must of had this honky all fucked up!
The taxi man started to make bird sounds. This was getting weird.
"Are you okay, bro?” my friend asked.
“Is he tweaking off that crystal?” I asked.
“Don’t say the C word!"
This fucking geezer!
“Coo, coo, coo,” said the taxi man.
“I do a mean chicken impression, mate!” I said. I was too funny back then.
“Coo, coo, coo,”
"Mate, what is wrong?” my friend asked.
“Government,” the taxi man said before making a sweeping gesture with his left arm.
“Yes, the king,” my friend said.
“That’s the k word, bro!"
“It’s fine.”
It’s fine now?
“Government gone!” the taxi man shouted.
“Huh?” I said, because that’s all I had.
“Government, no… no more government.”
“What… oh shit,” my friend mumbled.
“It’s a fucking coup!”
“Yes, coup, coup," the taxi man replied, “eight o’clock, all stop.”
“What?”
“No outside; eight o’clock.”
“Shit!” I said.
We jumped out of the taxi and made a quick step down to our hotel. We needed fags, beer, and probably food before it turned 8 o’clock.
That was the night that the coup of 2014 took place. Thailand had experienced a coup only a few years prior to that, when the guy who owned Manchester City was exiled. It turns out that Thailand loves coups and has had about 14 of them in 60 years! I always felt like coups were a most African pass-time; I never expected that to be a Thai thing.
That night, we were confined to the hotel room. Beyond the walls of the hotel, there was silence. Eerie silence. Bangkok had gone from being the loudest sensory overload I’d ever encountered to a ghost metropolis. Not a single establishment is open. Not a single man in the street. The sea of yellow taxis had been replaced with the odd army truck or tank. Even the Thai TV stations were closed and had been replaced with a coat of arms and what sounded like patriotic marching songs.
How long would this go on for? When would I get milked again?