December 2, 2018 By bangkok7
What does it say about me that I waited until my late 40s to try cocaine for the first time? And that I did so in a Bangkok gogo bar? Could it be a red flag, a warning sign, a harbinger of an inevitable downward spiral decorated here and there by random panties, bras, and cosplay uniforms strewn around my apartment and my bloated corpse rotting on the bed with a tiny Thai girl trapped beneath it? Or am I only just now learning to let my hair down? Should I think about slowing the pace, settling down, marrying up, maybe saving for retirement? Or is it perfectly normal to blow my entire paycheck in the red light district every month and juggle tiny fake-titted gogo dancers like beautiful, beguiling bowling balls? Is it addiction or recreation? Or both (addicreation, copyright BKK7)?
Hello again, it’s Seven again, and it’s been several weeks since my last confession, although I’ve only recently started posting them to Patpong Nightlife. Previous iterations were debuted on Bangkok Nights and my Tumblr blog, but it’s time to bring them home, where they belong. So after reposting parts 1 to 3 over the last several days, I’m finally ready to cough this one onto the interweb, unapologetic and only semi-sober. So here goes.
My days have become a malaise of repetitive non-stress related behavior leading to sexually-created injuries. Let me explain. I wake up, go to work, work, come home, shower, entertain a lady for 30 minutes, hit the RLD, return home, and sleep. I do this every day, with very little variation. I’m slow to start each morning because my entire body is always sore, not from exercise unless you call tying a 20 year old to the bed “exercise.” Or dancing in my seat in the gogo with a cocktail in one hand and someone’s boob in the other. That’s the extent of my exercise. Maybe I’ll make a workout video for the lazy whoremonger, filmed entirely inside the gogo. I kid myself that I’m staying in shape by slapping girls’ bums and walking from bar to bar (gotta get my steps in, thanks Fitbit!). No, the source of my soreness is—and lemme get the clinical prognosis right, here—partying like a f*cking rock star every single night like there’s no tomorrow. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s all fun and games. Wait, hang on…..OK in truth it is all fun and games. But it’s also exhausting. And once you’re on the ride, it’s damn hard to get off. The ride, that is. It’s hard to get off the ride. You actually get off all the time. Sigh, I’ve veered off track.
No one warned me that gogo bars packed with scantily-clad sexy Thai dancers would be habit-forming, and so here we are. If I stayed home just one night, I have little doubt that someone from the RLD would be calling hospitals, convinced I’d been in some kind of accident. Girls depend on me nightly for dinner, taxi money, uniform purchases, drinks, and candy. It’s gotten to the point that they actually get mad at me when I don’t show. My harem has grown to nine—a stupidly unsustainable number—and there are alternates waiting in the wings for their chance to join the starting squad. My life is a blur of bare brown skin and back tattoos. I have to keep a day planner just for my elicit liaisons, and still barely keep track of who’s coming when. Even if I say to myself that I will not go to the gogo, I nearly always end up go-going. I get to wondering what I’m missing, or I remember what it’s like to stroke Ice’s skin while guzzling beer, or I think how much fun it is to bounce Rutty on my lap while she fends off my efforts to remove her bra, and poof! I’m somehow showered, changed, and in my usual seat before I know what’s happening. It’s shocking how helpless I am to the pull, and how all-consuming this lifestyle is. I’m suffering from an over-abundance of vajay. I’m overdosing on it. I’m vajaverdosing.
Having said that, it’s by far and away a better existence than any pathetic excuse for a life I could eke out in the West. So to be clear, I’m not complaining. Well, I’m complaining a little bit. What would you call moaning about too much sex, booze, and partying? Bragplaining. I’m bragplaining (copyright BKK7). Truth be told, though, I’m 20 years too late to be living this way.
So speaking purely and honestly about this addiction, I’m admitting I have a problem. It’s patently irresponsible to drink Sunday to Saturday, bang a different girl every night, and have no money left at the end of each month because I was too busy having the time of my life to save anything for the future. It’s not sensible. It’s inexcusable. It’s not maintainable. The Frankenstein monster of my carnal appetites has grown beyond my ability to rein in. There. I said it. What’s the next step? And aren’t there—hang on a sec—11 MORE STEPS? Jeezum crow, I don’t have time for 10 more steps. Did I not already explain my schedule? I’m way too busy fulfilling my epicurean delights to squeeze in nine more steps, that’s ridiculous. If I could carve out any more free time, I’d go back to teaching myself the ukulele, not waste precious moments trying to let go of my demons. My demons wear nurse uniforms and stilettos. Screw the last eight steps.
In fact, isn’t the whole seven-step thing designed for real addictions, like drugs and alcohol? That ain’t me. Yes, I drink nightly, but not because I need to. I’m fine with not drinking—I could just as easily drink water and often do. I just prefer beer. And as for cocaine, I tried that for the first time last week. It was just “meh.” All my life I was warned that all it would take is one taste, and I’d be hooked forever. That didn’t happen. I could take it or leave it. Same with weed. My stoner friends forced me to try it again and again. Each time I said “meh” and each time they said “Well you must not have had a good batch, try again.” The fact is, I’m only addicted to one thing: lithe legs in short shorts and brown breasts in low-cut tops….back tattoos…..long dark hair…..wicked smiles…..the assembling of which comprises the magical allure of Thai women on bright stages in dark gogos. This is what I can’t say ‘no’ to. Against this temptation, I am powerless. And I haven’t hit rock bottom yet. Isn’t that what they say you have to hit before you can really make a change? So there we are, then. This cycle must continue until I wake up in a dumpster pantsless, penniless, and pathetic. When that happens, then I’ll think about doing the other six steps. Between then and now, however, I’m going to see where this road takes me. It’s been pretty bitchin’ so far.
The only thing that might slow me down is a persistent dodgy stomach. I’m blaming Hooter’s wings, since I eat them every weekend after having won a contest—free wings every week for a year—and virtually without fail, they give me the hot squirts. Many a Saturday night, I’ve had a touch-and-go speed-walk from Hooter’s to Paddy Field (the only place with a toilet I feel comfortable in), wondering the whole way whether I’m holding in a fart or a steaming pile of brown lava. Now, I know what you’re going to say: “If Hooter’s wings give you the sharts, why not stop eating them?” to which I reply, “Ahem! Were you not listening when I said they’re FREE?” Plus, once I’ve had a cocktail or three, my guts settle right down. So far, there’ve been no accidents in the gogos, knock on wood.
So a sour stomach is not enough to get me to turn down free wings, nor is it enough to keep me away from the red-light any night of the week. Stay tuned to see what transpires, or better yet, keep nightly track of my escapades via Twitter (it’s streaming to the right of this soliloquy) or browse my exploits in photo form on my Facebook page. And until next time, keep your chin up, your balls clean, and your glass full. Cheers!