Whilst self-isolating in Prayut-imposed social exile in the prison that is the United States, and whilst waiting for my chance to re-enter Thailand and get back to living, I’ve been reminiscing. About the fun I’ve had in the red-light districts of Bangkok, and about the year I spent living and working in a small town in Essex, England. Now, there’s no comparison between a night out in BKK and a night out in the UK, but I’m going to try anyway. Here goes:
You get a text from someone in your group of hangout buddies that everyone’s meeting at (insert generic pub chain name here) at 7 pm. It’s a 10-minute walk in the freezing cold, so you arrange to wait for one of your friends in a small bar half way to the meetup bar that only serves Carlsberg on tap. You bundle up and slog briskly to the bar. Your friend is already there when you arrive because he didn’t bother going home after work. He’s 6 pints in already. You haven’t eaten yet because there was no food in your flat, but after two pints of beer you stop thinking about your empty stomach and realize you’re late to meet the rest of the group, so you and your friend head up to (generic pub chain) where everyone welcomes you with the loud, jovial enthusiasm of drunk Brits. You make your way round, saying hello to everyone, trying not to be obvious that you’re looking for the slutty office girl that might end up going home with you at the end of the night, only to realize the sleazy guy everyone hates has already sequestered her in the corner and is pumping her with cocktails. So you settle in to a seat with a handful of blokes engaged in a completely uninteresting conversation about football and quietly sip your cider. The office girl who you’d likely have it off with if you got drunk enough but who is already taken stumbles over with her friend, the buck-toothed blonde with the wonky eye, because she’s convinced you’d make a good couple. You make small talk and wait for the moment you can sneak out the door. An hour later, your friends are drunk enough to start dancing. Kanye comes on, and everyone crowds together like bumper cars, undeterred by the fact that the song isn’t a dance track, and you duck out the exit and into the cold night.
Wandering up the High Street, you’re playing a game called “pick a good pub before your teeth start to chatter.” You’re hoping to make it to the Purple Dog but it’s a bit far. Might have to grab a quick cider in between bars. You pass by Sloppy Joe’s, the “American” themed bar and eatery, because no self-respecting Yank would be caught dead in there. So you push on to After Office Hours, even though it’s a bit too pretentious and Millennial, and also it’s your ex’s go-to watering hole. She’s not there when you arrive and you can’t decide whether you’re relieved or disappointed. Two minutes later your mates who also ducked out of Yate’s also show up, so you relax and get a high-top and talk shit whilst scanning the room for new pussy/your ex. After confirming there’s no one worth starting a conversation with, you mutually decide to head to the Dog.
Winding through the streets, you spot clusters of girls in fur collars and stretch pants laughing loudly as if to say “We’re having a better time than you ever possibly could” and you follow the echoes hoping they’re also headed to the Dog. Then you reach the Dog and there are no women there. But it’s warm and the tunes are on point (New Order, Kaiser Chiefs, The Big Pink, James, pre-beard Kings of Leon, Razorlight, Radiohead. You double-fist two pints for yourself and sit near the fireplace, getting lost in the depths of the glass and the hypnotic nostalgic (hypstalgic for short, copyright BKK7) spell of the music. And just as you’re finishing the 2nd John Smith’s and gathering your scarf to leave off home, in walks the hot girl from the gym that you’ve chatted to off and on for the last six months. She says hello, but you’re too drunk to be charming, so after a few garbled mumbled phrases (gumbled for short, copyright BKK7), you bid her goodnight and take off for home. Everything after that is a blank, but you know you stopped for a doner kebab because in the morning you find half of it stuck between you and the mattress.
I don’t know what your night out in Bangkok would look like. If you’re anything like the douchebag tourists I see Sunday through Saturday, it’s a non-stop contest to see which of your entourage can be a bigger piece of shit. If you’re an expat whoremaster like me, it might look something like this:
I shower at 5:30 in preparation for one of my harem, who comes over at 6:00. I’m done with her by 7:00. She goes home and I head out to Patpong—a 2 minute motorbike taxi ride from my front door.
First stop is Black Pagoda, where Best and Saa will take away my phone so they can play games on it. I’ll sit without ordering and the staff will bring over my usual. If Taitle’s working, she’ll come straddle my lap and ask me if I’m free later in the week. I’ll buy her a tequila and rub her crotch for 20 minutes or so. Then it’s off to the two King’s. I have two regulars in 1 and one in 2. I’ll buy drinks for them all, grab some titties, check out the other talent, catch up on the lives of my girls and then jet over to see if John’s in Shenanigan’s. Quick catch-up with him and then I’ll hit Pink Panther. All my previous harem girls from Pink have moved on to greener pastures so I’ll just take my usual seat. The cocktail will appear from nowhere as half a dozen girls try to get my attention. I won’t buy drinks but a casual chat wouldn’t be out of order.
Then it’s on to Glamour, where Ann will feign anger at me but is really just bucking for a drink, followed by Bada Bing where I’m currently trying to add two reluctant dancers to my roster. They’ll take turns bouncing on my lap while I play with their tits.
Then a quick hop across the soi to XXX Lounge where four girls have claimed me and will argue over who gets to sit with me. I’ll grab all of their pussies in succession, then pop next door to The Strip, a haven full of old acquaintances and past harem members who won’t ask me for any money but will search my pockets for lollipops, and by that time I’m usually sauced enough to go home, though if I still have the energy I’ll hit up Thigh and/or Kiss. In both joints, I’m treated like a king, and some of my best gogofriends wait all night for me to arrive. If I’m feeling frisky, and if a hot enough girl catches my eye, I’ll take her out of the bar. But that’s rare. I’m almost perpetually in a state of having already nailed the hottest ones. Plus I hate cheating on my harem.
So like I said, there’s really no comparison between a night out in the UK and a night out in BK. It’s almost as different as the disparity between hell and heaven. England’s not all bad—the streets are quaint, the castles are awesome, and the pubs make you feel like you’re in a Simon Peg movie. But given the choice between quaint scenery and hot, caramel-colored Asian chicks in lingerie and heels…..yeah. Enough said.
Swing by on Friday for the frowback, and between now and then keep your fridge stocked (in case of another booze ban), your balls shaved (in case of a daring curfew-breaker) and cheers to a country that’s still better than most, even in the midst of a pandemic lockdown. Peace.