Seventh Heaven and Hairy Pies - Part 1

The melted yellow crayon blob of a sun sat on the city of Bangkok like a constipated circus fat woman straining on a shiny white porcelain commode. Joe Howard staggered along the shattered sidewalks of Soi 22, wondering what the hell he was doing there. The heat was an acid eating away at his already slim pickings of a corporeal shell. A cold drink was needed. Sorely. Air conditioning wouldn’t be an unwelcome perk either. From the corners of his squinting bloodshot sun-dazzled eyes (he’d forgotten his sunglasses that fine morning) the sign of Tiffany’s Hairy Pie bar hooked Joe like a hungry flounder in Boston Harbor impales itself for the taste of a seaworm. It polluted his mind like Monsanto Inc. pollutes the same said harbor of the city of revolution gone by. The garish sign of the Hairy Pie reeled him in inexorably to his fate, at least this day’s fate; the sign screamed in slasher movie blood red letters: AIR CONDITIONED. A tiny, sweet, semi-virginal looking Thai bar girl beckoned to him from a wooden seat situated in front of the establishment like the sirens to a Greek sailor; sweetly, with evil intent even. Joe crashed his ship on the rocky battered sidewalk shoals of Washington Square and entered the Hairy Pie. He could go no further without cool refreshment and shade from the solar rays of the wilting and nearly homicidal Thailand tropical sun this day.

He was welcomed by a slap of cold air as refreshing and frigid as a sea lion’s freshly caught morning ice flow meal; his heart nearly stopped as his body temperature plunged a good thirty degrees in a matter of seconds. Joe’s second Hairy Pie welcome was a hearty thump on the back by a loud brash hairy bear of a man, reeking of scotch, who sounded like a native distiller of the smoky firewater as well, and who was the assailant. Something vaguely approximating the English language rumbled from the aggressive hairy Scot, or maybe he was Welsh, it’s hard for most to discern, except those who live there themselves, which is which. Adding in Joe’s sun-fried brain pan making it even more difficult for him, that, and he being a Yank, and everyone from the UK and Australia sound to Yanks like they are gargling with olive oil and Aggie sized marbles, and mumbling in unknown and unknowable ancient Aztec tongues, Joe hadn’t a clue what was being said. It certainly isn’t English to a Yank’s delicate and refined ears.

The blowsy proprietor leaned close and fogged Joe’s already moist sweaty face with a blast of his fermented hops and grains and charcoal-laden breath, 'Wanna coould beerah muhate.' He then hiccupped, burped, and stumbled a bit while turning toward the bar. Joe nodded his head wearily, croaked out a parched thank you, still wincing from the man’s boozy exhalations, and flopped into a booth that was sat directly under the AC unit’s icy arctic blast. Joe felt as though he were recovering from a near fatal brain embolism, his head ached like it was stapled together and swathed in mummifying bandages after a long and delicate operation.

Joe went to thank the man again and saw him stagger away into a back room, sloshing a large tumbler of amber liquid he held tightly in a huge paw onto the bar and floor as he disappeared into his bear’s lair. Another pretty young Thai woman, not the same siren that had successfully lured him into the dim cavern vulgarly named for a woman’s unshaven sexual parts, brought him a frosted mug full of beer Chang and a plastic wrapped frozen bit of cloth. She gracefully placed the cold beverage in front of him as though serving a royal member of her monarch’s family, then skillfully twisted the plastic tight and, slapping her delicate, long, golden lady-fingered delicious hands together with a loud popping crack, she withdrew the towelette and proceeded to lovingly wipe the sweat from Joe’s sol reddened and blistered brow, at least it feels blistered Joe thought to himself. He thought for a moment he must have died on that one thousand degree frying pan of a fucking plastic bag, rat, and dog shit filled excuse for a pavement outside, and was now in some sort of perverted version of a punter’s idea of seventh heaven. He nearly came to a climax as the pretty golden lady ministered to his heat ravaged head and neck with the cold cloth. Nothing had ever felt this good Joe thought with a sigh and a shiver. His favorite, white, collared, thin tropical-weight cotton shirt, bought in a Hua Hin night market two years previous for the princely sum of 100 baht, which had earlier been as wet as a horny mermaid’s cunt, was now freezing cold and stuck to his still freshly baked apple pie warm flesh. He shivered again and grabbed the condensation glistening beer mug off its now sodden woven drink coaster and downed it like he was sucking down a raw oyster at Ye Olde Oyster House raw bar, all in one quick gulp.

The bar lady had stopped massaging his face with the now warm and sweat filled greasy towelette and was looking at him in amazement, or maybe it was disgust, not that it mattered to him at that moment. He ordered another beer from her and watched a cat fight commence in her tight cutoff jean shorts as she sashayed and swayed towards the bar like a drunken gay sailor with a lisp. It occurred to him at that moment that this was no ordinary bar girl, hell, she wasn’t even an ordinary looking girl at all, she was stunning. She had hair as black as an outback aborigine's skin, which was as straight as a Catholic nun’s oak map pointer, and that nearly reached the feline furor that was her denim clad ass. What the hell was she doing working in this Washington Square boozer and erotica emporium? She was a stunner, and he was rightly stunned.

Maybe he was still confused and addled from the earlier walk in the deadly summer sunshine of Bangers. Maybe he was drunk and beer goggled already from the one quickly inhaled ice-cold brew, or it could have been the lighting, or lack thereof. Possibly. Maybe he was just horny. It had been a while, at least forty-eight hours, which was a near record since he had first stepped onto the sticky tarmac of the kingdom’s Don Muang airport five years earlier. Whatever the cause it remained and was reinforced on his ogling of her as she smoothly, almost ghost-like and eerie, glided back over the ancient tiled floor as though she was a snail sliding over its slime in a backyard tomato garden path in southern Jersey. He noticed another catfight had started inside her tight as snake’s skin blouse as well. He also noticed, much to his surprise, as Thai women seem to be loathe to do so, she wasn't wearing a bra. Joe couldn’t fathom how she managed to give the impression of gliding over the floor with all that movement going on inside her clothing, but it was so. He instantly wanted to get to know her better and his Docker’s chinos showed it. Joe again slugged down the cool hoppy draft, she seemed bemused as she watched him once again suck down his golden raw oyster of a drink, yet she held his eyes in a gaze that transfixed, a cool grin pulled her sensuous mouth and lips, suggesting the cat that swallowed a canary, or maybe better said, like the canary that has swallowed the cat. She was small and slender, Mexican twelve-year-old girl slender, yet her baby feeding and suckling attributes would have improved the greatest of the Greek masters nude marble statues. Her tits were to die for, and he decided he would, gladly. He wondered briefly if she was a katoey - and decided just as quickly - no way, Jose. If she was he thought he would probably slit his wrists and end it here and now. No operations or chemical substances could make a man look that alluring and sexually attractive to a red-blooded American male he decided, at least not after only a couple of beers.

His eyes were still glued to her starless and bible black gaze as he wiped the foamy beer dribble from his lips. Joe was falling, hard, instantly, his pants tightened further like a newly tuned drum skin, a Ludwig snare, over sized of course. Buddy Rich could have played paradiddles on the cloth of his pants crotch and slammed rim shots off Joe’s now diamond studded titanium pecker, if he wasn’t dead that is. This girl was a walking, jiggling, Viagra advertisement. Joe tried to remember if he still had one blue demon pill left in his wallet. He figured he just might need it, as this one would make it hard to refrain from a gooey instant atomic explosion as soon as she took her clothing off (Daisy Dukes, Joe loved Daisy Dukes). Not that Joe needed the little blue helper usually, nor was he a premature kind of guy, but this one was a meaty sexy slice of life, and death by fornication, all rolled into one neat and soft golden brown little package of carnal desire and wet dreams. The woman was a fully clothed, nearly anyway, living and breathing porno movie star fantasy, with all the whips, chains and sexual paraphernalia included.

She still held his gaze as she slowly, erotically, languidly, slid into the booth seat across the table from him.

Joe wanted to say something clever, witty, and sexy to her, a bit of titillating verbal foreplay and sexually charged banter, but there seemed to be a kielbasa stuffed down his throat and he couldn’t swallow. She smiled, and, reaching over the table, her well endowed chest molding to the flat surface like cotton covered bags of a child’s ‘Slime’ toy - popular a decade ago – and gently touched his jaw-line with the cool smooth soothing flat of her hand, her fingernails tickling his throat. He shivered again, this time from the sensation of her touch, which made him almost swoon with pleasure. He felt nearly the same as when he had had his first cigarette as a kid of eleven; dizzy, nauseous, lightheaded, and a bit high off the nicotine rush.

'Are you okay?' she asked, her voice full of concern and of a throaty yet whispery quality that reminded Joe of Marilyn Monroe’s, with a bit of a Thai accent of course. Joe thought he was going to cum in his Docker’s. Her English was excellent.

Joe noticed she was still the only person in the bar now beside himself, the owner being somewhere out back, and the hello girl still hello-ing outside in front sitting under a sign that advertises pies a bit more surprising than the king’s four and twenty blackbirds baked inside. He found his voice; hopefully he could put it to good use. He experimented with it and spoke to her.

'I’m fine, just a little overwhelmed is all.' He said with a bit of a smile like a man slightly chagrined at being caught out during a weak moment. 'But I’m feeling much better every minute I am sitting here with you.' He added, smooth, sly devil that he was now his equilibrium was slowly restoring him to some semblance of the cool fool he was.

Bar girls liked Joe he’d noticed over the years. He never had the problems some punters seemed to describe in the various Thai related discussion boards he had read occasionally, and surely he would never have anything to submit to the Stickman site. But then Joe was a good looking middle-aged man of thirty eight, a sharp dressed in-a-casual-sort-of-way guy, loaded with pearly whites still, and topped off by a yet to gray or run away thatch of wavy blonde hair. Joe’s five foot eleven inch frame was kept toned and buffed by a couple days a week at a Thai friend’s Muay Thai gymnasium, a friend he had first met and befriended while on assignment and who he had written a story about for the local newspaper where he worked. Plus he faithfully put in a few hours a couple more days a week working out on the weight machines, and in the Olympic-sized swimming pool of a good inexpensive gym he’d found years ago on the upper end of Soi Sukhumvit near where he lived. Joe had the build and physique of a middleweight boxer. His blue-green eyes though were his best feature, and the bar girls, hell most women, loved them more than a fully charged twelve-inch French tickler tipped dildo.

‘In like Flynn’ was a phrase that usually applied to Joe’s attractiveness to the fairer sex, although a phrase that has fallen out of use in recent decades.