Low Season Love

It could be said that I like a beer or two in the company of other likeminded fellows. “A crack and a laugh”, my father used to call it. I enjoy the company of men who can talk men’s talk. Men who can chew the fat about football and rugby, motor racing, beer and women.

I enjoy the company of women more but I am the first to admit that I have no idea what goes on in those pretty little heads of theirs. I pretend I know stuff about women’s needs and desires when I engage them in conversation, but quite frankly, I haven’t got a clue. I frequently use terms of endearment like, sweet-licks, sexpot and sugar breeches when addressing women. I neither know nor care if they like it or if it annoys them.

For me, the socializing is the thing. The way I do it, it involves friends, alcohol, music and women. I’m hopeless at telling jokes and I can’t do accents. I’ll tell you an amusing story if you like but you will have to join in to appreciate it fully. I can’t tolerate people with limited social skills. If you want to tell me about the next generation i-phone you’re about to buy or brag about how many gigs of ram your latest external hard drive has you won’t find me very receptive. I’ll get bored and start looking for a young bint to play pool with. And if you are a teetotaller, there is nothing you know now or will ever know in future that would ever be of interest to me.

Having honed these fine social qualities of mine almost to perfection, I have adapted to life in Thailand rather well.  Despite this, something unusual happened at my regular watering hole recently which prompted me to leave early and seek my fun elsewhere. Both of my usual drinking buddies were out of town that night, all the girls had either been barfined already or were upstairs watching the telly and I found that the rest of the clientele were either computer geeks or sober people. Completely befuddled in this environment, I drank up and left.

Fortunately I stumbled upon a quiet little haven in lower Sukhumvit that I had never been to before. It seemed to meet my main requirements. The beer was cheap and there were a handful of pretty girls milling around the place.

Pai handed me beer periodically, for no other reason than that was her job. She was what we in these parts call the bartendee. I didn’t think I was particularly interested in her but she had volunteered quite a lot of information about herself in the hour or so that I sat there. I knew her name. I knew how old she was. I knew she used to live in Singapore, as did I at one time. She told me she had a young son in Surin and a Russian boyfriend who lived in Volgograd or somewhere. She presented this Russian boyfriend nugget in a way that suggested that she was now somehow taken and therefore unavailable. She also informed me that she didn’t do casual sex. For my part, I didn’t know there was another kind so I humoured her. Having not asked for any of this information she confused me further when she went on to inform me unsolicited, that her shift finished at midnight.

I didn’t care much. I was quite happy just sitting there watching her bending and stretching as she dipped into the fridge for bottles of beer or reached up to the shelf where the glasses were kept. She had a great pair of legs and as she went about her work I just sat there and had a good old fashioned leer. The only thought in my head was to wonder if she was any good at performing fellatio. That’s usually the first thought that pops into my head when I talk to any woman who happens to be between the ages of twenty and fifty,…… OK fifty five. I prefer the two handed grip method with sound effects full on, but that’s just me.

Ignoring the obvious, which is of course that I am indeed a welly hansum man, I also began to wonder why such a sexy young thing was flirting with me with such obvious intent. A quick look around the bar offered up some clues.

It was now well past eleven o’clock and the bar had all of four paying customers remaining. Well, it was low season. One was an obese Frenchman of about sixty. His problem was that no-one understood a single word he said. There was a drunken skinhead type stumbling around the pool table playing with one of the other girls. His Chelsea Forever tattoos and Union Jack shorts betrayed him as being English although no-one understood a single word he said, either. In the corner, a bespectacled and bearded Canadian was being pampered by the two little brown daughters of Isaan that he had brought in with him. The four or five other girls working in the bar were slumped around the place not even trying to conceal their boredom by that time of night. Two were playing with their mobile phones, gazing into them as a mystic would gaze into a crystal ball as if willing some spirit to make contact with a commercial offer, preferably before closing time.

And then there was me.

Pai smiled at me again. I guessed the Russian must be out of town.

Union Hill

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