Nana Car Park: A Lot of Sex - Part 1

An odd set of circumstances put me in a cab at 1.30 a.m. on a Monday morning, heading down Sukhumvit Road to the Nana hotel. About seven hours earlier I had stretched out on my comfortable bed at the Town Lodge Hotel and turned on the TV to catch up with what was happening in the world. However, the effects of jet lag and two days of heavy partying BKK style caught up with me and I drifted off into much needed sleep.

Normally, I set things up for L/T companionship ahead of arriving in LOS, but fate had conspired against me this time. My long-time favorite, Gina, had recently quit the Eden Club and was doing escort. She said via email that a customer was taking her traveling for several weeks, so only one night of her schedule and my stay in BKK coincided. She'd also emailed me she'd taken back her previous working name, Gaow (aka Mistress Gaow) and I had been tempted to greet her with a hearty "How now, brown Gaow!" when I met up with her at GLOW on the previous Saturday night, but I kept that quip to myself. We had a tremendous session and a lot of fun reminiscing about old times, but I wouldn't be able to see her beyond that one night.

I could also only get one night with another of my Eden favorites because she was going "on holiday," so I had to think of alternatives. My plan for the evening had been to spend a few hours in TOXIC at the TL and possibly bar fine one of the very attractive young ladies had the chemistry proved right. A visit to the Eden Club and making new acquaintances there was my back-up plan. But by 1.00 a.m., both TOXIC and Eden were closed, so I showered quickly and set out for that never-fail option, the Nana Hotel.

If lower Sukhumvit Road is the Mecca of mongering, then the parking lot of the Nana Hotel is the Kaaba, the holiest of holies, the place to which every true monger is bound to make a pilgrimage once in his lifetime. I prefer to do my hobbying under more organized circumstances and have never actually taken a lady the Nana Car Park itself. But its always an entertaining place to visit, sort of people watching gone bizarre. It's the entire Thailand P4P experience - the good and the bad - stripped of any pretense and reduced to its barest.

Traffic was thick on Sukhumvit Road and I jumped out of the cab about even with the Landmark Hotel. I immediately encounter three totally sloshed young men, two of whom are supporting the third. They didn't look old enough to have been legally served at any bar in Europe or North America, but obviously hadn't met with such problems in BKK. The least intoxicated of the trio asked me where Sukhumvit Road was. I stood well clear of them, as the semi-comatose one looked like he'd projectile vomit at any second. Tender Thai temptresses, not tipsy teenage tossers, were my concern, so I pointed them in the direction from which I'd just come and moved past them. They were in any case beyond comprehending the spoken word and stumbled off in a drunkard's version of a three-legged race.

I hadn't even gotten to the corner of Soi 4 and already the sidewalk was packed with punters and providers. The night was very humid and the air was still. The essence of wet pussy - well lubricated of course - is so palpable over the lower Suk that it almost sticks to your skin. Hundreds are buying, hundreds are selling, and everything for blocks around is driven by that simple equation.

As I turn into Soi 4, I see an elephant in the street about level with the entrance to Nana Car Park. A drunk middle-aged farang,, jumbo-sized himself, is trying to hug the elephant around the neck while his buddies take pictures. That's pretty standard LOS tourist fare, but then he begins to nuzzle and lick the elephant's ear, an image I could have lived without. I dodge taxis and tuk-tuks to cross the street to avoid a closer encounter. I was a bit afraid that one night the noise and confusion would become too much for the poor beast and it would lash out at anyone nearby. With its size and weight, it could do considerable damage should it get out of control. I'm talking about the farang now - the elephant was enduring the whole thing with Buddha-like calm.

The street and sidewalks, as well as the bars dotting Soi 4, are jammed with people. Young, old, Thai, farang, beautiful, hideous, drunk, sober and drugged, the standard LOS mix. I fend off the three or four lady boys lined up beside the entrance to the car park. Girls are standing shoulder to shoulder on the steps of Golden Bar outside the hotel, but the scene in the lot is thinner. Some very attractive ladies are plying their trade, obviously NEP bar girls who haven't hooked up earlier or are back for another round. At that point I'm feeling more peckish than peckerish, so I passed up all the inviting looks and "hello, sir" greetings. I stepped into the Nana Coffee Shop for a bite to eat and a few minutes of relief from the heat, pollution and intensity of the scene outside.

But before sitting down, I checked out the lobby area. Like on earlier occasions, I noticed several quite elderly gentlemen sitting in the armchairs near the reception desk. I've often wanted to talk with these patriarchs of the punter tribe, but can never figure out a way to strike up a conversation. I also have mixed feelings every time I see them. If I make it to 80 years of age - an outside chance at best - I certainly hope I have somewhere better to be at 2.00 a.m. in the morning than the lobby of the Nana Hotel. On the other hand, it sure the hell beats 9.00 p.m. mandatory bedtime at a retirement home in Miami or on Long Island. So all power to you, gentlemen, and a very respectful tip of the evil pen.

I went back to the coffee shop and took a seat at a table by the window from which I can watch the merry goings-on outside. A few Indian guys were more or chasing girls up and down the lot. They weren't having much luck - the girls were all moving away as fast as they could - but the guys were nevertheless smiling and appeared to be enjoying themselves. In the nightly pussy pursuit along the Suk, the Indian punters are pretty much naan-starters.

I did hear of one TG who became enamored of a good-looking, wealthy young Indian man and wanted to marry him, but didn't like performing oral sex on him because his hygiene was so poor. From his side, he wouldn't consider a long-term relationship, much less marriage, if it didn't include blowjobs. The TG realized how difficult it would be to have her kaek and eat it too.

But the Indian guys and the Methuselahs of mongering in the lobby weren't the only Nana examples of hope beating eternal in the human breast. A young spinner BG, dressed in a belly shirt and shorts, suddenly appeared directly outside the window where I was sitting, surveyed the lot, then sat on the curb. She proceeded to pull from her handbag a pair of glasses with the biggest and thickest lenses I've ever seen and began reading a book. The illustration on the cover indicated it was a romance novel of some kind. The parking lot at Nana has to be one of the least romantic places in Thailand, if not the world, but here she was, seeking at least a few moments of escape from the bump and rind of the NEP life. No doubt a farang, probably twice her age and three times her weight, would soon be contracting for her services, but until then, she could dream of a love affair the likes of which she'd never experience for real.

On that depressing note, I finished my plate of noodles, called my check and settled my bill. When I looked out the window again, the spinner was gone. As I was taking the last sips of my beer, I noticed one those guys who give mongers a bad name, which takes a bit of doing in the Nana Car Park. He was Caucasian, but I have no idea where he was from.

He approached the girls as though he were judging cattle at a state fair. He looked them over from tip to toe, his eyes lingering on their breasts and groins. He felt the girls' asses to see if they were firm enough and tried to lift their blouses, apparently in search of stretch marks. I couldn't hear anything that was going on, but I imagined he wasn't offering to pay generously. Most agreements are reached quickly in the Nana lot, but this guy was talking at length with the girls one by one and they would, in turn, shake their heads "no.â??

It was obvious the girls, especially the cuter ones towards the center of the lot, were peeved by this jerk's behavior. I'm sure he thought he was being very clever and was determined not to be cheated by any BG, but he gave across as the worst kind of fool. Behavior that's appropriate inside a go bar isn't acceptable outside when dozens of people are watching. I kept hoping one of the girls would slap him, but that's not their way. They just backed off and kept him at bay with words or gestures.

I decided to exit Nana and look elsewhere for after-hours action - it's not hard to find girls on the lower Suk anytime after 8.00 p.m. until at least 6.00 a.m. While the focus of activity remains the Nana Car Park and outlying beer bars, the wee-hours commerce in cunt spills over with a vengeance all up and down Sukhumvit Road between Soi 1 and Soi 33. Bangkok is often likened to a sexual theme park, with rides and attractions for everyone. The budget-minded as well as the big spenders can find something to suit their tastes. Street vendors and fold-up sidewalk eateries do a roaring business, but it's the sale of tail that provides the central attraction.

Car park, theme park - haul in some mobile homes and you'd have a trailer park as well. The male white trash population is already in place. The average farang punter, wearing the NEP Neanderthal uniform of sweaty tank top, stained shorts and flip flops, doesn't inspire much confidence in the future of Western civilization. But these guys must have an awesome faith in whatever providence it is that looks after drunks, considering the number I saw stumbling around at 2.00 a.m., looking for trouble with whoever would give it to them. I'm surprised the casualty rate for rolled drunks isn't much higher in Bangkok than it is.

But when I speak of white trash, I'm not referring exclusively to the U.S. down-home, white-bread, good-ole'boy variety. Those guys usually don't travel anywhere a pick-up truck can't take them. Around Nana car park, you're more likely to see white trash from the south of England, Sweden or Germany than Alabama or Mississippi. Who knows, maybe white trashiness is the true human common denominator and the real basis of universal brotherhood? In terms of inherent trashiness, Nana car park still falls short of Pattaya. Not only is Pattaya a formidable seaside resort, it doubles as the capital of the Republic of White Trashistan. There, if a punter has all his tattoos on straight and none of the words misspelled, drinks no more than a six-pack of beer before noon and doesn't eat mashed potatoes with his fingers, he's considered both high society and a sober man. There are numerous exceptions in Pattaya, punters range from teetotaling tradesmen and bashful backpackers to perverted professors and millionaire mongers, but I'm painting a picture in very broad strokes.

Abandoning my philosophical musings and the car park, I headed back towards the Suk in pursuit of pussy. Of course, the Nana car park experience isn't confined to a few square yards adjacent the Nana Hotel. It describes a state of mind - the determination of both providers and punters to reach afters-hours agreements on a free-lance basis - more than a physical place.

I hadn't gotten many steps when a pretty young thing blocked my way and tried to interest me in an earlyâ?“hours tryst. She had a nice smile and spoke English better than most BGs, so it was suggestion at least worth discussing. She wanted 1,500B for S/T, which I though was very reasonable, but the deal was dashed by her insistence on using a nearby hot-sheet hotel. Maybe she hadn't heard of my hotel and therefore wouldn't go there, or perhaps considered Soi 18 was too far away. I suspected she didn't want to invest too much time in any one punter and hoped to cram in several more customers that night before the cock crowed.

World's Most Infamous Seven Eleven

I smiled and moved on, passing the world's most infamous Seven Eleven on my left, then waited at the intersection for the longest red light in the history of traffic control to change. Once across the Suk, I was again accosted by a TG, this one well past 30 and her eyes wild with yaba,. She hadn't bathed, or even combed her hair, in a long while.. I've never struck a woman in my life, but if a junkie ho' grabbed my arm like that in New York, I'd be sorely tempted to drop her in her tracks. In Thailand, I'm not on my own turf and therefore subdue my vigilante impulses. I shook my arm free and told her "No!â?? and put some distance between us. I gave silent thanks to the gods of good health that I'd had the prescience to wear a long-sleeved shirt and had avoided skin-to-skin contact with her. Considering the direction from which she'd come, I wondered how much time she had before wailing the lament of all Soi 3 girls, "I go back my village to die Aids.”

The sidewalk is crowded with vendors and hawkers of all descriptions, with a lot of their goods aimed directly at P4P providers rather than tourists. Shoes, belts, lingerie, books and CDs in Thai, the fried bugs in a big glass, none of that could have been very appealing to farang visitors. The girls who'd gotten off work from the Suk's many and varied pussy palaces were spending their hard-earned cash, even though they could get it all cheaper and better if they'd waited to go shopping the next day at a local market. It reminded me of one of the very first P4P experiences I'd ever had in Thailand, back in 1979. After an overnight session with a Patpong bar girl - I think she got 300B - she insisted on immediately spending some it on a pair of earrings from the hotel's gift shop. I had thought the prices were high there even by Western standards and did my souvenir shopping elsewhere.

A lot of the items on display on the Suk were intended for tourists - knickknacks and souvenirs of all sorts - and the number of white-haired ladies bargaining for them at 2.00 a.m. surprised me. I couldn't help wondering what a group of retirees from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, was making of the whole scene on the lower Suk. I'm certain the most daring thing many of them had previously done was dancing the Macarena at a wedding reception.

I then encountered another refugee from Soi 3, the semi-legendary Natasha. The story goes she's the widow of a minor Communist Party official from the ex-Soviet Union. He'd been sent to Thailand a few years before the breakup of the Soviet system to supervise a state-run import-export business. Unlike most Soviet-era expats, he wasn't a spook, but had been given the posting abroad as a reward for long service to the Party. He had been accompanied to LOS by a much younger wife, also a perk afforded to Communist officials, along with a few oranges, apples and bananas around Christmas. As a TASS correspondent once told me, pretty girls had been easier to find - and much cheaper - in the Soviet Union than oranges or bananas.

With the end to the Soviet system, he'd lost his job. He didn't have a pension worth mentioning, but didn't want to return to Russia to the uncertainties of post-Soviet life. He managed to support his wife through small ventures of his own for a few years, but that ended when he keeled over dead of a heart attack. His widow, Natasha, was left stranded in Bangkok with only the most meager means of support. Already past her prime, she turned to prostitution to give herself a better life. But that was 15 years ago and now, in her fifties, she should knitting booties for grand-children, not doing the Sukhumvit stroll.

She has the shape, if not the stature of an American football center. Her skin is blotchy and she has oddly mismatched facial features that make me think of a hobbit or one of those Scandinavian troll dolls. If American-style football ever caught on in Middle Earth, she could play center for the Shire's pro team. With a shudder, I moved past her.

I've seen Sukhumvit Road very late at night many, many times and the crowds never cease to amaze me. The fold-up eating places are always jam-packed, making it impossible to pass in more than single file. As I passed Soi 5, I saw a farang in his twenties sitting splay-legged on the curb, a puddle of puke in front of him, the product of his night's drinking. He's weaving like he's going to fall over at any moment His Thai GF, or least companion for the night, was responding to the situation by wiping his forehead with a cloth. Talk about re-arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic! A six-foot guy is about to go bow down in his own vomit and his girl is mopping his brow.

A had a feeling he was from somewhere on the Anglo-American continuum, but whether it was New Zealand or New Jersey, I had no idea. Anyway, he deserved more assistance than he was getting.

"Is he O.K.? Do you need any help?” I asked the girl. I figured we could prop him up, or at least lay him flat so he wouldn't be rolling in the gutter in his own puke.

The girl looked up at me and answered, "You go away now.”

Sure, sweetheart, up to you, I heard myself say inside my head, but I just remained silent. I wondered for a moment if she was worried I make a play for her once her cavalier had sunk into unconsciousness or whether she had more nefarious plans, like relieving him of his wallet. It's not always possible to be a Good Samaritan, so I rejoined the throng of people moving up the Suk.

I was taken aback by the spillover from Soi 3 into the rest of the lower Suk. Some of those guys were pretty aggressive and I had to speak sharply with one who kept jostling me.

"I tol'ya, don't Khomeini closer!” I said in my best Crusader voice.

But the whole thing makes me sad. Damn. Who sane, or otherwise, wants to see all of the Suk become an extension of the coffee shop at the Grace Hotel? Maybe the time has come to draw the line in the sand at Soi 5, or at least Soi 7. A green line in the Bangkok pink zone, so to speak.I was also troubled by the dearth of ladies to whom I was attracted. Girls! Girls! everywhere, but nary a one to fuck. I remembered an episode of the original Twilight Zone, in which a U.S. soldier during WWII sees a light glow on the faces of comrades who will die in action. I had the same feeling about most of the Thai girls I had encountered along the way, except it was a big starfish I saw across their faces.

As I passed Soi 7/1, I thought fondly of the Eden Club, but it had long since closed. Although I had expected to find companionship before getting this far, I didn't despair yet because there were still dozens and dozens of women moving up and down the Suk. Short of being the unluckiest - or pickiest- man on the planet, I was sure to see one to my liking before many more minutes had passed.

(In Part 2, I encounter an old acquaintance, ponder the motives of fellow hobbyists and confront life and death, Thai style.)

© Evil Penevil. All rights reserved by the author.