Links
Our banners
Latest News
Newsletter archive
Interviews
Sileakhunt
Book Store

Pattaya Thailand. What a place. I love it there. It has to have the most bars per square mile than any place else on earth. Every bar being filled with lovely, little, bronze ladies may just push it over the top of any place else that may have more bars per square mile. Although I doubt such a place exists.

Pattaya, the sin city of Thailand, and damn proud of it too. How can a man not get excited when stepping off the bus from Bangkok into this old fishing town by the sea. Sex, sleaze, and social disease, mixed into a boiling, roiling, cauldron of booze, broads, and beers for small dollars called baht. A heady elixir to sip from. It destroys the sense of the best of men, and sucks them down into a black hole of desire, debauchery and depravity, and they return, year after year, willing victims of their own lusts. Fools and their money soon parted and departed, yet as happy as clams with newly grown feet.

Pheromones abound in the tropical heated air. Inhale deeply the scent of a woman, any woman, all the women, and the growling voice of testosterone fills the sois with its throaty roar. Sanuk, sanuk, fills the hearts and minds of sex deprived world travelers from the far corners of the globe. They are not to be denied their primal urges, no matter how foolish they may be seen by others not so inclined. Fuck 'em they say. Party on Garth! Another cola, tilac? Ring the bell Gunther, you're loaded, and we're on holiday once again in the Land of Smiles!

At night the twinkling christmas tree lights reflect their festive colors off the balding pates of German beer-bar patrons old enough to have been, at least, in the Hitler Youth Corp. The Tower of Babel's fall is evident in the swirl of the chattering multitude of languages that echo off the shoddy buildings lining the narrow sois off beach road. The English language is butchered by white man and asian alike in their endless bargainings for short and long times. Baht is thrown about like confetti, slipping from oversized, sweaty, drunken, pawing white paws, to tiny, smooth, cool, bronze native women hands in need of this month's rent. The night fills with the raucous cries of revellers in abandon, and the boom, boom, boom, boom, let me take you to my room, of the cheap stereo swirling of many different beats fills the fetid air. All are dancing to their own beloved drummers, mindless of the others. Games are played, and won and lost, to smiling laughter and drunken, toothy, grins. Another round please darling!

Balloons are popped, and "Chok dees" ring in the ears of all as they stagger from bar to bar, searching for that one sweet, jai dee, lady who knows her slippery pink worth, but is willing to sell herself cheaply to buy the morning breakfast for her two school age children, and the party-worn, think's she's ugly, older, too old to dance agogo now she's thirty five, sister ... who cares for them nightly. Youth fades quickly in the night of constant, sexy, smiling sadness. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Her days of taking strangers to her room are gone. Now she shares a one room flat with her younger sister, the girl in the magnesium dress, and cares for children left fatherless by a society of men who crave the young pussy as badly as the farangs they look down upon. The party is over for her, and the baht all gone, along with her worthless mangda cheating wife-beating husband/boyfriend.

It beats picking rice in the hot sun all day though, so she stays. Besides, Mama is sick, the buffalo was sold by Papa when he lost the big card game, and someone needs to watch the children while their young, pretty, Mama dances each night, and supports the rest of the family.

The girl with the magnesium dress is the new agogo superstar on the soi. Her future is as bright as the reflections from the bald teutonic mens glistening, sweating, pates. See her dance on the stage. She dazzles these aged eyes. A youthful, vigorous, vision of beauty, that will bring a tear of joy to any old man with a couple of gray notes of the realm in his pocket. A sweet tasting fruit on the vine, already plucked many times, yet still as tasty as ever. Geritol for the visitors to the smiling land of the Thai. Viagra for the viagra-less. A delicious prune juice for the regularly irregular to quaff nightly, along with the juices of her youthful self. Invigorating, pleasant, sticky nights of days long past, revisited for a vacation period of two weeks a year.

Don't think me a hypocrite. I too sit at the edge of the stage. Staring with the sparkling eyes of a baby, with the same foolish, hungry to suckle, grin on my face, at the girl in the magnesium dress as she dances her twenty two year old breasts and ass in a swirling dervish of raven hair and honeyed skin for my perverted amusement and titillation. My wrinkled, age mangled, visage devours her beauty, and my loins, too, stir in anticipation of what a few small crumpled pictures of her king will buy for my night's desires. Ah, if only I was once again twenty years younger, twenty pounds lighter, once again a suitable suitor for one so lovely and delicious. I sin as the rest do, yet at least know I sin, in that I'm saved from what I do. My nagging conscience is as clear as the silted waters of the polluted beach of this garden of kinky pleasures, this Pattaya, this strange gloriously shining city of sin, this modern Sodom and Gomorrah on the seashore.

My laughter booms as loud as the rest of my fellow sinners. I'm happy, and wallowing in my seamy bawdiness. I drink my beer, and wave her down from the stage once her languorous dance is done. She smiles at this once "handsum" man with the fat wallet. She laughs, and sniffs my throat, and swiftly calculates the bills to be paid in the morn, and the foods bought her beloved for their breakfasts. I'm a known lover, an old friend of a day or three, a tipper of largesse, paying alms to the church of his choice--the temple of the beguiling beaver. An old and ancient church, much maligned. I genuflect to her hole-e-ness, and pass over the required amount for the sacrament of the barfine.

We leave together, arms around waists, weaving slightly, smiling and waving our goodbyes to one and all. I go with her, the girl in the magnesium dress, and continue to add to my confessional list things that will curl Father O'Riley's nonexistent hair. I believe he'd look forward to my confessions, if I ever went.

We all need the girl in the magnesium dress once in a while. Treat her right.

Thingfish