Before I arrived to Bangkok, I was not too familiar with Thai people, what they looked like, how they sounded; I wasn’t sure I had ever met a Thai person. What I did know was that in fifth grade, my aunt had brought back a Hard Rock Café: Bangkok shirt for me. That whole school year, wearing the shirt once or twice a week, the bourgeoning potty-mouths were beside themselves. Those two syllables within Bangkok, so blunt and vulgar, immediately decided the choice words for the class.
Because of that Hard Rock t-shirt, and the dirtiness it once represented, the city had always stood for sex. I continued to associate this, and to no surprise, on every corner, the real Bangkok justified all of its phonetic filthiness. Especially, in one district—not too far from the city’s center. Pat Pong Market, as it was referred to, held a reputation from the onset that was notorious, a must-see for anyone passing through Thailand. I, for one, did not need too much persuasion to board the sex safari. Nor much time. That same night, with the wildebeest and his buzz-cut friend, we went.
They meowed and hissed. When my back was turned, I could feel the weight of their gaze. I would remember what I just sidestepped; a Thai girl, thinly-clad, wigwagging her backside, curling her index fingers inward, ushering me into her workspace, as if I was already late. There we many like her, all of whom, overflowed into the streets, rerouting the pedestrian traffic into one of the numerous Go Go bars. Once inside, the girls paraded around poles and cocktail tables, they purred on laps, they asked what my name was. In the center, others clustered onto a podium. Many were pretty, I reckoned, but each wore a numbered dog tag, dangling just below their small breasts. As they rotated, the respective numbers increased-- noticeable gaps suggested some were already at work. I was at once reminded of an Auschwitz wake-up drill and a beauty pageant.
It was simple. Once eyes had been met, they required one or two drinks—some jesting, a little lollygagging to follow. I saw no official transactions as in the red-light district of Amsterdam. No set prices. No up-front payments. The process here, it seemed, was modeled upon the casual negotiations of a yard-sale and entailed no more than permission from the manager. It was clear, if I wanted to take them out for dinner, I would have a girl-friend for the night. If I provided breakfast, I’d have them until lunch. So on and so forth.
I sat on the periphery, athwart a British girl, who was also balancing curiosity with caution. She had a disarming presence— granted probably by her rare distinctiveness in the gooey orgy of Asian women. At first glance, the shadowiness of the surrounding sin caused her to be aglow with cultivated beauty—like that of a virgin. Not long, when we agreed to step outside together, only a few feet from the sleaze, many of my early impressions of her were in fact, overstated. But I was appreciative to have her by my side, for she effectively, unflinchingly, warded off the whores who waited in ambush.
To anyone who’s been to Thailand, the real horror of Pat Pong Market is nearly the prostitution. There is, in truth, something at play which is far more outrageous; far more despicable and modestly spoken, spellbinding, for all orientations. I had never witnessed something so unbelievable, not in the most daring acts of pornography, nor in any display, X-rated or not, of human behavior in my entire life. The Ping Pong Show breathed life into a fetish seldom imagined, I would trust, but once the performance is seen and synthesized, the female body and (any) inanimate object(s) will share a relationship.
Marian, my interim lover and I took our seats moments before the curtains opened. We discovered Super Pussy minutes before by the jamboree of Finish boys thronged outside. All of us were horded upstairs by the leather laced doorwomen, cracking with bullwhip certainty we would receive a free drink upon entry. We received our whiskeys, and joined the other members of the audience, gazing inquiringly at the randomness of things scattered across the front half of the stage. In between the unclothed cocktail waitresses that passed, there appeared wooden paddles, soda bottles, a small fish tank without any fish, non-erasable markers and white paper. Good heavens, I thought.
When the music dulled and the rickety mechanics of the curtain squeaked, two women emerged. Both were gaunt, one was more demonstrative, seemingly more mirthful in the spotlight; the other was deadpan but sneaky, she seemed as if she was hiding something. The music resurfaced. The girl, who had seemed demonstrative, now shuddered as if she was irked by a sensation of twitchiness. She shuffled to the side, very close to me. Awaiting her turn for I did not know what, her growing impatience and her nudity made me uncomfortable.
Taking center stage was the other one. For the few seconds before, her whole temperament seemed strained, burdened by something unnatural. Even below the pelvis, however, she had no disfigurement save for the single red thong that scantily covered the slit of her fleshy vagina. When she scrunched into a squat, she stretched one arm behind for balance and used her other hand to pinch the thong to the side. She appeared now to be in a state of constipation, and when it intensified, a thump burped between her legs. A ping pong ball no sooner, ricocheted against the far wall. My heart galloped.
Now I knew all along she had been hiding something. To be precise, more than just something, but several things. Moist ping balls continued to be released, deflecting at random, bouncing off walls and confused people. I was handed one of the wooden paddles, encouraged to participate. Squatting, she served, and I returned. Back and forth we went. The crowd cheered, and the instances I missed, they booed. The whole experience was unique. Everyone was having fun.
Sidestepping to the center, the showgirl who had stood watch during her partner’s act was now excited for different reasons. What was once mirth, anxiety had replaced. When the right attention was granted, she wasted no time. Hovering over the fish bowl, with the interiors of her ankles pressed up against the glass, she gave the audience an unerring suggestion of what she had in store, or rather, storage.
The gold fish, the size of an unlit match, was released into the water alive. I had not known when the fish entered her exactly; had it been trapped up there since the show had begun? The restlessness I remember, suggested yes, and that was to be five minutes at least. Five minutes or five seconds, I’m certain this girl had experienced the most acute sensation of ticklishness available; granted from a biological standpoint, I cannot empathize, but I trust, seeing the openmouthed girls in attendance, there was reason to be impressed.
As the show continued, other girls appeared, with pale complexions and unbelievable objectives. One started pulling feet of multi-stranded ribbon from her midsection—I could not help be reminded of African Guinea Worm. Another girl absorbed Coke-A Cola and sprayed it into the crowd. Towards the end, a cute little go-getter came out with a box of markers. She chose the color red to be clamped inside her. Above a sheet of paper, she crouched low and planted her feet, as if to leap frog. However, instead of launching, she remained in place, thrusting her weight in a series of fine strokes. The final product was not legible until she raised it. With the same sloppiness and self-fulfillment of a kindergarten student, she had correctly spelt her name.
My participation early on drew one of the performers to my side. Seeing that I had my eyes glued to the stage, she refocused her attention there as well. “This is easy,” she spoke loudly while pawing my shoulder, “I can do this.” She was not intimidated by my female companion. Like her, the many other prostitutes I observed proceeded with a nasty disregard to all girl-friends and wives. Non-hookers were just laywomen, to be treated with insolence and inferiority.
Brushing Marian aside like a dog begging at the dinner table, she announced, “I do boom boom too.” Her overtures continued until she deemed me good-for-nothing, and went on to the few men left.
Some audience members lost patience with the show and left midway through. It almost seemed as some men came here to be stimulated, and when they were made aghast, they left. That the concept of a girl transforming her vaginal cavity as manipulative instrument perhaps had a carnal appeal at first, but in practice, was no more erotic than a gymnast holding a split, or a break-dancer extending a headstand. Yes, the women were naked. And in their appearance, they represented a foreign pulchritude to be desired, but my brain was in no mood to lust. It was instead hampered with jolting astonishment.
The absurdity of the show certainly had its own worth, but this absurdity was not achieved through its raw sexual explicitness. When it was all said and done, it was not the conventional strip show to sit sheepishly and hide my erection, I was witnessing; I had come, somewhat accidentally, to celebrate human accomplishment.
