The FARANG Speaks 2 Much (tfs2m)

“You know what they really want to take out of the equation?” said Steve from Auckland. “The FUCKING.”

We were holding down a bench at Wicca (my term for Angelwitch in Pattaya), watching some wicked Wiccans shake their moneymakers. Steve shoved a lime wedge down his Corona longneck while I bubbled my typical tit-shop tipple: nahm sohdaa. He expounded: “They want the guys, they want to sell the drinks, they want the tips, they want the guys to buy those buckets of ping-pong balls, they want it all except the FUCKING.”

He had the conundrum nailed. I assume all readers know that Pattaya isn’t really a city, a tambon/amphoe/province or anything like that but rather: a game preserve. The problem with taking the fucking out of the equation is that the carnal embrace is the steak in this particular steakhouse. You go to the game preserve and feed the alpha-lion a baked potato and see what happens to your sorry ass. Thailand wants Pattaya to bring in lots of rich tourists who will then be sheared of their excess cash and sent packing, to return next year for another thousand-baht baked potato.

Of course this is opium-pipe dreamin’. Pattaya’s clotted back-streets teem with beta-lions roaming around in various states of leonine-entropy. Visions of badassism haunt them—whether they wanted to be bikers, football-hooligans, rock stars or whatever, they now wander the lanes of PTY in search of cheap beer or pussy or a Cornish pasty, I don’t know, I don’t ask. I go about my day, they go about theirs.

Hanging with Steve at Wicca was a highlight. I hadn’t been to Wicca Bangkok in quite some time (apparently it’s still “for sale”) and since in Pattaya the gals can get nekkid as Gawd Almighty intended, the shows are snappier. Some embrace campiness: one with gals in luridly colored bobbed-hair wigs was particularly fun. In deference to the 21st century, they do an Internet chatroom fantasy-thing where some bottle-blonde brought a laptop onto stage and mimed fiddling with a rubber dildo while spamming your bandwidth. And if you recall Pim—the tall, stern katoey who used to run the shows at Wicc-BKK—she’s now performing ONstage.

Internal combustion hell I’m getting ahead of myself. After four days on a southern island relaxing and scuba-diving (one of Thailand’s highlights), I took a minivan to Krabi airport, flew to Suwannapoom, and tried to get the airport bus to Pattaya. I was there in time, but the bus was sold out. I sprung for a 1500-baht taxi, tossed my bags in and off we went.

But when we reached Pattaya, the woman who had so confidently driven me the entire distance seemed to lose all sense of direction. In a tragicomic scenario, she drove around the area, driving me directly past Lolita’s, where I spotted my favorite oral technician sitting outside waiting for me to show up so she could do what she does best. That being pleasure my pole in a friendly and erotic fashion. But I was trapped in an automobile by some dingbat who was now resorting to calling some friend and asking for directions (”it’s on SOI TEN!” I kept saying). This place was not hard to find.

And when I showed up with my prepaid voucher from asiatravel.com (used them for years, never a problem before), the room had not been booked. The group runs a number of properties in the area (they’ve rebranded existing 2/3-star hotels, a smart approach in Asia—Super 8 is doing the same thing in China) and they found me a room at another nearby hotel within the chain. So I parked my bags and made a beeline for Lolita’s, where fortunately my fave tech was still available.

She’s got waist-length hair now, dyed dark red, and looks great although she is now 30. This gal’s been blowing me since Soi-6-Lolita’s was called Alleycats, back at the original Lolita’s in the now-razed Asoke Plaza (she’s the one who told me it would be razed). I like her, and while Lolita’s is known for the skill of its technicians, she’s on the A-list. So if you’re in Pattaya in search of a decent blowjob, try Nong at Lolita’s.

She’s happy to see me. LL’s in PTY has nice room’s with couches and reclining chairs. But the chair’s broken, so I’m on the couch. There’s a handy half-length mirror so you can glance over for that all-important porn-angle if you’re so inclined. I really like the attention this gal gives to my dang-a-long-ling-long. I like the whole no-bullshit attitude of Lolita’s. In due time, I pop my cork. Nice.

I’d just arrived from an island, and while I enjoy Thai-island holiday-mode, I’ve yet to find an island that provides the consistently high levels of comestibles common in Thai towns. You’re eating on the dive-boat or, after a day of playing Captain Nemo in a wetsuit, you’re driven to your resort and after catching the sunset, you eat there and the food’s just as bland. It keeps you alive. But after awhile you really start craving some solid, meaty substance. It’s like you’re at Rocco’s Steak Palace and they keep dishing up creamed spinach.

So I went to Burger King, got the most monstrous burger they had and wolfed it down. Then I went back to my new hotel room and got a good night’s sleep.