The FARANG Speaks 2 Much (tfs2m)

The second night of the Fringe Recon Mission recently took place (after the sortie to Beautiful).It began early in the afternoon with a series of harassing phone calls from Khun J. at first they were subtle: ‘Hey, numbskull. What’re you doin’ tonight?’ Then a bit more aggressive: ‘Listen, Khun O. and I goin’ out. He has a place that he says we’ve got to see…You comin’ or what?’ Then the calls became down right confrontational: ‘Look, you’re either with us or against us. Now get it together soldier! Khun O. says you can wear shorts, no need to dress fancy either… And don’t bring sand to the beach this time…War is Hell, son. So, what’s going to be?’ ‘I’m in,’ I said with straight forward determination. What else could I say? What else could I do? Surely I couldn’t abandon my comrades in arms. Besides, that last parting comment had drawn a line in the dirt, the gauntlet had been thrown down; the challenge made, challenge to my standing and status in the BBC (Bangkok Boys Club), a challenge to my manhood, really. There was no way I was going to be caught carrying coal to Newcastle again. Well, at least not two nights in a row.

There’s really only one thing to do when one is faced with a situation like this: Lie.

Maybe not lie. Lie is such a strong word – it’s more like omission, not revealing everything; only answering the questions asked, not offering secondary or tertiary information – isn’t lying. When forced to answer or otherwise speak, think smoke and mirrors.

Armed with superior charm and intellect, the guile of a soi dog and the sincerity of a local politician, I put my plot into motion.

First, I changed the channel on the TV from Bloomberg to some random Thai series, then sat down beside my next ex-girlfriend and wove a tale rich in vagueness and as ambiguous as the liquor laws here in Mangoville. Realizing the karmic tightrope I was treading upon, I feigned ignorance as to the actual destination and purpose of the evening. Which wasn’t exactly lying, my inner attorney told me, since I didn’t actually know where I was going, and I did say, truthfully, that I was going out drinking with Khun J. and Khun O.

Two boxes of Pocky (one strawberry, one chocolate), a bottle of Coke Zero, and a bag of dried squidy strings and a new Thai series about to begin, I was out the door and making my way down the soi like tomcat on the prowl, mobile phone in hand getting directions to our rendezvous point.

I grabbed a taxi and relayed the destination and directions to the driver. Destination: Acacia. Location: Changwattana Road.

Judging by his reaction – a grin, a giggle and a twinkling eyed glance in the rearview mirror, I knew I was in for an interesting and I suspect entertaining night.

A straight shot down Prachachuen Road from my pad, past Beautiful, a left at Changwattana Road, U-turn and then a right turn across traffic and down a discreet soi about 50m and there it was: Acacia Karaoke.

The first thing that I noticed was quality of the talent loitering about the stylish, well-appointed façade of marble, chrome, neon and ubiquitous strings of twinkling lights that beckon and lure men of all stripes like a siren’s song. The next thing that I noticed was the size of Khun O’s grin as he came out to greet me, ‘Hey man, why are you wearing pants man? Didn’t Khun J. tell you to wear shorts?’ ‘What? No, he didn’t say anything about wearing shorts. All he said was that I could wear whatever and not to worry about dressing up. He never said anything about wearing shorts…’ ‘That’s ok man. You’re supposed to wear shorts so the girls can stick their hands up there and play with you man. C’mon, we got a place near the stage…’

As I walked into Acacia what caught my eye was the plethora of poo-ying, so many different looks and varieties I thought this must be the Baskin & Robins of beauties. About the only flavors missing were the fat, old, dark-skinned mothers of six with bad teeth and rough hands and the loud talking, always eating, squat bodied, overzealous cling-on, lazy eye types who believe they’re sexy.

The next thing that caught my eye as we were escorted to our seating area was Khun J. practically sprawled out on an ‘L’ shaped sectional with what appeared to be a Japanese porn star chatting him up – drink in one hand, the other somewhere up the right leg of his shorts.

Rolling his eyes, hardly able to focus, Khun J. spoke like the lounge lizard that he is. ‘What are you wearing pants for? I told you to wear shorts…’ Envious, I replied, ‘No, you told me I didn’t have to dress up. I thought you were saying that so you wouldn’t be the only one dressed like a dirtbag. Speak straight next time or I might start to think that you’re Thai.’

Before this verbal nonsense could continue, drinks were poured and Khun O. was making a toast as one of the sales girls was inquired as to which style of girl I might be interested in for company. With a gregarious laugh, Khun O. said, ‘All! Cheers!’

The booze flowed and many girls – so many that I lost count because their mind-boggling beauty – came by to charm and tempt us.

At Acacia the expectation is, aside form drinking, that the customers will fondle the girls and be fondled in return – no shyness allowed. The more we fondled, the more we were fondled and fondling to such an extent that by the time the first show started I had completed my internship as a freelance gynecologist and my prostate was pronounced to be in good health by no fewer than three certified specialists.

Then the first show began with approximately twenty coyote girls gyrating around chrome poles and undulating on every available countertop, bar and end table, of which there are plenty of strewn about the main floor seating area. And the seats – both booths and sectionals are arranged in such a way as to offer the best possible views of the talent from every angle for the customer’s discerning inspection.

The next act, we were told, was the ‘model show.’ As we were being told about the ‘model show,’ we were offered heart-shaped containers of body cream. The charming Ms. Gung kindly explained that the when the ‘models’ finished their first two songs on stage they would come around to the various seating areas and, for a small tip, allow us to apply the cream to their bodies wherever we felt was appropriate.

The house lights dimmed, strobes and lasers began to flash and down the center aisle like to prize-fighters, strode two of the finest women I have ever seen in my nearly decade of decadence in the Land of Smiles: tall, statuesque and stunning; absolutely mesmerizing.

The three of us were speechless – an amazing feat to say the least – as these ‘models’ began their show which could only be described as a sensuous pantomime somewhere between full-on lesbian love making, reptilian courtship and a Madonna video. The big difference between these ‘models’ and the other girls of the first coyote show is that they were not available prior to their show – they weren’t hanging about and during their show, they showed…perfect nubile…almost everything… The second song ended and The 2 Sexiest Girls in the World (at least at that time) began to make the rounds. I sat there contemplating the cost of bagging such a babe. I never completed the accounting. Not only was I drunk, but one of them was straddling me with a leg draped over my left shoulder. Cream in hand I began to rub… when she said ‘tip,’ I folded 2 hundred Baht notes between my teeth, deftly pulled back the waistband of her almost-not there panties and placed them near the flower of her lotus. Apparently this was a new technique as it caused her to giggle and the crowd to cheer. Well worth the 200B and any trouble I was surely to get in for smelling like sexy girl cream when I returned to my abode.

On the upstroke of 2am (pun intended) my phone began to buzz – apparently the Pocky had run out and the Thai series had finished. The girls that were now with sitting with us began to tease me about ‘someone call to you lor?’ ‘Your girlfriend call to you, maybe your wife?’ I said ‘No.’ Why bother with the truth now? ‘My daughter, I told her I would buy her something. But now too late to go to the store…’

And before I could say another word, the nameless sexpot next to produced a switchblade Hello Kitty comb and matching make-up compact with mirror, I offered to buy them on the spot; she said no, ‘I give to you for your daughter…’ A kiss or three and a parting feel – by her, and I was on my way to the men’s room attempting to wash off or at least mask the heavy perfume smell of the ‘model’ cream. No dice. Not even the industrial strength cleanser in the bathroom could cut through it. Oh well, I tried. Armed with my newly acquired Hello Kitty paraphernalia and status and standing in the BBC confirmed, I bid Khun J. and Khun O. farewell – doubt they even heard me say ‘goodbye’ as they were both in the thralls of tongue wrestling two of Acacia’s finest, gave the ‘Hello Kitty’ girl a nice tip and swapped phone numbers with nong Guitar (my favorite fondler / fondlee of the evening), and headed out into the night to catch a cab.

Upon reaching my home, I was met with pouting and an accusatory look until I produced the ‘Hello Kitty’ goods, Thwack! From philandering flirting goat to thoughtful hero in the flick of a ‘Hello Kitty’ switchblade comb and she didn’t even notice the scent of the scent of the sexy ‘model’ cream.

Practical information:

Membership is not required, but it is definitely the way to go: 10,000B membership (good for a year) that includes 5, yes 5 bottles of Chivas Regal and unlimited mixers, ice and access (free of charge as well) to VIP rooms and no fees for the girls’ time when they sit with you (provided of course you let them drink your booze). Also, for the non-drinkers, you can swap a bottle of booze in exchange for a bar fine (2500B). Bar fines include everything – no need to pay more for the shag or whatever once you’ve left the premises unless the you feel the ‘service’ warrants it.

Be careful of the ladydrinks – they are a bit pricey (300-500B) and the girls will drink like sailors. It’s better to have them drink from your booze. They are ambiguous when they ask if they can have a drink. If you say ‘sure,’ expect a ladydrink charge on your tab, you need to be direct and say ‘sure, have a drink from my whiskey.’ No harm done or pride damaged.

Our bin for the entire night was high – 18,000B+, but that included a membership, more fondling than an altar boy, sexy ‘model’ cream, constant companionship, many ladydrinks, some Bill Clinton-style sex that isn’t sex for me and both Khun J. and Khun O. were shagged senseless – Khun J’s honey even accompanied him home for extra ‘treatment’ sans service charge / taxi money.

Not as cheap as Beautiful, but all in all one helluva good time, and there are still three bottles on the membership…