Temporarily Thairish found himself becoming sexually aroused by the soft, gentle caresses of a toothless trio of wrinkly old Thai women the other week. It was utterly mortifying and I still shudder thinking about it. Even worse, this entirely regrettable incident happened in the hallowed and sacred grounds of a Buddhist temple. I am now definitely going to be reincarnated as a roach. In a really soggy spliff.
It was the middle of the afternoon and a gloriously hot day – something of a rarity in wet and windy monsoon season. I had just emerged from the steamy surrounds of the herbal sauna at the back of Wat Pho, when a group of gossiping old dears ordered me over. “Hey farang! You come here now!” Unimpressed by the commanding tone, but respectful of their age (which, even through my fogged-up shades, I estimated to be a collective circa 210 years), I immediately complied. I thought they were going to ask me what country I was from, but it quickly transpired that they weren’t interested in conversation. No, it was my body they were after.
My shirt was only buttoned halfway up but, within seconds, three sets of gnarled (but surprisingly deft) fingers had fully opened it and pushed it back onto my shoulders. Their eyes lit up as they stared pointedly at my chest and began to laugh delightedly. It was as if a vision of Shiva had just materialised between my nipples and started doing a moonwalk. Most Thai men don’t have any hairs on their chests so, as a person reaping the benefits of a porridge-eating childhood, I was obviously something of an oddity to them. They began stroking me softly, like they’d stroke a fabric they were thinking of buying in a curtain store.
“Ooooh!” one of them cooed, running her bony fingers through my glistening chest hairs. “Monkey man!” She was actually the sexiest of the lot (I mean, like, if I really had to). Becoming even more daring, she then plucked one off and held it up to show her friends. “Ha, ha! Farangs!”
Sad to report, but it was the most physically intimate female contact I’d had in months and, although it hurt slightly, I didn’t raise any objections. Unfortunately, I did inadvertently raise something else. Maybe it was the heat of the sun or the feel of their hands or the smell of temple incense, but, whatever it was, something about this bizarre scenario really did it for me. To my absolute horror, I felt something stirring in the front area of my loose fisherman’s pants. Something serious.
“Oh Buddha!” I murmured, a little breathlessly, as I quickly turned away to conceal my embarrassment (almost poking out the eye of one of their young grandchildren in the process). “Hey, monkey man – where you go?” one of them called after me, as I made a swift getaway – obviously enough, fleeing in the general direction of my erection.
I don’t know whether they noticed or not, but I think I’ll definitely avoid Wat Pho for a while.

As must be obvious to even the least bright of readers by now, Temporarily Thairish hasn’t been getting any in a while. Having said that, I haven’t been looking either. I’ve spent the last few months mourning a lost relationship and living like an egg stuck halfway up a chicken’s rectum. But mourning has to break sometime. The temple incident was a real wake-up call. After months of miserable celibacy, doggy wants his bone. Actually, DOGGY WANTS HIS BONE!!!!
It’s long overdue. [Woof! Woof!] I need a shag. Badly. Mrs. Pong has started asking questions about where all the soft green papayas from the tree just outside my bungalow window have been disappearing to. I’ve been blaming the monkeys, but I think she has her suspicions.
This rather sorry situation has been on my mind, and so tends to come up regularly in surreal, but usually amusing, bar conversations with total strangers. Everybody has a relationship disaster story and hard-earned words of wisdom to offer. Generally, I’ll listen to theirs if they’ll listen to mine. We usually know we’ll never see each other again so the conversations are totally honest. It’s all part of the process.
A handsome Californian, quite a serious player of the game of love, whom I recently met in a Thong Sala bar, gave me some acronymous advice about how to quickly heal a broken heart and get on with your life. “FTOW,” he said, sagely. “I’ve learned the hard way, but it’s the only goddam way to do it, man.”
“What’s FTOW?” I asked.
“Fuck Ten Other Women,” he replied. “You’ll probably be fully over your ex by the third one. But it’s always best to make sure.”
While I realised he probably had the right idea, I didn’t really want to sleep with ten women. I don’t have the energy for a start. Nor do I have a big enough bed.
No, just the one would do me. Well, initially anyway. I’d truly thought that my slag years were behind me. A part of me was hoping that my next heart-stopper would be the woman of my dreams (or one of them, at least). Sadly, life hadn't been very co-operative on that front.
Thus, the time had come to start moving on. I needed a sex life – not an ex life. The temple thing – ugh! - had proved that to me. I immediately resolved to dance the third leg boogie with the first willing partner I could find.
But who? I didn’t want a Thai girl. Although many of the locals are extremely pretty, if you get involved with a respectable Thai girl, you also get involved with her family. Pretty soon, you’ll be buying her parents a new pick-up truck. There’s a serious dowry system in operation. Get involved with a disreputable Thai girl, and it’ll likely cost you more. At least, that’s how it seems to be on this island.
No, I wanted a travelling westerner. There’s always a fairly steady flow of attractive young women passing through and I figured that if I was going to fuck a complete stranger, it’d be far better if it was one that would be leaving soon. I wasn’t looking for love, friendship or a relationship. I just wanted to lay back with somebody nice, and try not to think of Ireland.
Somewhat naively, in retrospect, I imagined that this meaningless coupling would be quite easily achieved. In all the time that I’ve been here, faithful in a long-distance, monogamous relationship (doh!), plenty of women have come on to me. This was undoubtedly more as a result of my ‘taken’ status than my winning personality – apparently, there’s nothing more attractive to a woman than the challenge of an unavailable man. Tell them they can’t have you because you’ve already got a beautiful girlfriend back home, and certain kinds of females will do almost anything to prove you wrong. Especially when they’re on both the piss and a tropical island. Sisterhood my arse!
Oh, cruel humanity! What follows pains Temporarily Thairish to write, but I feel compelled. From the moment that I’d decided to become actively single again, I gradually began to realise that something had changed. Now that I was available, people just weren’t as interested. My sexual mojo seemed to have vanished into thin Thai air.
It took several ego-destroying humiliations for this to fully sink in...
My first botched attempt at seduction was with a beautiful, raven-haired, twenty-something Belgian named Monique (not her real name, needless to say). She’d been doing an intensive ten-day course at the Yoga Retreat, and I’d met her several times on the beach. Always reading an interesting book, or practicing an even more interesting yoga position (on one memorable day, she was doing both at the same time), she was definitely my kind of girl. On the spur of the moment, I asked her to come to lunch with me. She immediately removed her left leg from behind her right ear, and accepted.
We went to one of the local seafood restaurants. I didn’t want to take her to the Double Duke. I knew that, if I did, my landlord Mr. Pong would somehow screw it up for me. He wouldn’t mean to. But it would definitely happen. Thai-style.
As it didn’t turn out, I screwed it up myself. Monique and I had a really enjoyable shrimp meal. Or rather, she did. Forgetting myself, several times, I opted for the liquid variety of lunch, which didn’t particularly impress her. Still, we were having fun. I felt she was flirting with me throughout, and her body language was suggestive. We stayed sitting there talking until shortly after sunset.
I felt we had a lot in common – or at least enough for an enjoyable one night stand. Sadly, she shot me down in flames just as a romantic twilight fell and the jungle crickets began chirping their evening chorus. It was a now or never moment. I went to stroke her hair, hopefully as a prelude to our first kiss, and she suddenly stiffened uncomfortably. Slightly shamefaced, I immediately pulled my hand away. Oops!
“I’m sorry, you seem like a nice guy,” she said. “But you’re a little bit too intense right now. You spent the whole time talking about your ex. You also smoked about thirty cigarettes. And no offence, but you seem to drink quite a lot.”
Shit! Smoking, boozing and moaning about my ex. Cardinal crimes! Especially with a yoga babe. What had I been thinking? I’d totally forgotten that thing you do of not showing women what you’re really like too early in the game. I should’ve eaten lettuce, drunk mineral water and talked Tantric. Fortunately, she was leaving the island the next day so I didn’t have to bump into her again. And there were no hard feelings (except on Doggy’s part). We swapped email addresses, before politely kissing goodbye.
I was disappointed, but not disheartened. A lesson had been learned. Monique had been beautiful, but hardly unique. There were still plenty of fish in the sea. And as Pong once memorably observed, even more on de beach.

A couple of nights later, I smilingly entered the local Reggae Bar in the company of Emma and Fiona – two pleasantly plump and extremely lovely Leeds hairdressers. Staying in the beach bungalows next to mine, they were in Thailand on a fortnight’s holiday and definitely out for a good time. We’d been chatting for a while and I reckoned I was in with a pretty good chance with either of them. And if Buddha was smiling, possibly even both at the same time.
Buddha wasn’t smiling. He was sniggering. The second we walked in, Danny, the English barman, called over to me in a complaining voice, “Chroist Olaf, you always bring the facking dogs in wiv ye!” I glared furiously at him and turned, apologetically, to the girls. “Sorry, he’s just being incredibly rude. I don’t know what his problem is. I’ve never brought any girls to this bar before. And I don’t think that you’re dogs at all.”
Emma gave me the evil eye. “He was talking about them,” she seethed, pointing to Baguette and Snoopy, the two beach dogs who’d obviously followed us up.
“Oh right,” I laughed, nervously. “Those...em... dogs.”
They weren’t impressed. I had blown it. I saw a look pass between Emma and Fiona that most definitely said, “This guy is not getting any.” I bought them a drink anyway, but soon made my excuses and brought Baguette and Snoopy home. Game Over. Apparently, Danny scored with Fiona later. I can only hope that he caught something really nasty from her.
The following morning, something unexpected happened. It was like one of those Lyons Tea ‘golden moments’. I was wandering aimlessly down the beach, avoiding Emma, Fiona and Danny, and mentally bemoaning my lack of sexual success, when I suddenly found myself playing frisbee with a real cutie. I didn’t even have to introduce myself. She had been playing with one of the old Thai guys who sell clothes and jewellery on the beach. He threw the frisbee over to me, inviting me to join their game, and about a minute later disappeared off with a wave and his wares. I immediately resolved to buy something expensive off him soon. He had handed her to me on a plastic plate.
She was blonde-haired, black-bikinied and looked to be in her early thirties. We threw the Frisbee back and forth for about ten minutes, occasionally laughing but not really talking, and never coming closer than five metres to each other. The vibe was good, though. And the bikini was quite revealing. I slyly threw a few low ones, forcing her to bend forwards to catch them. Wow! She was really gorgeous. What was I going to say when we eventually tired of this game?
Nothing at all, as it turned out. Buddha sniggered again and disaster struck. I flicked the Frisbee a little too enthusiastically and it smacked her hard on the bridge of her nose. She gave a shriek and threw her hands up to her face. As if on cue, her boyfriend or husband suddenly turned up, a muscular knight in shining Speedos. He shot me a truly filthy look and led her off towards their bungalow. She didn’t even look back at me. And that was it. She was gone. I never even caught her name. Just her Frisbee.
Walking dejectedly back home, I passed Danny on the beach. He had a big, shit-eating grin on his face.

Later on that night, I took myself off to Slutsville – aka Had Rin beach - and went to one of the bigger dance bars, which are always full of young, free and sometimes single women. Having fully scoped out the Paradise Bar, I eventually spotted an Israeli girl dancing alone. She was utterly gorgeous and a really sexy dancer. I’d watched her for a while and hadn’t spotted any boyfriends or companions. She seemed to be on her own. A lot of Israeli women come to this island directly after finishing their compulsory two years in the army. They tend to be pretty wild.
I sat at a nearby table just off her otherwise deserted section of the dance floor. She was dancing right in front of me. I lit a cigarette, struck a pose, and waited for her to notice. I’d catch her eye, invite her over, and get her talking. Having first hit her with my spiel about what a famous, wonderful and shaggable author I was, I’d then show her the copies of my books that I just happened to have brought along with me in a knapsack. Hardback and paperback versions.
All my guns were out. I had some copies of Hot Press with me as well. As a final back-up, I’d also brought along a signed photograph of myself standing with Bono and Edge (ah, computer technology!). The inscription reads, “O - How can we ever thank you enough? We were stuck in a moment we couldn’t get out of until you came along. Your disciples, Paul & Dave.” In fairness, they weren’t the ones who signed this photograph. But it’s still a signed pic of me and U2. I just hoped the band were big in Israel.
I waited for her to notice the dark, mysterious and unshaven Irishman who was so coolly watching her. She knew I was looking, but hadn’t moved away. Our eyes were destined to lock. I was willing it to happen. Then some German gobshite suddenly zoned in and started dancing around her like a particularly demented ape. He was wearing just a sarong and one of those stupid red frizzy wigs that you sometimes see morons wearing in football stands. I knew he was from Germany because he’d had the German flag body-painted across the whole of his back. Along with the word ‘Germany’. Classy.
“What a total fucking idiot!” I laughed to myself, as I watched him trying to impress my future Israeli lover with his Neanderthal dance moves. “Doesn’t he realise that he’s in my way? The wigged fool is just going to embarrass himself!”
Within less than a minute, they were eating the faces off one another.
Several similar disappointments later, I decided to go home. I found myself sharing a taxi with a busty blonde, who was apparently staying at a beach near to mine. She was already sitting in the back when I went up to it. She looked a little rough, but rough can have its moments. When I asked her where exactly she was from, she opened her mouth and vomited all over the floor of the cab.
The following night, I was drinking my woes away, and pouring my heart out to Kes, the My Way barman. “I don’t know what’s happened to me, man,” I moaned. “I used to be good with women, but now look at me. I’ve become a papaya molester. I think I’ve lost my mojo.”
“It’s hardly surprising,” he laughed. “Face it, you’ve been wiv the one bird for the last few years. You’re just totally out of practise with the ladies.”
“Looks like I’m gonna stay that way too,” I muttered, disconsolately (to Kes’s great amusement, I’d already wasted a good half hour of my evening trying to chat up a local lesbian).
“Nah, you’ll be alright,” he reassured me. “It ’appens to us all, mate. Well, actually, it’s never ‘appened to me but... well, you know.” He gave a modest shrug, scratched his crotch, and stared off with a small smile for a moment or two.
“Look, it’s always the same,” he eventually went on. “You know it yerself. When yer gettin’ it regular, you get more and more offers. But when you ain’t getting none, you ain’t getting none. Chicks can always tell. They can smell the desperation. And chicks won’t shag desperate blokes. Human nature, innit?”
Jacques the long-haired, long-tail boatman had been listening to our conversation. He had an obvious solution. “You stupid fucking Irishman! Why don’t you juzz go to ze ‘orny mile? Zey will empty your zack for you!”
The Horny Mile is a notorious stretch of road between Thong Sala and Ban Tai, where most of the island’s whorehouses and girly bars are (somewhat weirdly, the main high school is bang in the middle of the strip). I’ve been there a couple of times before for a drink and a look. The bars are always full of ugly men being fawned over by beautiful young women. The girls tend to be extremely friendly, sometimes even genuinely so. Despite their charms, though, I’d always been thankful that research was all I was there for. Not my scene.
“Nah - come on!” I said, shaking my head. “I’m desperate but I’m not that fucking desperate. I’m not gonna pay for it.”
“Ha!” he snorted. “Wiz women and sex you weel always pay for eet somehow.”
On that sobering (but actually drunken) note, Jacques disappeared. Kes moved off to serve another customer. I sat there alone, nursing my drink and cursing my luck. I’m living on a tropical beach in Thailand and I can’t get laid. That’s a bit like living in Bill Gates’ house and not being able to get online. It occurred to me that maybe I was that desperate. And that maybe Jacques was right.
I stood up to leave.
“You off already, Olaf?” Kes called over.
“Yeah, man. Gotta write a column.”
“Making up loads of shit about me again, are yer?”
“Naturally.”
Once out of sight of the bar, I furtively slipped off up to the nearest hotel and ordered a taxi to Ban Tai. The respectable-looking, middle-aged receptionist asked me where exactly in Ban Tai I wanted to go. “Em... I’ll tell the driver where to stop,” I stammered.
“Oh, you want to get lady?” she said, completely unruffled.
“Yeah,” I admitted, sheepishly. “I want lady.”
“OK” she beamed. “No problem. Two hundred baht to Ban Tai. Have a good tam.”
She gave the driver instructions. About my age, he laughed and gave me a salacious wink. We walked to his taxi. Although it had just started to rain, I opted to sit in the back of his pick-up. I didn’t feel like talking. It occurred to me that I was actually quite drunk. Maybe the rain would help.

Throughout the twenty-minute journey, I watched the jungle speed past, got extremely wet, and pondered the moral ramifications of the deed I was en route to do. Did the idea of paying for sex make me feel good about myself? Of course it didn’t. Was that going to stop me? I didn’t think so. I’m a single man and I needed to get my mojo back. Besides, apart from the small matter of the fee, what’s the difference between a casual, no-strings shag with a complete stranger and a casual, no-strings shag with a whore? It’s just sex at the end of the day. All the same thing if you’re not planning on getting emotionally involved.
Or is it? I’d recently read a book called Sex Slaves by an English academic called Louise Brown. Although she comes across as a bit of a man-hater, you can’t really blame her. Having researched prostitution in such countries as India, Pakistan, Japan, Burma, Vietnam, Cambodia, Singapore and Thailand, her book is full of extremely grim stories about girls being kidnapped, abused, raped and sometimes even murdered by unscrupulous brothel-keepers. There’s a very dark side to the Asian sex industry. The same one that I was about to both participate in and contribute to.
But what difference would it make, whether I did or didn’t? Although the Asian sex trade is often assumed to cater predominantly to foreigners, in fact the opposite is true. While sex tourism is a reasonably significant factor in the industry’s growth (mainly because foreigners always pay more), the primary users of Asia’s many millions of prostitutes are actually Asian men.
Prostitution is illegal in Thailand, but widely tolerated and culturally ingrained. While family values are considered important (on the surface at least), many Thai men regularly frequent brothels. Richer types have mistresses – or “minor wives” as they’re called – but the average Joe just goes to the whores. Strangely, Thai wives seem to be accept this. The attitude appears to be “better that he visits prostitutes than he has another love.”
Brown’s book also makes the point that many poor Thai farming families used to traditionally sell one or two of their teenage daughters into sexual slavery (by accepting an advance from an ‘agent’ on her future earnings) in order to stave off starvation or extreme poverty. Nowadays, though, many do it because of simple greed. Years ago, families sold their daughters in order to buy rice. Now they sell them off to buy colour TV’s. In many reported cases, the father has taken the daughter’s virginity before selling her.
However, we live in a cruel and fucked-up world, and none of this was my fault. From what little I had seen of the Ban Tai bar girls, many of them seemed to be on the game by choice. They’re not locked-up in a room, they all seem to have mobile phones, and they certainly have a sassy attitude. Many of them wear a standard T-shirt bearing the rather blatant legend, ‘NO MONEY – NO HONEY’. They don’t look like they lead miserable lives.
Rather than men taking advantage of them, it often seems to work the other way around. I’ve met quite a few farangs who’ve fallen in love with a Thai bar girl, been totally milked of their money, and then unceremoniously dumped when they’re broke. It happens a lot over here, and is the subject of numerous local farang-authored books.
I met an Australian guy who’d sent money over every month, so his newly-found sweetheart wouldn’t have to work in the bar any more. He’d also bought her a moped and paid the rent on her apartment. When he finally made it back over to see her, he realised that she’d continued her bar work (which wasn’t pulling pints) – and that he wasn’t the only guy sending her money. When he confronted her about this, she had some Thai guys kick the shit out of him.
“I thought she really loved me,” he told me. “I really, truly did.”
“Do you still love her?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he sobbed. “Maybe we can still work things out.”
That definitely wasn’t going to happen to me. I was just looking for a simple shag with a wham-bam-thankyou-maam. The whiney guilty Catholic voice in my head told me that I should be ashamed of myself. But I’d just been reading about the abuse in Ferns on the internet. So fuck off Catholic guilt! This is planet Earth.
As the taxi neared Ban Tai, I recalled the gist of something that the English artist Sebastian Horsley once told me in an interview (I’ve since looked it up).
“The whorefuck is absolutely pure,” he said. “It’s free of any ulterior motives. There is no squalid power game. The man is not taking, the woman is not giving. The woman is taking, the man is taking. No-one is attempting to control a husband or humiliate a wife. No-one is trying to prove anything or get anything out of anyone. The whorefuck is the purest of them all – and the brothel is the home of spirituality.”
I’m not entirely sure I agree with him. But that rainy night, sitting in the back of the pick-up truck, I decided that I did.
By the time we hit the Horny Mile, my clothes were soaked through. The driver slowed the car as we drove past each bar – every one a riot of lights, noise and colour. There didn’t appear to be too many people about, but maybe everyone was hiding from the rain. Eventually I banged on the back window and told him to stop outside The Lucky Bar. It didn’t look like the home of spirituality, but we were almost at the end of the strip.
I hopped out of the back and landed with a splash. Taking a deep breath, I waded across the road and walked in, looking like a drowned rat. The bar was lit up like a Christmas tree and there was some cheesy disco music playing. There were a few other farangs sitting around – the usual sad, middle-aged fucks you always see in these places (not that I was in any position to talk) – and maybe about fifteen bar girls. Big smiles all round. The girls were all in their early to mid-twenties. The hard-faced, but friendly, madam in charge looked to be in her early forties. She immediately came over and handed me a towel to dry myself. “Hello meester! You looking for woman?”
“Yeah.”
She motioned to one of the girls, who immediately came over, took me by the hand and led me to a table. This was all happening a little faster than I wanted. I hadn’t really looked around properly, but she was pretty enough. Anyway, I didn’t want to insult her by rejecting her and choosing someone else, especially with everybody watching. In her early 20s, she told me that her name was Nad and, when I ordered us both a drink, I couldn’t help noticing that the vodka was poured from different bottles.
There wasn’t much in the way of smalltalk. We both knew why I was there.
“You wan me?” she asked.
“Em...sure.”
“Pay at de bar first.”
The bill for the two drinks – my vodka and Nad’s “vodka” – came to 300 baht. Nad’s forthcoming services added another 1,200. Thirty euros, all told. I paid the madam, who thanked me and wished me an enjoyable experience. Nad and I carried our drinks off to a small room at the back of the bar. She closed the door and we were alone.
The brothel owner had spared every expense. There was no bathroom. The windowless room was lit with a depressing blue light and stank of stale sweat, sex and semen. There was a make-up strewn dressing table and an overstuffed wardrobe, but that was it in the way of furniture. Dominating most of the room was a crusty old mattress. There were no sheets. I wondered how many bodies had lain on it. That day. With Nad.
Foreplay didn’t last four seconds. She was totally naked in less than five. There was no ceremony about it. She pulled her dress over her head and quickly slipped her panties off. Whew! She was definitely a girl. With a very nice body. She lay down on the mattress, opened her legs wide and said, “OK – we boom-boom now?”
[The Thai’s call fucking ‘boom-boom’. Or as one Thai girl once sarcastically put it to me - ‘boom’. Thai men scored the lowest amount of time spent on foreplay in a recent international sex survey].
“Em... just hang on a tic,” I said. I was trying to pull my soaked shirt over my head, but it was sticking to my skin. I managed to get it halfway up before it got stuck, leaving me with my face covered and my arms held up in the air for a few awkward moments. Giggling, Nad took advantage of this and pulled open the cord of my fisherman’s pants. She swiftly pulled them down and cooed professionally at the view. “Oooh.” She grabbed me quite roughly and I immediately jumped back, almost tripping over the trousers around my ankles. “Hey! Easy there!”
She giggled again. I stepped out of my trousers and lay down on the mattress. It didn’t smell too good. I noticed a few stuffed teddy bears beside the row of toilet rolls at the side of it. Nad took me in hand again, a little more gently this time. I began to relax a little. Fuck guilty feelings! I was there now and I figured I might as well try to enjoy the experience. She tried to kiss me, but it didn’t feel right and I turned my head away. She didn’t take offence.
She began to go down on me. Can you catch anything serious from a blowjob? I’ve written several knowing articles about AIDS, HIV and safe sex in my career, but I really couldn’t remember. Still, I definitely didn’t want to be unprotected in a Koh Pha Ngan whorehouse.
“Nad! Nad! Stop that!” She looked up quizzically. “Do you have any condoms?” I asked.
“Oh, you want condom?” she asked. From the way she said it, I realised that condoms really weren’t on her list of priorities. She got up and fetched one from the dresser drawer. Then she put it on me (not particularly expertly) and went back to what she had been doing. I watched with complete and utter detachment. I wasn’t feeling any great pleasure. I was just feeling kind of numb.
About fifteen seconds into this, the door suddenly opened and another girl entered the room. Seeming quite oblivious to the act being performed, she asked Nad a question in Thai (something along the lines of “Have you seen my hairbrush?”). Nad took her mouth off me long enough to answer and went back to work. The girl walked across the room and fetched something from the dresser. She looked at me and grinned widely before exiting.
It made me rather uncomfortable, to say the least..
“Nad! Nad!” I said. “Will you please lock the door!”
She looked up again and said, “Dere’s no lock!” The she put her head down again. I looked over at the door. Anybody could walk in.
This wasn’t working. It wasn’t just the unlocked door – it was everything. If I was looking to find my mojo, I definitely wasn’t going to find it in this awful little room. Time to call a halt, and chalk the night up to experience. I sat up and gently pushed her off me. “Look, stop!”
Nad stopped and immediately lay back on the bed. “OK – we boom-boom now?”
I began to remove the condom. “No, it’s alright. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to do this.”
She looked at me sadly. “You no like me?”
“Really, it’s not you – it’s me.” I got up and went to fetch my sodden clothes. Suddenly looking frightened, Nad lunged across the mattress and tried to stop me. “No! Please don’t go!” She really didn’t want me to leave.
I tried to reassure her that it really wasn’t her fault. “Nad, you’re gorgeous. But I shouldn’t have come here. I made a mistake, that’s all.”
Her eyes began to water. “Please stay wid me!” she begged. “Please don’t go!”
“Sorry, but I don’t want to be here.”
“You ged me into big twouble if you go now,” she said. “Stay wid me!” She was really crying now.
The penny dropped. We’d only been in the room for a few minutes. If I came out too early, the madam would think that Nad hadn’t sufficiently pleased me. But what then? She was unlikely to offer me a refund. And what would happen to Nad?
“It’s alright,” I said reassuringly. “I’ll wait here with you for a while. But what kind of trouble would you be in?”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked away. I didn’t press the matter, and swiftly got dressed. Then I lay down beside her again and she snuggled her naked body up against mine. We lay like that for the next ten minutes, not really saying very much. It wasn’t particularly intimate, it was just what we did. I stroked her hair a few times.
Heavy rains drummed off the corrugated roof over our heads. I spotted a framed and fading photograph of a smiling Thai couple holding up a little girl. She told me they were her parents and they lived in a village in the North of Thailand. Yes, they knew what she did. She sent them money every month. Yes, she slept in this room as well as worked in it. Along with two of the other girls.
Eventually enough time had passed for it to be okay for us to leave. As Nad got dressed, she meekly asked, “You have tip for me?” It was a bit cheeky under the circumstances, but I gave her 300 baht.
When we walked back into the bar, the madam looked over at me. I gave her the most satisfied-looking smile I could muster and asked if she could order me a taxi. She told me it would take about twenty minutes, so why not have a drink. Reassured that I wasn’t going to complain about her, Nad gave my hand a loveless squeeze and then disappeared back into the room. I got a drink and then went and sat at a table by the window. It was bucketing down outside. My clothes were wet and clammy. I felt vaguely sick. Totally empty inside.
A ravaged-looking English biker came and sat uninvited at my table. In his forties, he had a head shaped like a peanut, a dirty mullet and amateurish green jailhouse tattoos on his emaciated-looking arms. His eyes were sly and glassy. “I see you’ve ‘ad Nad,” he chortled, clinking his bottle of beer off my glass. “Do you geddit? ‘Ad-Nad! Ha, ha! She’s a roight facking goer, that one is, I can tell yer.”
I smiled weakly and nodded at him. I wanted to tell him to go away but I didn’t have the energy for an argument. He started waffling on about all the prostitutes he’d been having since he’d arrived. I wasn’t interested and tried to tune him out. Still, he waffled on. He was extremely pissed.
Outside, the gutters were overflowing and the road had now been transformed into a gushing river. I suddenly got the urge to leave. I wanted out of this hellhole. I was sorry I’d ever came. Big mistake. Yet another one. I stood up and walked quickly towards the exit. “Hey – your taxi not come yet,” the madam called over. I ignored her and stepped out onto the flooded street. “Hey, crazy farang! Stop!” The whole bar was staring. I turned and walked off. She ran to the door and called after me again, but I kept on going.
The rain was cold and blinding. I was totally drenched again within seconds. There was no pavement and it was very dark. As I waded down the road through the rushing water, it occurred to me that I could easily be hit by a passing car or motorbike. But there was no way I was going back to the bar. I kept on walking, not at all cleansed by the rain, not even sure where I was going.
Somewhat appropriately, I realised that I was singing a riff from David Gray’s ‘Sail Away’ under my breath. “Little darlin’, if you hear me now...”