Last Saturday the Old Roue visited Pattaya for a break from Bangkok. I hadn’t visited Walking Street for ages and told Mam that we would only be out for a few hours. She said fine, since my libido shut down after three drinks. My son’s mother kissed me in the cheek and returned to watching her Thai soap, in which the mia noi’s daughter had been her father’s son.
“Every one of those soaps is the same.” The Old Roue was eager to visit the fleshpots of Pattaya. “Someone always ends up in the hospital unconscious and the rich man marries the good girl.”
“Don’t forget a lot of yelling.” Ancient Thai culture was based on a respect for your betters, but these days hi-so wasn’t getting the proper wai from the lo-so.
“Yes, Thais love yelling in their soaps.”
“TV imitating life.” We mounted our motor scooters and set off for Walking Street, the main drag for go-go bars in the Last Babylon.
When Eve bit into the apple, humankind lost its innocence and immediately the two realized that they were naked in paradise. Her nudity didn’t matter to Eve, but Adam forced her to wear leaves, so the animals didn’t stare at the first woman. Ever since then man has spent time and money to undo Adam’s error and this evening Walking Street seemed rammed with people, although most of them were Chinese or Russian bus tourists taking in the wanton sights of Pattaya.
We hit several go gos. This was the bottom of the low season. Each bar was hurting for customers and the girls were hungry for any kind of action; long or short time. They danced with a wicked abandon in hopes of getting lucky with two old farangs.
We bought them drinks. We groped their naked bodies. We left without a promise to come back to barfine them for the night. The two of us had been patronizing go-go around the world for a combined total of 75 years and we understood the game and all its eccentricities, yet I was amazed by the Old Roue’s mesmerization by the sight of a naked woman and suggested that he enter the London Olympics as a media-worthy voyeur.
“It sounds like an all male event.”
“Women glare instead of gawk.” I was familiar with my wife’s piercing gaze and ordered another vodka tonic. I was on my fourth and in no danger of succumbing to the temptation of the flesh.
“A withering gawk, if I remember correctly.” The Old Roue had been married back in the last century. He was now a single man in Thailand and never strayed from the path of one-night stands.
“But nothing in comparison to your concentration on a go go girl. Your eyes are as wide open as your mouth.”
“You’re not painting a particularly pretty picture.”
“You’re wrong. I’m applauding your devotion to voyeurism, although several countries might challenge your crown.”
We discussed the various nations’ strengths and narrowed the medal challengers to three Asian countries.
“#3 has to be the Indonesians.” The Old Roue had spent a winter in Kuta. “The Bali beach boys bore holes through the bungalow walls to watch naked fat tourist chicks.”
“#2 goes to the Indians in Goa.” November 1995 had been a dream for me. “They’ll stand five feet away from a fat tourist girl show no shame at blatantly staring with their face contorted with sexual fantasies.
“#1 are the Pakis, especially considering that they really don’t have any occasion to practice, since no females get naked in Pakistan.”
“Just because they can’t train doesn’t mean they won’t score the gold. All the best porno store in LA are run by Pakis.”
“What about America?”
“Women in America are too fat to gawk at. Almost like you have to look at the ground rather than a woman in the mall. Plus they’re so angry.” And they had a good reason to be angry with the way they were treated as second-class citizens in their own country
Yeah, It’s better to look at your shoes, which is why Americans loved strippers.”
“And porno.” With the religious right enforcing no sin zones throughout the nation, gawking has become a lost art in the USA. I pointed out two sailors at Heaven Above a Go Go. The nineteen year-old swabbies were drooling on their shore leave shirts.
“They haven’t had enough training in gawking.”
“Once a year they buy Sport Illustrated swimming issue to answer their fantasies.” When I was a boy, we played with our sister’s Barbie dolls and used our imaginations.
“None of those SI girls appeal to me.” The Old Roue hadn’t fucked a white woman in years since his Russian girlfiend deserted him in Prague. For me it had been much much longer.
“I feel the same way, but then there are those girls on the internet XXX sites.”¯
“Don’t count. They’re not real.”
“They’re not?” Like millions of American men I didn’t agree with his statement. Those women had names. They smiled and didn’t scold if I looked at them for hours. They never asked where I had been or if I had been looking at other women. They never seemed jealous. Even if I never paid for their time.
I had fallen in love with several and cried if my computer crash during our date. But the Old Roue was right. They weren’t flesh and blood and soft skin on the computer and that’s why the USA will never win the gold in voyeurism.
We only live for dreams.