Sex In Bangkok

It’s the wet season in Bangkok.

I come here every two years or so and find myself in a frenzied erotic state. This is a place for men’s sexualities to run amok and for women’s sexualities to be sated by endless rows of delicious $3 shoes. Old women in Southeast Asia “ even among tribes in desolate parts of Laos “ are reputed to have bouts of hysterical trances prompted by loud noises or sometimes even clapping. They will hop on one foot and scream obscenities like “big fat cock over and over again. Men of any age “ with no more than $5 or $50 – have a lifetime outlet for sexual needs. Women who cannot sate their needs with shopping find themselves doing the fat-cock-hop while eager anthropologists look on.

This time the trip came on the heels of the end of graduate school coupled with it being my turn to be the one left behind at the San Francisco International Airport watching my handsome Kiwi fiancé renew the international couple ritual yet again.

Our sex life is bumpy. An early masturbator who never really imagined herself in a romantic relationship, I’ve been sexually self-sufficient for as long as I can remember. My sexuality became a domain that I owned and it’s still difficult to let him in. He introduced me to the Magic Wand and now jokes that he’d have never bought it if he had known it meant the end of seeing my face during sex. I like it from behind with the Magic Wand and some porn nowadays. I need to concentrate. And this often entails my hissing impatient orders which he can never make out: “no, not there.. no, no, no. no, not so deep. Dammit, man, can’t you see that a woman’s trying to cum here! The orgasms are always delicious, but he’s a romantic and I know that he feels a little slighted that it’s not slow and sensual, tear-soaked and timed to the matched beat of our hearts.

When I’m in Bangkok it’s too hot to wear make-up or the very SF cardi-booties-scarf-fur-pearls combo look I’m known for. My bangs frizz up into an accidental pompadour. Needless to say, I’m working with the basics when I’m in the ˜Kok – as I call it.

But Bangkok is a city filled with eroticism. It’s sex tourism central, home to the only place I’ve ever been called Super Pussy. I stay near Patpong, the Red Light District, just a 5 minute walk from the Chong Nonsi Sky Train station. Every night Patpong is alight with sex shows. There is a literal cul-de-sac of doors open to the sight of women in bikinis dancing on stages, rubbing against poles. If you linger more than a second, men beside tuk-tuks will begin their chants of “pussy show. Pussy show. Ping pong show They carry laminated menus that list all the magical things that the women will do with their pussies.

I went to the show the last time I was here, at Super Pussy no less. The women on stage popped ping pong balls toward the audience, pointing in a sort of Babe Ruth style at the person to whom this ping pong is presumably dedicated. Overhead are balloons tacked to the wall, confusing until you see the darts their pussies blow out of a straw and pop. The women stand around in groups chirping “tip, tip, tip, tip. They sometimes tug and pinch a little. Mostly men attend these shows and Patpong is known for being a spot where men can easily acquire sexual company. Adjacent to Patpong is another area that is Boys Town where men can spend time receiving foot massages or handjobs from Thai men.

In the center of this ring of sex clubs is presumably the area meant to fulfill women’s desires. This area in the center is markedly different from the spaces that surround it. It is a market. A market that comes to life at the same time as the clubs do, filled with Louis Vuitton knock-offs and harem pants and elephant-emblazoned hats and t-shirts that picture the spectrum of human moods or otherwise advertise for the vapid that one has visited this place to any passer-by back in Germany or Australia or wherever the fuck you came from. There are some dildos and even a penis lighter, but there are no boys with laminated menus telling me about 10-inch wonders or boobs I can love or even offering me a handjob.

Last year I visited Tokyo and a friend and I went to a cafe meant to be a sort of response to the hostess culture rampant in Asia. The café was called Butlers Café. And just in case you’re not familiar with hostess culture in Asia, it works a little like this: pretty, young, thin, light-skinned girls work at bars. Salary men (as they are called in Japan) buy them drinks and sometimes these women are available for sex too. Their main function is to listen to these men, fawn over them, laugh at their jokes, make them feel virile. There are even places that cater to men where the hostesses act like slaves and call their clients “Master.

Now Butlers Café was exclusively for women. The décor was lacy and pink and rococo. I was given a bell and at the sound of it, all the men (the whole wait staff was made up of men, largely non-Asian men interestingly) said in unison, “Yes, My Princess. I was given a tiara. I was escorted to the bathroom “ by the hand. The plate upon which my sandwich had been served was engraved in chocolate: “Princess Virginia. For an additional fee, I was offered special services. Handjobs? Gropings? The pleasure of seeing a “butler waggle his dick in my face? Oh, no. The special services portion of the menu guaranteed that for roughly one US dollar a minute, they would ask me questions only about me “ my musical tastes, my opinions on opera and the like -and listen attentively. I decided not to opt for the additional services.

So, with the dick-loving Laotian grannies and the butlers and the ping-pong shooting pussies in mind, I asked myself: is it that women really do prefer shoes and faux listeners to orgasms? My fiancé pointed out that if there was a market for sexual services aimed at women these services would certainly have popped up in Bangkok. And I was left with nothing but confusion. Every woman I know loves to cum and lots of women I know love to cum with relative (or absolute) strangers.

I went back to the way that pussy and cock function in our society. I remember the ways that I used to view my pussy: not as something for me, me, me, but something I should guard and leverage to gain affection, commitment, guilt, dinner. It was the seat of a great economics game and I had a hard time letting go of that and relating to my pussy like a big girl. I found that once it no longer held “mystical powers, it was a lot easier to figure out whether and how and whom I wanted to fuck.

And I concluded that perhaps for as long as our pussies exist for dinner or dignity, we will never be proffered a quickie for $10 or a paradise that doesn’t look like Bloomingdale’s.

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