Bang Cock

There are few traveling ills a night in Bangkok can't fix.

It was about 7 years ago, and the Thai government impounded our plane for the Bangkok-NY flight. This destroyed our schedule, but they put us up in town. My friend Crazy and I asked the hotel bellhop about the nightlife and where to score gallons of Tiger Beer. He took off work and the three of us hopped a cab. I crossed the language barrier with wild gestures, convincing him that we wanted to hit the biggest club with the hottest women and the loosest morals. We arrived at Club Morgan ten minutes later.

Imagine a trendy New York nightclub, the kind you want Great White to burn down just to kill the yuppies inside. Now pack it with four foot tall hotties and funny little men. That was Club Morgan. We started the night with a demonstration of American alcoholism to make Augusta A Busch swell up with pride. It's hard to coyly grind someone whose chest is crotch-height and doesn't understand your dirty come-ons. Several rounds later, I hit the bathroom. Standing there taking a leak, I feel meaty hands clamp down on my shoulders. I whip half around, spraying the Thai hipster next to me, and confront a tiny man in a yellow shirt. He backs away -- the sight of an angry American peeing sideways on some punk was a bit intimidating.

So I turn around and the hands come back down. Alright, it's a cultural thing I guess. No need starting an international incident. I'm just here to party. Then he starts rubbing my shoulders. That was it. I turned around, growled, and stormed towards the door. He ran ahead of me to a sink, turned it on, soaped his hands...then faced me, soapy hands reaching out for mine. Oh fuck no. I blew past him, grabbed Crazy and the bellhop, and snagged the first taxi. Clubs suck. Let's see some titties.

The shows in Bangkok are amazing. We watched a pretty little thing shoot ping pong balls from her cootch with such deadly precision she could be a Bond villain. Peeling a banana without using her hands was not as impressive, except for the sheer impossibility of an entire banana disappearing into someone as thick as a tabletop.

We step back into the sweltering night and wiped our eyes to clear the image of an elephant staring at us from beside a newspaper machine. It didn't help. There actually was an elephant standing there, eyeing us with the suspicion of a meth junkie. Some guy is selling bags of peanuts. Wasted, horny, and just damned curious, we buy a bag and feed the elephant. It gulps the whole thing like a hot chic's fat friend turned loose in McDonald's.

We used gestures again to tell our guide it was time for a local club where we can pick up women without fear of AIDS or having to pay them. He took us to see a drag queen band that specialized in Madonna songs. A few more rounds of Tiger under our belts, and some insanely cheap Jaeger shots later, this pretty little thing I tucked under my arm starts telling me to go on stage and sing with the band. Hell no. She wields her broken English like a busted bottle in a bar fight, goading me on, promising sinful things of which the Buddha would not approve. Then she goes and pushes me over the edge -- her mouth dives onto my thigh and she bites with the strength of a bear trap...and won't let go. Crazy leans over the table, yells "Welcome to Bangkok," smacks her ass, and I lose a small chunk of prime thigh real estate.

She isn't getting anywhere near the cock.

Crazy and I leave the bar several bloody bites later. The bellhop knows just the place for drunken Americans to finish their Bangkok night, but he doesn't have the English to tell us. Our cab pulls up alongside a throng of the most gorgeous Asian women this side of Japanese cartoon porn. If this is what they look like outside, man, what're we in for inside?

We're in for what looks like a rundown Waffle House. Booths line the walls, tables and chairs fill the center, a strange pollution hangs in the air and there's no music. But there are hot Asian women...sitting at tables with old European men. Dirty, old European men. But still, the women inside are hot, so we find a table and rack our addled brains to figure what form of deranged perversion we can find. He leans across the table and says "Outside, 300 baht. Very dirty, very bad. Inside, you go bathroom, you take 500 baht! You have very good time!"

A brothel? In Bangkok? How novel! But why does it look less like the set of a porno, and more like a truck stop in Kansas? This was strange indeed, and we would have pondered further, but I caught the blinking red light of a video camera three tables over. I looked over and saw a sketchy French man in a crunchy overcoat. He stared back at me through his camera. I didn't fly all the way to Bangkok to get busted by some asshole with a camera. And I'm not going to end up on his spank-o-vision in France. Crazy and I bolt back into the night, through the throng of women, the forest of tits and asses and hands grabbing our nether regions with the sweet coos of "fucky fucky?" filling the air.

Ah, Bangkok...you can lay me over anytime.