Authors: Chai Pinit
Things were certainly looking up. Not only had I gotten lucky with an easy client on my first tryout, but I was also impressed by the hospitality of my co-workers. I took an immediate liking to one in particular. Tae was an experienced go-go boy who carried himself with an air of confidence as if he were the most important person at the bar. His sanguine personality made him friendly and highly generous. I had asked him to spare a cigarette and instead of offering me one, he handed me a full pack of Marlboro. I was taken aback. He simply shrugged his shoulders and quipped that he’d plenty more. Tae bought me a beer to congratulate me. He told me that being bought out on one’s first night was a good omen, a sign of bigger and better things to come. At the end of our shifts, we joined forces with several other boys and went out to continue the celebrations.
As we sat in a good restaurant studying the menu, I realised that I was no longer limited to the cheapest options. When it came time to settle the bill, Tae refused to let anyone pay for their meals or drinks. He then theatrically produced a thick wad of bank notes; we all stared on in stunned silence as he fanned them out to count the correct amount to give the waiter.
‘Tonight is on me, brothers!’ he boasted. We played along by calling him
luk pi
, or ‘boss’ and by buttering him up with feigned coos of admiration.
Once we were sufficiently drunk, my new friends began boasting of how much they made each night. After exhausting themselves with self-flattery, the boys decided it was time to put me on the spot. They probed me by asking exactly what I would be willing to ‘give up’ to my clients.
‘Would you be willing to allow a man’s rod up your
pratulang
, that is, the ‘backdoor’?’
Without hesitation I joked, ‘I’m a jack of all trades and nothing is impossible for me!’
I was a fast learner and mastered the art of seduction with little effort. For Thais, body language and tone of voice are extremely important when interacting with others—the movement of an eyebrow alone can communicate a great deal more than words ever could. These cultural traits helped me improve my techniques. I’d learned much from the prostitutes I’d slept with and found that men were susceptible to pretty much the same style of seduction as women. On stage, I’d scan the room while lithely undulating my oiled body to the rhythm of the music, seeking out a target who hopefully had a large wallet. If he was clean and well dressed, I presumed him to be wealthy.
Once I’d chosen my mark, I’d look deeply into his or her eyes and begin suggestively licking my lips. If they showed interest, I’d stroke myself through my briefs with a carefully measured balance of coyness and confidence in order to give the impression that I knew how to give pleasure. I would follow this appetising exhibition by giving a playful, almost childish wink. If a client remained engaged, I’d give them a nod and fondle my crotch all the more. Sometimes, if I’d imbibed enough Dutch courage, I would teasingly reveal my penis and stroke it until it was fully erect. If all went well, this performance would capture the attention of a would-be lover. It would then only be a matter of time before the
Mama-san
paired us up.
Farangs
who selected me told me they did so because they found me boyishly cute. The irony was that prior to working in bars, my below-average height had always worked against me and was a source of profound insecurity. When teased about this, I usually became angry and violent and was determined to set out and prove I was a real man. In the bar world, a lot of men liked young, delicate boys. To Westerners I looked like a teenager. It didn’t bother me in the slightest that they saw me as a child with whom they eagerly wanted to have sex. My role was to fulfil their fantasy—whatever that fantasy might be.
It didn’t take long to adapt to my new profession. I knew it was illegal, but customers didn’t come to bars under duress; they willingly paid for my services. My profession may not be entirely honest but it definitely shouldn’t qualify as criminal. Thankfully, I’ve never been before a judge or been in prison because of it. Buyers and prostitutes negotiate their own terms based on mutual consent. Prostitution is against the law in Thailand, yet there are innumerable red-light districts. Entrepreneurs in the sex business tend to appear in the guise of everything from barbers to taxi drivers. One does not have to go far to find what one wants. Besides, if you walk down Silom Road, there are unlicensed vendors selling pirated CDs/DVDs, including porn, and brand-name counterfeits in broad daylight, 365 days a year, and they don’t get arrested. We all do what we have to in order to survive.
Buddhism forbids promiscuity. It’s sinful to sleep with countless partners, let alone clients; but I’d rather sin than go hungry and be forced to steal to fill my belly. The one thing that’s bothered me most about my work is the amount of dishonesty involved. A great level of pretence was always necessary, especially when dealing with male clients.
CHAPTER 8
During my first week as a go-go dancer, I was bought out every day. I was a fresh face and everyone wanted a taste of the new kid on the block, or the stage as it were. I was a superstar, or at least I believed I was—a short-lived delusion harboured by most newcomers. I was receiving an average of 1,500 to 2,000 baht for each ‘quickie’. Although considered unwise from a business point of view, I never actually specified a set price for my services.
‘How much you pay is up to you,’ I always told my clients.
Believe it or not, I sometimes got more than the going rate. My minimum fee was 1,500 baht, but if I struck gold, I could earn 4,000 baht and more. If a client happened to be stingy then I had no problem demanding a fair price.
With my wallet bulging, my self-esteem climbed and continued to do so, as if propped up by the interest and affection that the
farangs
were showering upon me. I felt for the first time in ages that my life was going somewhere.
I worked diligently at seducing men with my come-hither looks and sexy dance moves, which caused
farangs
to follow me upstairs two or three times a night. As a result I had no problem funding my expensive social life.
After a month of bar work, I still hadn’t had anal sex. I’d made a point of being upfront with customers, telling them, ‘I am not bottom boy. I don’t put in mouth too!’ As time went on I grew accustomed to the scene and relaxed somewhat. I started to have fun, and became more intimate and experimental with male clients. After a string of easy-to-please fellows, things turned a lot raunchier. I began to allow clients to insert their fingers into my anus, and occasionally,
farangs
would lick and suck my anus in order to stimulate me. I must admit that I found it strange but went along with it. The most mind-boggling foreplay I ever encountered was men sucking my toes. We Thais consider feet the lowest part of the body, almost unholy; they shouldn’t be pointed at others or even played with, no matter how clean they appear to be. Sucking on them like lollipops—now that was just plain bizarre.
My clients sensed I’d become less inhibited and began asking me to do all sorts of crazy things, such as ejaculating into their mouths or all over their faces. Others requested that I urinate or even defecate on their bodies. I couldn’t comprehend how anyone would find such base acts pleasurable. I could only shake my head confusedly while trying not to laugh in their faces. I began to put my personal feelings aside, and did whatever was asked of me, no matter how dirty or insane I thought it was. If the price was right then I wasn’t going to run the risk of offending them with a refusal. Besides, the customer is always right, right?
Despite the multitude of perverse acts I participated in, I generally found
farang
men civil and reasonably respectful, unlike some of their Thai counterparts, who made no bones of openly criticising my services to their friends.
Farangs
didn’t treat me as a lesser being just because I was a go-go boy; furthermore, I could freely express myself with them and so sought them out over Thais. When passing
farang
clients on the street, I’d wave, greeting them enthusiastically and they would always respond cheerily. I never felt the need to be shy or reserved around them, and they often hugged and kissed me as if we’d known each other all our lives.
They were also generous. If I told them I was low on cash they’d give me a few hundred baht, without expecting anything in return. In my eyes, the fact that they dressed well, behaved like gentlemen, and had bottomless wallets, made them seem like higher beings. I couldn’t understand why they were attracted to me. Why didn’t they want to be with beautiful women? Why me? Were they crazy being attracted to people of the same sex? They should have been rearing families and leading traditional lives.
I therefore came to see my body as an asset—something to be capitalised on, and did whatever I thought necessary to make it more attractive. I bought expensive clothing and accessories and only drank and smoked high-priced brands to further enhance my image. For a while I exercised regularly and ate health food to boost my stamina. Clients often wined and dined me at fancy restaurants and I happily soaked up the opulence. I would have had to save for months to afford one night in a five-star hotel in my former days; but now I stayed in them regularly.
My income was substantial at this point so I didn’t see the need to curtail my spending. I also ignored my financial responsibility towards my parents; although, when my guilt grew too large to ignore, I’d send a token gift to them. I started to spend money faster than I received it. A night of partying would see every last satang spent. So, until I could secure another client, my meals would consist of cheap instant noodles.
I had learned to reciprocate my clients’ ‘affections’ by giving handjobs and by kissing and nibbling their bodies, but I soon realised that if I wanted to remain in demand I’d have to be willing to do more. I reasoned that if the tables were turned, I wouldn’t be very happy if I bought a girl who was selective about what she did or didn’t do in bed. So I believed I had little choice but to perform fellatio and engage in anal sex. I’d previously feared that such acts would turn me gay; however, if compensated with enough beer and money, I could get through almost anything. I can’t recall in detail the first time I performed oral sex on a man because I was drunk; however, strangely enough, I will never forget the meal I had after it. After business was finished, I went out with co-workers as usual; but my mood changed the second I began eating. Whatever I put in my mouth reminded me of the smelly piece of meat I put there earlier. I then remembered how revolting I found it, gasping for breath, while his organ pushed in and out of my mouth. When it was finally over, I ran to the bathroom and rinsed my mouth thoroughly, yet I couldn’t get rid of either the aftertaste or the mental impression of what had transpired. Alcohol was the only thing I found that helped to erase part of the revulsion, so I ordered more beer. I never let anyone ejaculate in my mouth again. In future, when I sensed a client was about to climax, I’d use my hands to finish him off.
Most of my straight co-workers—and yes there were quite a few of them—detested receiving anal sex. Although they never admitted to it, I was sure they, nonetheless, occasionally overlooked this for the sake of receiving extra cash. I assumed they were like me in that respect. If you can believe it, despite having worked in this line of business for many years, I have rarely been the receiver of anal sex; more often than not in fact, I was the giver. How I managed to get away with this while still getting regular, long-term clients astonishes me.
My first attempt at being a ‘bottom man’ was neither pleasant nor consensual. I went back to a client’s room after we’d spent the evening wining and dining. I ended up drunkenly crashing out face-down on his large bed. I was awoken from a deep sleep by a stabbing pain in my behind. The client had taken advantage of my inebriated state and had penetrated me. Despite the fact he used lubricant, it was still horrendously painful. The worst part of all was his violating me without a condom: for all I knew, he could have had AIDS. I struggled to free myself but he was on top, bearing down on me with his full weight, with one hand clasped around my neck to secure me. I thrashed about wildly causing him to penetrate me deeper while he pushed my head further into the pillow to stifle any resistance. I was gasping for air and groaning painfully as my legs and arms flailed about wildly. I began to curse intermittently between pleas for him to stop, but my resistance coupled with his obvious domination only heightened his pleasure as he panted harder and faster. I prayed he’d ejaculate quickly so the horror would end. My powerlessness obviously aroused him, and he thrust wildly as if to hurt me even more until finally unloading inside of me. After dismounting, he walked away as if I was a crumpled rag he’d just discarded. I was stunned. Yet I managed to quickly dress and escape without even a thought of being paid. When I returned to my apartment I scrubbed and headed to the safety of my bed. I lay there miserable; in pain and shock, hoping I hadn’t caught a disease. I’d been raped, but as a bar boy I didn’t feel I had a right to complain—it was part of the job.
Over the next few days I was scared to have a bowel movement in case I worsened the damage. I eventually went to a VD clinic to get my blood tested: fortunately, I tested negative.
Afterwards, and only once in a blue moon if I really liked a client, I had no qualms about sitting on his penis, but I always insisted he wear a condom. Occasionally, clients inserted dildos into my rectum, which although was not very pleasant, was still better than the real thing. I found being the giver of anal sex far less complicated; and once I got past the odour, I didn’t mind playing an active role. If both parties are attracted to one another then sex with a male client becomes less of a chore, and can even be enjoyable.
After an endless catalogue of clients, and hours spent in gay bars, I began to develop a slightly effeminate persona. This manifested itself especially in the way that I walked and talked, which was a total U-turn as compared with the aggressive and masculine front I projected when living the life of a gangster and thug. I hadn’t quite bought into the myth that bar boys could be turned gay once penetrated, yet I caught myself mimicking the behaviour of my effeminate co-workers. At first, I’d been consciously doing so for comic value, but when these mannerisms became natural, a habit even, I grew worried. I knew a few co-workers who, after receiving anal sex, had become
kathoeys
(transgender males), or turned gay, despite fiercely asserting their heterosexuality previously. They went from being husbands and fathers to being make-up wearing, female caricatures of their former selves. I was afraid that perhaps the myth was actually true after all. I tried to allay my fears by telling myself that I was flexible; able to play for both teams rather than just limiting myself to one.
A friend even took me aside and pointed out that he’d noticed the change in me and that he was also worried. He said if I didn’t get a ‘fix’ soon then it was only a matter of time before I’d be playing for the opposite team. Taking his advice seriously, I set out for Patpong to find a compliant female prostitute, which was easy enough to do. I enjoyed the sex immensely, and my fears were therefore laid to rest.
I was relieved to discover I was not gay. I couldn’t imagine visiting my home village as a homosexual, much less as a
kathoey
, when my reputation had always been that of a manly man. It would bring the greatest shame upon my family if I began prancing about openly; also, such an admission would lift the veil on how I was actually earning my living in Bangkok.
I continued to divide my affections between both genders so long as the players in question were attractive and paid me well. With men, I needed stimulation to get going but with women I could take the lead and attain an erection easily. Being with women was obviously my natural choice; somehow though, I find it difficult to explain my sexual orientation to men. Publicly, I’d never admit to anything but being straight; however, I generally do what feels good and right at the time. I suppose, to be honest, I am what Thais call
suea bai
, or ‘bisexual’.
Once the confusion about my sexual orientation had been somewhat resolved, I made plans to pay a visit to my village, and to do so in great style. I bought the latest accessories and clothes especially for the occasion. When I stepped off the bus in Sisaket, I looked like a million baht. I was sporting a new designer hat, trendy sunglasses, a gold bracelet, an expensive watch, and boots that made the country folk drool with jealousy. My neighbours were obviously surprised at how much I’d changed. I regaled them with stories of the tens of thousands of baht I was raking in every month, working in an upscale hotel. It was a convincing alibi because I’d worked in hotels in Pattaya. The neighbours even complimented me on how sophisticated I looked, and the girls batted their eyelashes at me. No one could believe that the young, dirty delinquent they once knew had seemingly transformed into a handsome prince. I spent several months in Sisaket soaking up the attention and lavishing money on my fair-weather friends. Of course, the money eventually dried up, so I was forced to once again go back to work in Bangkok.
I returned to the city which by now seemed like home. Suddenly, I was feeling a lot more confident about my profession. I started taking the initiative, dealing with clients directly, and no longer using a middle man to negotiate for me. Well-rehearsed lines such as, ‘Do you want to go with me?’ or ‘I like you, can I go with you?’ dripped like honey from my tongue.
For the most part, life was good, if slightly routine. One downside though was the disapproving stares I attracted from other Thais when I was out with older
farang
patrons. ‘Bangkokians’ are generally good at hiding their contempt; but, in their eyes, I was the lowest of the low. I was a
puchai khai nam
—meaning ‘he who sells his juice’. I forced myself to go against this cultural mindset by pretending not to care about what others thought. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I made far more money than most of them, and if they’d been aware of it, they probably wouldn’t have been so quick to look down on me. At the end of the day, money speaks volumes. I have been in this business for years, and although most Thais still feel negatively about the sex industry, they’ve become more accepting as time has passed. I too have become more tolerant of people to whom I formerly wouldn’t have given the time of day.
For example, with respect to gays and
kathoeys
, I now see them in a completely different light having come to understand them better. As a child, although I never bullied my effeminate schoolmates, I didn’t see them as equals. Some of my
farang
patrons made me feel special because they respected me, and as a result, they taught me how to respect others. The industry changed me both inside and out, and it may be surprising to hear that I view most of these changes as being for the better.