The FARANG Speaks 2 Much

I was in one of Soi Cowboy’s classier bars recently - a contradiction in terms if ever there was one. Anyway, I found myself in the company of the girl with possibly the greatest breasts in all of Thailand. And no, that’s not her in the photo. But she’s of similar proportions, and I thought you guys would appreciate the pic.

Anyway, the inevitable happened, the barfine was paid, and we found ourselves in one of the surprisingly plush hotel rooms at the Penny Black. And to the backing of a Bruce Willis movie on TV (always gets me in the mood, don’t you find?), much fun was had.

Incidentally, why do Thais always feel so compelled to turn the TV on, even when they’re not going to be in a position to watch it?

Anyway, she breathlessly told me in the sweaty aftermath that she was single, was extremely satisfied, and was not only madly in love with me, but would very much like to be my girlfriend. I’d just met her. I don’t particularly want a girlfriend, but as I said - she has possibly the greatest breasts in Thailand.

Advice please.

I’ve written before (see: Is Not You Job!) about how duplicitous Thai bargirls can be if you’re brave/foolish enough to enter into a relationship with them.

I went out recently with the girl that the previous story was written about. She’s got a new guy in Europe now who sends her money every month, but in the meantime she’s here in Bangkok on her own. Which means I get phone calls at regular intervals inviting me to take her out to play pool, then take her to bed. Which is nice.

Anyway, she’d been asking how many girls I’ve slept with since we “broke up” last year. In the West, we have the “rule of three” - women will divide the real number of sexual partners by three when lying about it. Men will multiply by three. Living here, I can divide by ten and still get skeptically raised eyebrows…

At the end of the evening we were sat eating some jim-jum on The Miracle Mile. We somehow got into the age-old “butterfly” argument - a prostitute accusing her clients of being promiscuous is possibly one of the funniest concepts I’ve come across in my life, but not when she’s seriously angry about it, and shouting accusations over a bowl of boiling water. Anyway, I’d just about calmed her down when several things happened almost simultaneously.

Firstly, a girl who works at one of the street bars spotted me, and ran over to drape her arms around me. I’ve never so much as laid a finger on her before, but I’ve certainly flirted with her over the cunningly-disguised mugs of lager that are the standard fare on Sukhumvit after-hours these days. My dining partner was evidently not impressed. Then my phone rang - it was the insane go-go dancer from a few weeks ago. I rejected the call, and looked up to be met with a look of pure daggers, just as a waitress from The Big Mango stopped to say hello to me on her way home.

It wasn’t looking good. My girl looked just about ready to explode with rage. And I was giggling too hard at the absurdity of it all to offer even a single excuse. In all likelihood, I was probably about to get a boiling pot of jim-jum over my head.

But then, praise be, her phone rang. She fumbled to fish it out of her handbag, and it was my saviour - her sponsor. “Hello darling!”, she grimaced into her Samsung - and with that, my untimely death by Issan cuisine was averted - for another night, at least…