The FARANG Speaks 2 Much

Suddenly, it dawned upon me that perhaps my gallant, chivalrous course of action was perhaps not the most sensible approach to the situation.

A gaggle of mean-looking Thai “security” staff loomed ahead. A few more to either side. CLF was cursing them in at least three different languages from behind me, at the top of her tiny lungs. “I saat” means something along the lines of “fucking animal”, except it’s rather more serious than it sounds. There were a few good old Anglo-Saxon “fuck you”s in there too, and a stream of Thai, Issan or Khmer (maybe all three) curses on top for good measure.

I kept backing up, holding her behind me, with a rictus grin a mile wide apologising and smiling foolishly at the mean-looking Thai guys who seemed to have murder in their eyes.

I’ve had better nights out.

But let’s backtrack a little. CLF, or Cunning Little Fucker, was my first freelancer experience in Bangkok, and became my first semi-relationship (I was always careful to remind her that “girlfriend” was not her role) with a working girl. This is her story.

Beginnings

We met in Thermae, on my final vacation in Thailand. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was only about twelve weeks away from moving here. Things happened pretty quickly back then.

I was staying with a friend in Sathorn for my vacation, in a spare bedroom in the apartment he shared with his fiancée - a good girl. Taking hookers back to his place was, therefore, not really an option.

And so, as I fell for this buxom beauty from Buriram, the first question was where on earth we were going to sleep. Fortunately, the Ruamchit Hotel lies immediately above Thermae, and at the time charged only 1,000 baht per night. Basic accomodation, but perfectly fit for the purpose.

We woke up around 12pm the next day, to the knock on the door from the hotel staff, telling us that it was time to check out. Exhausted but happy, I handed over the lucre and was met with the “you really don’t need to pay me, that was awesome” look. She took it anyway, of course. I intentionally didn’t ask for her number, as I was flying back to the UK in a few short days, and wouldn’t have time to see her again before I left - I had no idea I’d be back so soon.

Back in Bangers

Of course, when I finally moved over here, I was kicking myself for not getting her phone number. I spent a few nights trawling Thermae looking for her, but eventually had to admit defeat, and that she’d obviously moved on.

No sooner had I done so than she appeared, predictably, and was surprised and delighted to see me. She’d been great fun first time round, so I took her back to my shiny new apartment at Bad Boy Towers for a jolly good seeing to. Which was nice.

The following day we did it again, before I walked her out to a taxi. Money hadn’t been discussed yet, and I couldn’t remember how much I’d given her first time round. I asked her how much she wanted, and she just laughed at me. “No, I don’t want your money”, she said.

“Not even taxi money?”

“No. Call me.”

Domestic Bliss

She would end up staying at my place most nights for the next few months, absolutely refusing point-blank to accept a single baht for her time or services. It turned out that she had a few sponsors overseas, all sending her a monthly stipend in return for her attention on the rare occasions when they were in Bangkok. I don’t know whether she was pretending to stay chaste in their absence, but either way she had a pretty good deal.

I’d usually pay for beers and food when we went out together, and was of course occasionally duped into buying drinks or som tam for her friends - who she would produce from nowhere without warning in the typical bargirl way.

But she never asked for cash, generally paid for her own cigarettes and taxi fares, and would occasionally even buy me lunch, or bring some Thai food over with her.

I would regularly remind her that she wasn’t my girlfriend, that we were just friends who sometimes slept together - “gik” is the Thai word, although I didn’t know it then. Shag-buddy would be the English equivalent. She accepted this, but clearly had aspirations of girlfriendhood. Which is not a kind of hat.

Anyway, I had it pretty good looking back, in all ways but one.

A Slight Problem

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on. #

I hadn’t come to Bangkok to settle down with a hooker. Whilst she claimed to be utterly faithful to me (which I’d never even asked for), she was still hanging out with her hooker-buddies in Thermae on the nights we spent apart. I assumed that she was still knocking out the occasional short-time. This was fine by me, since I was trawling the gogos for my old website on my nights off, and enjoying the charms of the girls found therein.

And yes, to avoid any unpleasantness, I was lying through my teeth about it. I figured she was probably lying anyway, and so justified lying in return. And anyway, that’s how Bangkok works. Right? That’s a whole other piece in itself, I think.

She’d call me when I was in gogo bars. I’d tell her I was at a disco with friends on the opposite side of town, as I ducked projectile ping-pong balls. Of course, she’d be calling from Thermae or Nana Disco, so again I didn’t really see the difference.

The Bargirl Grapevine

Except I started getting caught. Over the weeks and months that we’d been “together”, she’d introduced me to several of her bargirl friends. Unfortunately, they covered most of the naughty nightlife areas of Bangkok between them. So the accusations began.

“Noi saw you with a girl on Soi 4″. “Meow saw you with a girl on Soi Cowboy”. “Ning saw you with a girl in Patpong”. “Gai saw you with two ladyboys and a midget in Nana Plaza”. Etc and so on.

Sometimes I’d admit it, other times I’d deny it. Often the accusations weren’t even true.

Sometimes I’d get a little payback by dropping into Thermae to see her unannounced, only to find her absent. She’d eventually return, red-faced, and usually tell me that she’d gone for some food, or that the guy I’d seen her walking up the street with was just a friend.

Eventually things came to a head, and things escalated into an entirely unpleasant row. “You take many lady, you not love me!”, she’d bawl. I’d never even claimed to love her.

“Yes, but you take many men too. It’s okay”, I foolishly countered.

“It’s my job! It’s not your job!”, was her immortal response. Can’t beat Thai logic.

Adieu, but not Goodbye

We had a Little Chat about our “relationship” - I’d decided it would be wise to just back off. Or rather, I dumped her, but quite politely - at least by Bangkok standards. She didn’t take it particularly well, but I told her that I didn’t want to settle down. She could continue to see me either on a casual basis, and lose the hissy fits of jealousy, or not at all. She opted for the latter.

I bumped into her on the Miracle Mile a few weeks later, and she was obviously shit-faced. I asked her how much she’d had to drink.

“Am not drunk. Am on heroin”, she said.

She didn’t look much like a heroin user to me, and I’ve known a few. No visible track marks, a healthy glow, and far too energetic. Ya ba, maybe. Coke, possibly. More likely just too many Breezers.

Eventually, she calmed down and started calling again, although not as often. Sometimes she’d want to come over and sleep with me. Sometimes she’d want me to take her out to play pool, then back to my place. Sometimes she’d call me from Nana Disco asking me to meet up with her. Hell, sometimes I’d call her. Insane she may have been, but the sex was great - as it usually is with the mad ones.

She seemed to have finally figured out that a casual relationship could be enjoyed, without pressuring me to commit to something I had no desire for. Life was good.

Lies, Damned Lies, Statistics and Bargirls

88.2% of statistics are made up on the spot. But that pales in comparison to the truth-bullshit ratio of the words that spill out of the mouths of bargirls. And this girl was the queen of them all.

There’d always been the little lies, of course. You get used to those pretty quickly. “Sorry darling I can not see you because I stay with my sister tonight”. This means she’s getting boned by Lenny from Lexington at the Landmark.

Medium-sized lies can be annoying, if you let it get to you. I tend to look for humour instead. Sometimes you don’t have to look very hard. Claiming to be on her period for the second week in a row was a particularly amusing one.

But then there are the big lies. Last summer, she was in Europe with one of her sponsors. She spent a couple of months living with him in his home country. He wants to marry her. She wants him to keep sending cash.

We caught up soon after she returned, and she casually mentioned that actually, she’d been back for weeks. She’d just been resting after the childbirth.

Right.

Er.

What?

BBB, Jr?

“Oh sure”, she told me. “I was pregnant, by you, and I had a baby.”

“…”

“Jing jing.”

“…”

I stopped and thought. I did some mental arithmetic. There was no way on earth that this could possibly be true. I figured I’d do a little digging.

“So where’s the baby?”

“Oh, I gave her to my friend in Issan. She always wanted a baby.”

“Right. Where did you have the baby?”

“Bangkok.”

“Okay, when?”

“Er, June. I think. Yes, June.”

“You were in Europe in June.”

“No, I came back. I didn’t want my sponsor to know I was pregnant.”

“I have emails from you, sent in June and July, originating from an IP address in Europe.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

This was August. Later that evening we got drunk and went to bed. No stretch marks, and no visible signs of anything different down there from the last time I’d seen her. Which was only 2-3 months ago. And she hadn’t looked pregnant then. Further investigation showed that she wasn’t lactating - and I was very persistent. Mmm, boobs.

I probably should have cut all ties at this point. There’s mad, and then there’s completely fucking loopy.

Downward Spiral

But I didn’t. Free sex is free sex, after all. And this was free awesome sex.

A few weeks later, she ended up back in my bed, but was strangely reticent to have sex. I told her it was fine if she didn’t want to, but that I couldn’t help wondering if she was okay - was there anything she wanted to tell me?

“I have operation to make pussy like virgin”, she eventually said.

“What?”

“Yes, too big after I have your baby. Now make small again.”

“Right.”

“Jing jing. I not have sex for one month already.”

“But you shagged Terry last week.”

A look of panic swept across her face, until she had a sudden and amusing brainwave.

“Oh, he very very small.”

I’m sure that’s not true - not least because I’m equally sure that he’s reading this.

Eventually she decided that she did want to have sex after all, and her inner dimensions were precisely what they had always been. I took a closer look later on, and there was no evidence whatsoever of any surgery, or indeed any difference at all. You couldn’t make it up.

Boxing Boxing

And then finally, one night in Spice Club on Sukhumvit Soi 11, she was there. And so was another girl with whom she apparently disagreed with about something or other. And the shoes came off, and heels were swung. Security descended. I grabbed her, and hugged her. Not because I felt any great affection for her when she was behaving like a dickhead, but because I figured the bouncers weren’t likely to prise her out of my grip.

The other girl got dragged out - I have no idea who started it, and don’t care. But I felt a kind of loyalty to my first freelancer, whose inventive inveracity had amused me for so long. And because she liked it up the bum.

The bouncers dispersed, but I could see them keeping an eye on her. Were they waiting to see if she’d start any more trouble? Or were they just waiting for an opportunity to grab her away from the farang who was making their jobs difficult?

After spending five minutes or so trying to calm her down, she decided she wanted some more. She slipped away, and started to make a break for the door. I guess she wanted to try and catch up with her sparring partner. As soon as she got away from me, I saw the bouncers from earlier making a bee line for her. I had to do something.

And this is where we came in.

I made it outside the club about ten seconds after she did, and jumped in between her and a crowd of “security” staff. Big, mean-looking Thais. Obviously itching for a fight. Inside the club, I’d been pretty sure they wouldn’t want to beat up a farang. Now, surrounded by the quiet concrete of the car park, I wasn’t so sure. CLF’s livid volley of verbal abuse wasn’t helping.

Somehow, I managed to restrain her, and backed away from the bouncers, grinning manically and apologising profusely whilst keeping myself in between her and them.

We made it around the corner, and towards the street. Safety in numbers - I hoped.

She was, incredibly, still swigging from a Breezer. As we finally reached the street, she finished it. And threw the empty bottle over my head - towards the bouncers who by this time thankfully seemed more or less placated by my dragging her off the premises on their behalf. I cringed, and waited to see where it would land.

Fortunately, she throws like a girl. It fell so far short of its target, that I later found that one of the smaller shards of glass had actually cut her foot. Sohm nahm naa, I think they say.

No real damage done, I took her home, let her rant and rave herself to sleep, and eventually passed out on the sofa.

After that little episode, I got the message and backed off. I didn’t break ties completely, I’d speak to her every now and then, and bump into her sometimes on nights out. But I didn’t want to spend time with her any more. Enough was enough.

She then decided that I was evil incarnate, and has been slagging me off ever since. You can’t win them all.

Postscript

And then on Monday, just as I was finishing this piece (in which she is mentioned as #3), she popped up on IM.

Spooky.

Here I was, writing about a girl who wouldn’t talk to me, when I’m interrupted by the girl in question, talking to me. Spooky and ironic. Spironic, I shall call it.

She was disconcertingly serene. It seems that the European sponsor has been upgraded to the status of “boyfriend”. Poor sod.

She seems to have calmed down a lot anyway, so I’m sure there won’t be any problems when I go out for beers and pool with her at the weekend.

What? Eh? Oh.

nb. This article was originally published at Werewolf’s Lair.