Shadows & Mirrors

How do I begin to tell you about Bangkok? Well, the Thais don't call it Bangkok; they call it Krung Thep. It's hot and hideously overcrowded. It can be brash and intensely sleazy one moment, and heartbreakingly poignant the next - often it's both at the same time. I can't really explain the place. I have to paint it for you in a series of vignettes.

* * *

It's dusk. I sit at a tiny outdoor cafe in a narrow alley. Across the street the katoeys (ladyboys) are crowded in and around the salon, getting their make-up done. I've never seen so much beauty, so much vanity and so much existential angst in one place. 'Candy' sits with me, glossing up her slutpink lips.

"I have new breasts," she says, giving me a smirking grin. "Wanna see?"

"Yes, sure."

"Good, because it take a girl to know if they look good." And with that she unbuttons her skimpy shirt across the table. The breasts are petite, perfect for her. Beautiful, with happy, nutmeg-coloured nipples. "Touch them."

"Ah, they look great. Wonderful." And I mean it. I'm just a little shy about invading her space.

She grabs my wrist and splays my palm over one new breast; her feral colgate-white smile flashes in the dying light. "Squeeze."

I give it a hesitant one, then a bolder caress. "It feels beautiful. Just right." And politely withdraw my hand. I can tell she's pleased with my reaction.

"You have a nice touch. You don't squish them. Western men make them hurt."

"Maybe because I have breasts myself."

"Are you a lesbian?"

"Only occasionally."

"Now?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm free this evening. We could go to your hotel."

I smile but shake my head. "I'm sorry. I've got things to do this evening." I don't, and it's not as if she doesn't appeal to me, but there's something sad about her eyes; it's an infectious sort of sadness. Tonight, I don't want that.

"I have a cock, too. But not for long."

"Who's paying for your operation?"

"The man who squeezes my breasts too hard. Come on, I know you're not busy."

"I am. I'm sorry."

She gives me a smile, the sadness in her eyes has run down her cheeks and painted her smiling pink lips with ennui. "I'd like to use it. Just once more, before it goes."

* * *

'Do Ya Wanna Funk' is blasting out of massive speakers hung from the low matte black ceiling. The long oval stage is empty but for the confetti of a thousand tiny coloured light spots that jump and swirl. A broad winding staircase at one end of the stage is packed with men in tight white boyshorts. They are talking to each other, giggling, emptying their water bottles onto each other's chests and crotches. Some are masturbating themselves to tumescence. As the music changes, they stand and, in some sort of choreographed regimentation I'm not clear about, they stream onto the stage, toes to the edge of it, facing outwards.

Each man has a small red plastic lozenge pinned to his shorts: order by number manflesh. Some dance sinuously, some just look down at the people in front of them and smile invitingly.

Most of the audience is male. This, after all, is "Dream Boys" and the clientele is primarily gay. But across the stage from me sit three Japanese women in a pastel palette of twinsets; their strings of Minamoto pearls gleam like passive teeth at their neat necks. Next to me is a sweet-looking, curly-haired blond man from Iowa.

Even over the throbbing music, I can hear him chanting, "Fuck, I'm in heaven. I'm in heaven. I'm in heaven."

The men on stage move every minute or so, and the view changes: bronzed and muscular, coffee-coloured and tattoed, slim and sinuous and...oh, quite clearly cut. I know this because he's kindly taken his cock out to show me. I stare for a bit and then look up at his face.

"Want me?" he yells over the music. "Number 28."

I blush and look at the Iowan. He laughs and pats me on the shoulder. He leans close to my ear and explains that the bar fee - the money you must pay the bar to take the man for the night is 4,000 Baht - about $10 USD. Then, he explains, you pay the man about 5,000 Baht on top of that for his services.

"I...I can't do that," I stutter back. But even as I spit the words out, I'm wondering if I could.

The male wheel goes round and I am faced with number 46. He has a cobra tattoo, its flared hood and red eyes stare at me from between flat, coffee nipples. It's tail is looped and coiled over the man's taut belly and continues down below his.... yes, oh dear, down go the briefs, thank-you; that's elucidating... ends at the root of his cock.

For a brief moment I imagine his inked body undulating above me. That flare-hooded cobra writhing and dipping. Without my knowledge, my hand reaches for my gin and tonic and feeds it to me; it's only when I taste the juniper on my lips that I realize.

The parade goes on and on and on. They're all erect and either pretty, or muscular, or brandishing a bit of rough - sometimes all three. It's like standing if front of the jam display at the supermarket. There are just too many choices and breakfast is over.

The parade snakes back up the stairs and the floor-show begins. There's some Thai classical dance performed in drag and a strange comedy routine that is conducted all in Thai, but it doesn't matter because the two hostesses are a cross between drag queens and demons - they're raucous and broad gestured and most of the jokes are filthy. The hand gestures really say it all. After the katoeys from hell leave, a bevy of the beautiful boys come down and soap each other in onstage showers while artfully performing unproductive fellatio. It's funny, sexy and culturally contextual, all at the same time.

The Iowan and I are fast friends by the time the floor is squeegeed dry and the parade of manflesh starts again.

"Are you going to have one?" I ask.

"Yup. Number 63."

"Why did you choose him?" I don't even remember a number 63, but then there were a lot of erect cocks winking at me and my memory is jumbled.

"Hairless chest, pierced nipples, kind of slim, long hair."

"Oh." Now I remember. "Yes, he was definitely very attractive."

We all pile out of the bar at the same time, into the riot that is Soi Twilight. Me, the Iowan, and the beautiful bought boy. Well, he's not really a boy. At a guess I'd say he's about twenty-five, but he's definitely bottom material.

"Have a nice night," I say to the couple.

"Come with us. I'll do him, and then he can do you. It won't cost much more."

The long-haired beauty nods his head and gives me a lopsided grin. "I like girls."

"No. Thanks. But thanks."

"You shy?" asks the Iowan.

"No. I just... I've never thought about buying sex," I lie. "I'm not sure how I feel about it."

The Iowan laughs and grabs my hand. "Come on! It'll be fun."

"Can I just watch?"

"Sure."

So I go with them. The Iowan's hotel is swank; it's just off Sukumvit and must cost more than $200 USD per night. The room is cool; the traffic outside whispers its urban presence. There is no hesitation of the part of either man. No awkwardness. Just plain, straightforward lust. They suck each other off for a while and then the Iowan, whose name is Sam, fucks Son, the Thai man, with cheerful abandon. It's all really very jolly. Everyone comes, condoms are disposed of, kisses are exchanged and, by two o'clock, I'm standing outside the hotel on the quiet street with Son.

"I like girls," he repeats, looking at me as I look for a taxi.

"I know you do. You said so before."

He slides his arm through mine. "We go back to your hotel."

I don't feel like fucking. I especially don't feel like fucking a stranger. But the warmth of his skin feels good. Not horny good, just human good.

"Just to sleep? Will you come just to sleep?"

He laughs. "Okay. 1,000 Baht."

"4,000 Baht. No sex, but you have to eat breakfast with me."

He shrugs at the madwoman. "Sure."

So we do.