Bangkok Boy (4 page)

During our first meeting, Uncle Mana reminisced about his early days in Pattaya as a poolside waiter for a hotel. He worked for a very low wage but got ample tips. He’d worked hard, slowly climbing the hotel career ladder, before becoming a manager of a small hotel. Mana made no bones over the fact that he knew of my past; he solemnly told me he believed that I could turn my life around if I took advantage of this new environment and the chance I was being given. Uncle Mana freely offered not only his advice but also his hospitality, allowing me to stay with him in his home.

My first real job was as a cleaner at Mana’s hotel. It had a popular discotheque which was frequented by Thais and foreigners alike. Part of my job description was to clean the toilets. I was disgusted. As others were having fun, I was forced to clean up their mess and vomit. I felt especially humiliated working in the presence of female patrons; I worried what they must have thought of me—a lowly cleaning boy. My uncle was trying to teach me a lesson; however, I was insulted. After all, he practically ran the hotel and the best he could give his nephew was a cleaning job. I endured it for a few months before I started to look for something better.

CHAPTER 4

While seeking a job elsewhere as a waiter, I began practising English with hotel patrons. My interest in the language was piqued when a
farang
tipped me 30 baht simply for pressing the elevator button for him. My instant impression of
farangs
was that they were rich and extremely generous, so I started making a conscious effort to converse with them in the hope that my endeavours would be rewarded.

After my English skills improved, I applied for a job at an upscale restaurant. The interviewer tested me on my ability to pronounce basic greetings in English—the good-morning-and-how-are-you kind of thing. They also tested me on laying tables and on the correct manner to serve customers. Thanks to my uncle and the stint I’d done in his hotel, I was well prepared for the interview and got the job.

I found working as a waiter fairly pleasant, and it was definitely far more dignified than cleaning toilets. My wage was 1,100 baht a month but I could easily make about 200-300 baht extra each day in tips. These wages were considered very reasonable, especially since I didn’t have to pay rent and split the electricity and water bills with my uncle. In fact, I could have lived quite comfortably on my tips alone. I was delighted, and felt that I was finally beginning to find my footing. I was earning good money for doing a relatively easy job—I didn’t have to sweat under the hot sun like the poor labourers who slaved away at constructing the luxury high-rise buildings that dotted the coastline.

Unfortunately, my newfound self-esteem morphed into reckless arrogance. Working in the restaurant gave me access to large stocks of foreign cigarettes and alcohol. I’d been used to
lao khao, Mae Khong
whiskey, and
Krong Thip
cigarettes, which were, in my estimation, poor imitations of these luxurious Western goods. No longer wanting to appear as an unsophisticated country boy, I opted for expensive opulent brands. Dunhill and Winston were my favourite smokes. I assumed these status symbols helped establish me as a manly man.

After five or six months of working in the restaurant, I got fired. I was in the habit of going to clubs after work and would show up the next day sleepy and hung-over. On nights when tips were particularly high, I’d disappear with my buddies for a few days straight and squander everything in nightclubs and gambling houses. I also had anger issues which would flare up easily if a co-worker made complaints about me to my boss. So I began threatening the staff with violence for what I saw as betrayal. I was convinced they were jealous that my English was better than theirs, and therefore, that I was getting more tips as a result. One evening, my manager had enough and called me into his office, sacking me on the spot. Sadly, this wasn’t an isolated incident and history was to repeat itself several times over. I usually managed to walk into jobs with ease and became overly confident in my abilities. I was adept at making a good first impression but generally neglected to maintain it.

While job-hopping, I was often approached by hotel guests asking me to procure marijuana for them. Of course, I knew exactly who to go to. As luck would have it, the neighbours in my
soi
happened to be small-time dealers. After securing a deal, I’d hide the goods under my serving platter and discreetly pass it onto buyers. I paid the dealers 50-100 baht for marijuana and then resold it at ten times the price; it was a lucrative setup. I didn’t even think twice about the trouble I could get into if I got caught. I offered to take charge of room service whenever possible because, not only were the tips better, but also, there was a greater chance of meeting potential drug buyers. I filled in as a bellboy whenever the need arose, and for exactly the same reason.

The extra cash allowed me to develop an expensive lifestyle that I found difficult to maintain. When I had money I spent it; I never managed to save, let alone send much home to my parents. I squandered it all on fine dining, gambling, beer, prostitutes, and dance clubs. Pattaya was full of delights and I depleted my resources faster than I ever did in Sisaket. My life was like a rollercoaster; I would start the evening with a full wallet, have a good time, and come home completely broke. Thrift was an alien concept to me. Growing up, I was never taught to be frugal and so I didn’t see the need for it; besides, life was too much fun.

The only thing that remained the same from one job to another was my work ethic and my extravagance. At one job, I ‘borrowed’ a keg of beer from the storeroom and generously shared it with my co-workers. When the supervisor realised the keg was missing, he began an investigation. One by one, my drinking accomplices pointed the finger of blame in my direction. I assured my supervisor that I’d cover all expenses with my next pay packet but he didn’t want to hear of it. I cursed my co-workers and quit before the supervisor could fire me.

Besides all the drinking and gambling during this time, there were the women. I fell for a lovely waitress named Pat who hailed from Pichit Province. Whenever the opportunity presented itself, I’d walk her home after work. I made sure she knew my intentions were noble and I wouldn’t take advantage of her. It was likely she considered me a potential beau because my uncle was a hotel manager. Whether or not this was the case, being his nephew certainly did me no harm when it came to the ladies.

I desperately wanted to consummate my relationship with Pat but there was one problem—I didn’t know how to make the first move. I was afraid that if I merely took her hand in mine, she’d consider me lecherous. The only time we shared physical contact was during a particularly bumpy tuk-tuk ride when we jolted up against the other. It would have been highly immodest of Pat to initiate any sexual intimacy. However, she seemed to be allowing the jolts to throw us together. I interpreted this as her way of intimating that she wanted me to make a move, only I was too shy to do so. Pat took my lack of initiative as a sign of weakness and said she no longer wanted my company. Less than a week later, I saw her walking arm in arm with another man.

I had viewed Pat as a conservative girl and wanted to get to know her properly before moving on to the next level. I had put her on a pedestal that she didn’t want to be on. My friend laughed at my predicament, telling me that it was no one’s fault but my own for not consummating the relationship. He haughtily informed me that the only way to cement things with a woman was to strike her with one’s sword as quickly as possible. I was still green when it came to relationships; it wasn’t until I had ample practice with prostitutes that I mastered the art of bedding women.

I confided to my friend that, at nearly 20 years of age, I’d never slept with a woman and I desperately wanted to try it out. To remedy my malady, he immediately brought me to a hotel which was aptly named ‘69 Hotel’. On the surface it looked like a run-of-the-mill flophouse. My friend, a regular at such places, was familiar with the protocol. When we entered the hotel coffee shop, I noticed twenty girls lounging about, chatting and preening themselves while giving sidelong glances to any man who happened to stroll in. In my innocence, I thought they were friends hanging out together in a hotel. If I hadn’t been told they could be purchased I’d have been none the wiser. I finally mustered the courage to negotiate the price with a pimp who informed me I could take my pick of the beauties available and, if I remember correctly, it cost 200 baht to have a quickie with the younger ones. This fee was reduced for the older women who were well worn by the trade. Most of the girls came from the north of Thailand:
sao nuea
, or ‘northern girls’, generally have a fair complexion and demure appearance. One of the girls was sitting quietly in the corner and I was immediately drawn to her. Her long black hair framed her beautiful oval face. I decided she was the one for me and in no time we disappeared into an upstairs room. When we were alone, like a true veteran, she sensed my anxiety.

‘Are you shy?’ she asked.

‘It’s . . . it’s my first time,’ I replied.

Her sensitivity disappeared momentarily and she burst out laughing.

‘Where have you been all these years?’

The sight of my face turning crimson with embarrassment made her compose herself. She patted the bed to indicate I should take a seat. I was shorter than her and this made me feel very self-conscious.

‘Why don’t you take off your clothes,’ she said.

‘Can you turn off the light first?’

I didn’t want her to see my already erect member.

‘Don’t be nervous.’ She reassured me. ‘There’s a first time for everything. My name is Ple and I’ll be your teacher tonight and teach you how to please a woman.’

My shyness quickly vanished. It felt completely right sleeping with Ple; the sensation of touching, tasting, and being a part of a woman was incredible. Before I left the room, she smiled at me and softly crooned that I should come back to visit her again soon.

From that day on, I found it impossible to concentrate on my work; all I could think about was Ple. Surprisingly, I found myself working harder than ever; desperately wanting to earn enough money to be able to see her. Each time I did so, I excitedly made my way to the hotel to act out my passions. I fell for her and was convinced my feelings would be reciprocated. Finally, I bared my heart, asking Ple to be my girl.

I couldn’t believe it when she declined, ‘You’re infatuated with me. Well, not exactly me but the sex haze you’re caught up in. It isn’t love that you’re experiencing. And, frankly, you’re just a client to me.’

After Ple broke my heart, I indulged in different working girls. I regarded this as one of the most importance aspects of life in Pattaya. I also adjusted my thinking—there were plenty of other Ple’s out there so why limit myself to just one?

One day I turned up for my shift at the coffee shop in a terrible state. A
farang
gentleman Chris, who was a regular customer, called in for a drink. He was nice and we’d had a few chats before. On this particular day, I was depressed and badly needed to talk to someone about my constant shortage of money. Chris walked in as if on cue. I found
farangs
in general to be relaxed and less easily offended than Thais. More importantly, they didn’t consider it beneath them to talk to a waiter, unlike my fellow countrymen. In my best English and with as much courage as I could muster, I poured out my unhappiness and discouragement at not being able to meet my expenses. Chris listened attentively, giving reassuring smiles and sympathetic nods at appropriate intervals. I then asked if he was willing to take me out for a few drinks—at his own expense naturally—to help me forget my problems. In return, I assured him I’d show him around town as his guide. He looked a little taken aback by my bluntness but eventually agreed. I would never be so brazen with any of my Thai compatriots let alone a customer. Imagine requesting free drinks with a side order of sympathy?

Chris and I hit several places in South Pattaya, including a go-go bar where I feasted my eyes on the luscious bodies of beautiful, scantily clad girls. Smug in my new-found friendship with Chris, I thought to myself how easy it was to befriend a
farang
.

In the small hours of the morning, I took him to my uncle’s house to show him off to the neighbours as one would a trophy. I knew I would earn kudos by flaunting my
farang
friend and especially for the fact that I was able to converse with him in English. A group of neighbours congregated on our porch drinking and shooting the breeze merrily, while my prize white man hovered in the background. Chris and I went into the house to use the bathroom. As we climbed the stairs, he asked to see my room and I drunkenly obliged. The next thing I remember was Chris fondling my penis eagerly. One thing led to another, and he pulled down my pants and began to pleasure me with his mouth. It was like a flashback from the experiences with my teacher five years before. My well-practised ability to draw pleasure without acknowledging the source kicked in. This prevented me from experiencing revulsion at what was transpiring. The main difference between Chris and my teacher was that Chris was more polite and gentle, and he took the time to arouse me.

Before we parted ways, Chris handed me 1,000 baht. My feelings of delight completely quelled any twinges of guilt. I simply reassured myself by saying, ‘
Mai pen rai
,’ ‘Never mind, it’s not a big deal.’ I had a good time and had been well paid and that was all that mattered. Chris dressed and left the house before I returned downstairs to join my drinking neighbours. They easily guessed at what had just taken place and couldn’t wait to tease me mercilessly.

‘Chai, we didn’t know that you like boys now.’

I wondered how they’d figured it out because Chris looked like any other straight man in his late forties. He sported a pencil-thin moustache and handsome grey sideburns, which flatteringly accentuated his dark slicked-back hair. He was as dashing as Errol Flynn. In his polo shirt, pressed trousers, and expensive leather shoes, women should have been queuing up for him. When I offered to be his impromptu guide, I didn’t expect the sale of my body would be part of the package. As for my uncle, he couldn’t believe that after all these months in Pattaya, I still hadn’t been able to tell Chris was gay.

He joined in the teasing, ‘Ati, which is Chinese for ‘boy’, you must now be gay because you let that
farang
blow your flute!’

I felt ashamed and my silent response ignited even more roars of laughter.

‘Don’t worry. It was business. I won’t tell your Pa.’

The fact that my uncle and neighbours openly joked without malice about what had just transpired made it all seem somehow above board. After all, I was only doing it for money—
mai pen rai
.

From that day on, each evening Chris would wait for me to finish up in the coffee shop. We both knew the score and followed it religiously. Chris would wine and dine me, perform oral sex, and then pay me handsomely in return. How could I refuse such a deal? His sexual orientation aside, Chris was very different from the other men I’d met. He was highly civil and seemed blind to my many flaws. He adored the fact that I was short, which was almost too good to be true; while I was attracted to his easy-going, fun-loving nature. He appeared to be happily cruising through life without attracting any trouble. While I certainly knew how to have fun, I would inevitably end up in some kind of disaster or other.