Twit for Twat, a repetitive Pattaya tale

November 25, 2011

A well-known bar owner was lamenting the almost 180-degree change in attitude he and other similar operators have experienced over the years from customers who, after initially enjoying the fleshpots of Pattaya, suddenly turn almost puritanical after finding ‘the one’ and taking up with her.

When the guy takes his first tentative steps into the maelstrom of Pattaya bar hopping he is usually a walking erection looking for regular relief. He spends his afternoons and nights trawling through a multitude of bars, be they of the Sierra Tango variety, be they just outside beer boozers, or dens of the chrome pole. Everywhere he goes he has the ‘look’ about him: a deer caught in the headlights.

Bargirls have a sixth sense and radar that would make a sniffer dog proud and everywhere he goes he is a ‘handsome man’, ‘sexy man’. Although he knows it’s all insincere flattery, after a while he starts looking around at the other people sitting on barstools and kids himself into thinking that maybe, just maybe, he really is a handsome and sexy man.

While all this is going on he gradually starts to find a collection of bars where he feels comfortable. If he is seen as a regular in the bar he comes to the attention of the owner or manager. On some nights he wanders into the bar and strikes up a conversation with the owner or manager, casts his now seasoned eyes over what’s on offer and might just pick up a takeaway for that night from what has now become his favourite watering hole. He tells the owner/manager he thinks they have a great boozer and are wonderful people who are so lucky to be enjoying the fruits of living in this hedonistic paradise.

Then it all changes. He notices Rat. She has just started caressing the chrome poles in his favourite bar, has a body to die for and the face of an angel. He is smitten. The owner/manager tells him Rat has been working a couple of months for him and has proven very popular with customers. He brings Rat over for the regular to meet. The regular tells his new best mate, the owner/manager, he’s going to pay the bar fine for Rat for tonight only and give her a test run. She obviously passes the test because he starts taking her out almost every night. After a two-week whirlwind romance he has to return to the Land of Solitary Nocturnal Emissions and won’t be able to come back to Pattaya for at least three or four months.

He offers to sponsor Rat: “What you can give, darkling?” His first monthly stipend offer is a little low. She pouts. He raises the stakes and an agreement is made: she will not work in the bar, but will wait until he returns.

Naturally, she continues to work in the bar; after all, the Thai boyfriend keeps needing money for whisky and gambling and can’t afford to let her remain idle, because he doesn’t have a job.

Within a month Rat has managed to pick up another pussy-struck sponsor. This one can’t afford as much as the other one, but it’s extra money for nothing and he won’t be coming back for at least a year.

Finally, the original sponsor comes back, discovers Rat has still been working, gets angry, and wanders elsewhere in search of sexual solace. His best mate, the owner/manager, tells him that’s just the way it is, and always has been, in Fun Town.

Two, three nights later he comes back and, after giving Rat the ‘always tell me the truth’ talk, he takes up with her again. He tells her to leave the bar and they move in together on a permanent basis.

It’s at this point his entire demeanour swings 180 degrees. Having found his angel, his addled brain decides she was a complete victim of circumstances and economic hardship. She clearly had no choice but to make the long trek to Pattaya to sell her physical charms for money, just so her ailing mother and father could afford to eat fried frogs and nuked insects. He has a major epiphany, realising the bar owner/manager whom he previously saw as a kind of ‘partner in crime’ and bosom buddy, is in fact nothing more than a heinous pimp preying on the gullible, the homeless, the desperate, the infirm, and the poor. He may even be partially responsible for global warming and currency manipulation.

He now hates the bar and all it stands for; in fact, he now hates all bars and their avaricious owners and managers.

Next, he turns his attention to the bar’s website and promotional material. He is shocked to find his re-constituted virgin has had her photo displayed all over the website: dancing almost naked around a chrome pole in one shot; hugging a fat, bald, old, ugly foreigner in another; kissing a lean, hirsute, young, good-looking foreigner in another; using her tongue to express an unusual kind of affection for a fellow sex slave in yet another.

In high dudgeon he fires off an email to the bar’s website and demands all pictures of his sweetheart are removed forthwith and all references to her be deleted, otherwise he shall seek legal redress.

Most bar owners are usually willing to remove pictures if a paramour asks. So, the pictures come off, but then the owner/manager receives yet another angry missive along the lines of: ‘Rat’s picture is still on the site in a group shot on Koh Knobbing, and she can be seen in the background of a second anniversary scene in the bar, just behind that fat bastard in the England shirt…’ and on it goes.

How dreadful it must be for the pussy-struck walking wallet to keep running into other foreigners in Pattaya who, with brazen cheek, say hello to his darling Rat almost every time they are shopping in Tops or at Foodland. Of course she assures her primary source of income these men only know her because they were regular patrons in her old bar and she never, ever, ever went short-time, long-time or any other time with them. “No darkling, him too fat, bald, old, ugly for me…”

Ó Duncan Stearn