Pattaya bars - a review

[poshglasgow]

There was the most incredible dancer in Throb, circa 2003/2004, called 'Art' with whom I very nearly fell in love. That's a lie, I did fall in love with him. He had the most beautiful face and bleached hair, and his dancing prowess was that of a gracious adonis. When I called him over to sit with me after the show on my first encounter with him I felt that I had effected the most beautiful, valuable catch in the whole of the local gay community that evening, until (cue the opening bars of the music for Jaws) a wealthy, colossal German entered the bar with an entourage of pallbearers, punkhawallas, petal scatterers, trumpeters, minders and half a football team of young Thai men hanging on his arms. Suddenly this man became the focus of attention and Art mumbled something about returning later and moved off to join the German's party. I did, however, meet up with Art on many occasions after that night. And then a year later - come on we've all experienced this one - I arrived into Don Muang(as one did in those days)eager to beat a path to the door of Throb to find Art and pick up where we had left off, but he had gone.
"Gone where?" I asked the mamasan.
"Not sure, I think he go with German man."
"Which German man?"
"Not sure."
And then one of the other waiters approached with some good and some bad news. This is a waiter who eventually went to Dream Boys and one whom I had always tipped well when at Throb. He massaged my neck and arms with great care and precision, and although not attractive he was attentive and professional.
"Art, he go new bar: Happy Place. He manager."
I left Throb and went immediately to Pattayaland Soi 2 and straight into Happy Place (I think I've got the correct name of the now empty bar which stands next to a restaurant which, in those days, I think was called the New Orleans). Art was there. We picked up where we left off and spent some quality time together. I returned to the UK to make some more money to re-visit. Six months later, I was back in Pattaya to see Art. I was becoming besotted: hooked. Was this what love felt like? I entered Happy Place.
"Art, not work here now."
"Christ, not again. Where he go? Why he go?" I'm in Pattaya five minutes and already I'm speaking like a five-year-old on the verge of a tantrum at the check-out!
"I don't know, I think he go back home."
He consulted one of the other waiters and returned with more news - dreadful news; ghastly news; the worst sort of news short of death by motorcycle!
"Art, he now manager in XXXXX," and he told me the name of a well-known girlie bar in Pattayaland Soi 2.
"Eh?"
"He manager."
"A girlie bar?"
"Sure."
I froze. In a little under five minutes I would enter one of the most vibrant, heel-kicking, Ping-Pong ball-popping, dart-firing girlie bars in South East Asia: no, in the world! Would I survive? The prospect filled me with fear and trepidation. What if a girl were to jump from the stage onto my face? How am I going to deal with an environment which had never held the slightest fascination for me?

Art was there. He was moving around the stage much as a shepherd does near the sheep pen in the final moments of the sheepdog's triumph, and it was some time before he saw me. I was spellbound. I had never seen so many naked tits in my life, and I had a sudden irrational fear that one of the girls would creep up behind me and shove her tit in my mouth! God knows why that thought pervaded my entire psyche at that moment. The last time I had a tit in my mouth was when I was six months old and even then I had to share it with a man who smoked sixty gold flake a day!

Art and I lost touch some years ago. He went for a time to a bar in Soi Twilight and from there to Germany (quelle surprise). The last I heard was that he had returned to Patts, bought a motorbike with a 'mobile kitchen' attached to it and had a patch somewhere near Second Road. I couldn't help thinking that the versatility and speed of his wrists were going to be bloody useful when attacking the wok!

Last week, I drank enough beer to give me enough courage to venture into Eros. My God, how long has the tall blond worked that bar now I wonder? With a skip onto the podium and a flick of the loin cloth he's up in front of your face. Like sharks, the rest of the shoal swim over to circle the new Farang; the scent of the wallet so strong that it attracts them from miles around. I smile politely and avoid eye contact. And then, thank God, and on cue in comes the big fellow with the sticks, white shin-length socks and a hair do not unlike Trump's. He's been on the circuit a few years. He sits down opposite the door and Wham!! They're on him. It's like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. He's covered in boys! They're on his lap, they're at his back, two on the floor: every available seat around his is taken by them. I sit alone, look around me and then I focus, nostalgically, on the curtain which conceals an area where once, on a previous visit, I was led by an enthusiastic host to a couch.

Maybe a few more lines tomorrow, gentlemen? I don’t want to over-stay my welcome.