Confessions of a Red-Light Addict, Part 1

It’s Tuesday. Again. I’ve already torrented and watched all the Sunday shows from the US, and eaten the last of the leftover weekend pizza. What to do? The RLD (red light district) is a 6 minute walk from my front door. But I was just there yesterday. And Sunday. And Saturday. I’ll definitely be there tomorrow, it’s hump day. I should really take a day off—either today or Thursday. But which one? Thursday would be a better day to stay home—save up energy for the weekend. Plus I’m so frigging bored! Right, it’s decided. I’m off to the Pong……

Shark first, for happy hour. Any of my girls here yet? One’s already dancing, 2 are en route. No time to wait for them. It’s on to Kiss for a Belgian. Then King’s 2 to say hello to a few friends, then King’s 1 for some stage-side seat dancing, then Glamour. Then Black Pagoda to talk to Toby, then The Strip, and then home. Gotta quit early, it’s a weeknight. Gotta work tomorrow…..

Come Thursday, I’m sitting in the same chair staring out the window of my apartment toward Soi Convent thinking, “Am I really going to just sit here until it’s time for bed? What if I get hit by a bus tomorrow? My epitaph will read ‘He spent his last night on Earth alone in his room.’ Is that how I want to go out? F*ck no!” So it’s off to Cowboy and then Nana, with a meal at either The Slanted Taco or the Taco Truck next to Hooter’s. By the time the end of the month rolls around, I look back and realize I’ve done it again. RLD’s every night for 4 straight weeks. Bank account: drained. Empty bottles taking up all available counter space, table space, and floor space in my place, save a path from my bed to the toilet. Someone’s underwear in the sink. I could try to find their owner, but if I started asking around I’d end up pissing off a few women. It’d be safer just to chuck them off the balcony.

It’s a harsh existence. We suffer in silence, we red-light addicts. No one sympathizes. There are no charities or marches for us. It’s as if people don’t think it’s a real thing. But I’m living proof that it is.

I start to get the itch near the end of the work day. I know I’ll fight the Bangkok traffic, arrive home exhausted and barely fit in a nap and a shower before choosing a t-shirt with an offensive message on it and then I’m out the door, walking the dark, empty alleys that wind their way to my second home. They say all roads lead to Rome. All Bangkok alleys lead to Patpong.

Or Nana. Or Cowboy.

Then it’s a blur of vodka, San Miguel, (Witte if I’m Ponging), soft tan skin, ponytails, kisses, a few spankings and poof! I’m stumbling home in a cloud of perfume with some new Line contacts and a general feeling of bliss—like the world can go on spinning because I’ve put in my time. I don’t think I’ll ever break the cycle. I’m doomed to spend the rest of my nights and cash groping 20-year-olds, swigging swill, cursing at tourists, and having dinner delivered to a dark gogo where I’m forced to share it with half a dozen bikini-clad honeys. Oh, the humanity.

But somewhere in the middle of this haze, I feel like I’m finding a sort of peace. Like in the eye of a hurricane. Could a kind of Zen be culled from this existence? Is the path to enlightenment lined with the long, lovely legs of Thai dancing girls? Is this already Nirvana?

I shall have to meditate on this some more, preferably with my hands on the asses of a couple of supple sugarbabies. Seems a trip to The Strip is in order.

To be continued…..