Bangkok Boy (7 page)

CHAPTER 7

The nurses are moving my bed. This is a good omen for only the most critical cases are situated next to the nursing station. I had the honour of being in first place for a long time. Now I’m being relegated to a corner next to the smelly bathroom, far from the nurse’s sight.

The move makes sense; my condition has been improving slowly and now I can finally say that I’m on the road to recovery. However, I suspect that my loud and incessant complaining may have also played a part in my relocation.

I’ve good reason to complain though; some of these so-called caregivers seem disgusted by me and treat me with disrespect. I presume that they’ve easily guessed my profession. They don’t seem to consider me a patient worthy of sympathy; only a ruffian who has simply collected his karmic come-uppance. But this time round I was not the instigator of the fight, well not entirely anyway. I was the one maliciously attacked.

I wonder if my life would’ve been better if I had remained in Sisaket. I could have given academia another chance; or tended to the farm and run the family business. Maybe I could’ve raised a family. If I’d had the strength to ignore the ridicule of the villagers and concentrated on reforming myself, things might have been different. If only . . . when joined together those two words have to be the saddest in any language; yet I find myself saying them on a daily basis.

When faced with criticism in the past, my usual reaction would be to run away. I preferred to embark on a journey into the unknown rather than face my troubles. So shortly after leaving the monastery and heading for Bangkok, I still didn’t know how ill-equipped I was to survive in the city. I had no skills or qualifications that might have secured me a decent job, let alone the strength of character to resist the temptations that were everywhere on offer.

My sister Nitiya had been working at a Chinese restaurant in the City of Angels for many years. Her employer provided her with modest lodgings, which she shared with her fellow waiter-cum-boyfriend. Nit, as I affectionately called her, was initially reluctant to let me stay in her flat, especially considering my track record. She finally relented, but only out of deep love for our parents and dogged persistence on my part.

So with my secondary school certificate in hand, I set about job hunting. After days of battling Bangkok traffic, getting lost down myriad look-alike streets, and dealing with scores of unhelpful people, I finally managed to secure work in a department store in Ramkhamhaeng. ‘Ram’ is a busy, noisy, polluted district to the north of Bangkok. It is comprised of crowded streets, stalls, restaurants, countless hostels and pigeonhole-sized apartments, mosques, malls, and a sports stadium. My job, a rather inglorious one indeed, was as a bagger at a cashier stand. For a mere 3,000 baht a month, I spent hours stuffing expensive purchases into glossy shopping bags for well-off impulsive shoppers. Needless to say, after I’d paid my transportation costs, rent, food, and bought the odd piece of clothing, I hadn’t two baht to rub together by the end of the month. I prayed to Buddha that I wouldn’t fall sick or get a toothache because I’d have had no choice but to put up with the pain.

After months of barely scraping by, I felt utterly frustrated. Humiliated by city life, my old weaknesses for cigarettes, booze, and partying returned with a vengeance. I could always rely on such distractions to elevate my mood. So I began to splurge my earnings on these indulgences, and relished the feeling of release they afforded me.

Age-old cultural expectations dictated that I should be the one my younger siblings came to in times of need, yet here I was seeking handouts from my sister to make ends meet. My dependence on her added to the heavy load she was carrying and she frequently reminded me of this. Her constant nagging eroded my masculine ego and any trace of sibling affection between us soon disappeared.

As a true Pinit, Nitiya was certainly fond of alcohol and could easily hold her own in the company of any seasoned drinker. However, when drunk she often became extremely rude and violent.

On rare occasions, Nit and I shared what could loosely be described as a ‘bonding’ session. One such session took place at a late-night food stall over plates of appetisers, which we washed down with copious amounts of cheap whiskey. I was in a gloomy mood and was grumbling about my lot in Bangkok. The more I whined, the more agitated my sister became. Suddenly, her face reddened and she exploded, drawing shocked stares from other customers.

‘Shut up! I’m sick of you, you loser. Do something instead of complaining! Why don’t you sell your body if you’re so desperate to make money, huh? There’s just the place down the road, and I’m sure they’d take you on.’

I was stunned. I couldn’t comprehend why Nit, my own sister, would suggest such a degrading career. I hurriedly gathered my belongings, left Nit to pay the bill, and sadly headed off towards our flat. As I trudged along, my heart felt heavy. I tried to get to the root of Nit’s callousness, but found no satisfactory explanation. So I turned instead to examining the actual content of her abusive tirade. As the first morning rays began to slice triumphantly through the gaps between the skyscrapers, it dawned on me that it was actually possible for me to conquer this metropolis.

I’d briefly dabbled in the sex industry in Pattaya, selling my body to secure food, shelter, and pleasure. The life of a go-go dancer had appealed to me back then, especially after I’d been intimate with Chris. I found myself repeatedly drawn to this kind of career, and since I’d technically already prostituted myself, what was the big deal? Circumstances in Pattaya hadn’t forced me to consider it a full-time career. But here I was broke and living in a permanent state of humiliation. This was enough to cause me to consider making a career of it this time round.

In order to avoid further conflict when my sister eventually stumbled in, I pretended to be asleep. As I did so, I silently debated the pros and cons of this possible career move. I tried to imagine the worst scenario—dying of AIDS. But I thought if I died, then so be it:
mai pen rai
. I hoped I would have accumulated enough money to leave a small fortune for my parents and siblings. The money would recompense them for the hurt I’d caused and, hopefully, they’d finally be able to forgive me. Perhaps, if the inheritance was large enough, I might even be hailed a hero. The more I thought about it, the more I cultivated this delusion of myself as noble and self-sacrificing. But given I was willing to sacrifice myself for the good of my family, surely I was a hero?

I could only sleep in fits over the next few hours and eventually rose around midday. I left the house and headed towards the bar my sister had suggested. As I turned the last corner, my courage began to flag.

‘What if they reject me?’ I thought, as I paced past the bar a few times. Feeling like a fool, I finally mustered up enough courage to go inside. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark, dingy atmosphere as an overpowering smell of stale smoke crept into my nostrils. Most men would likely have done a U-turn the second they’d entered such a place, but I found the surroundings similar to the girly bars I’d frequented so I wasn’t too discomfited.

The premises, a blueprint for just about every other go-go bar throughout the country, had a raised stage on the ground floor for dancers, a bar to one side facing the stage, and several tiered rows of seats. The overall effect gave the impression of a poor imitation wooden coliseum. I tried to picture myself dancing naked in front of cheering, or perhaps jeering spectators. While attempting to fight my fear the venue’s manager and male
Mama-san
,
Anek, approached me. He began to assess me with the keen eye of someone who’d clearly been in the business for years.

‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked sharply.

‘Whatever you see fit for me, sir,’ I replied.

‘We have openings for dancers only! Still interested?’ he asked, no doubt expecting me to make a beeline for the door.

‘I’m interested,’ I replied, lowering my eyes respect-fully.

I prayed he’d accept me as nothing would’ve been worse than returning home empty-handed to once again face my sister’s contempt.

‘You’re a bit on the short side,’ the
Mama-san
continued, ‘but I can see some good muscle there. You can start tomorrow.’

The job interview lasted barely a minute and I couldn’t believe the
Mama-san
hadn’t demanded to see my ‘goods’ before employing me.

The rules were clearly explained and simple enough. I had to turn up at the bar before noon to start work shortly thereafter. When I started out, the majority of the bar’s clients were
farangs
but over the course of more than a decade I’ve witnessed a large increase in the numbers of Asian gay men, and even female clients, turning to the sex industry to satisfy their needs.

I was 23 years old when I first danced as a go-go boy. I arrived at the bar the following day and made my way to the locker room. After undressing down to my underwear, I was ready to go to work.

We weren’t expected to purchase underwear from the management like dancers today; instead, we were allowed to market ourselves as we saw fit. Thankfully, despite nursing a woeful hangover, I’d had the presence of mind to wear clean, presentable underwear. Clean underwear or not, my debut as a male prostitute was difficult. My co-workers were relatively friendly though, and the gaudy lighting and blaring music created a party atmosphere, but when I took to the stage I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact with the audience. Instead, I stared at the floor and awkwardly bumped my hips to the music.

The bar had rooms on the upper floors where bar boys could take clients for quickies. It’s rare nowadays for bars to provide such services; instead, go-go boys conduct their business in the guests’ hotels. Although we started dancing around midday we usually didn’t see a customer until a few hours later. At 2pm or 3pm, after clients had replenished their energies with a hearty brunch, they once again thronged to the bars in search of a little afternoon delight.

During a short break after the first round of songs, I ran to the bathroom hiding angry tears. I’d cockily thought that I could conquer the stage and emerge victorious with a wallet full of cash and no qualms. I couldn’t have been more wrong. No matter how much I tried to dress the job up and go out with guns blazing, it was degrading, and there was no denying it. I shoved my fist into my mouth to muffle my loud sobs. I bit down hard on my knuckles and welcomed the distraction the pain offered me. I wanted to be a person of value and significance, but instead I was reduced to a mere commodity. I had no excuses; opportunities in life hadn’t been cruelly robbed from me by poverty, I’d simply thrown them away.

I couldn’t bring myself to leave the bathroom. Every fibre of my being rebelled at the thought of dancing on that neon stage, and becoming part of that vulgar meat market.

My mind teemed with questions. What if my parents found out about my new profession? How badly would they take it? Would Pa finally reach breaking point and disown me? Was I freely handing the neighbours yet another opportunity to ridicule and shame us? I began to buckle under the weight of it all.

I was rudely brought back to reality by someone rapping loudly on the stall door, barking that it was time to get back on stage. So wiping my tears and suppressing my anguish, I strode back onto the stage.

Soon after my ignoble return to the spotlight, a client ‘bought me out’. He was a nicely dressed, chubby American in his late forties. During one of the rare moments that I lifted my gaze from the floor I noticed his intense stare. He obviously knew bar protocol. He beckoned Anek and requested that I sit with him. My heart was in my mouth as I stepped down from the stage and made my way over to his table. I sat down shyly beside him as Anek began negotiating a deal. Even if I was blind, I could’ve sensed how turned on he was. His hands moved to my underwear, and he deftly slipped his fingers under the waistband and began rubbing my penis.

Meanwhile, Anek asked whether or not I was willing to oblige the client. I could have said no—I had a choice; I could have run out the door and never looked back, but instead I said yes.

I timidly headed upstairs with the American. He was beaming as his prize for the evening dutifully trailed behind him. I knew that with each step, I was moving further away from any vestige of innocence I had left. I was about to pass the point of no return, yet I kept on walking.

As soon as we entered the room, the
farang
grabbed a hold of my briefs and whipped them off, before pushing me onto the bed. He seemed to be doing everything at speed in case there was a danger I might run off. He started to ‘smoke’ me (a euphemism for giving fellatio). So far, the encounter mirrored those involving Loed and Chris. The American was not as easy on the eye as Chris, but his technique was surprisingly far better. He swallowed my manhood with voracious appetite. Then he began to kiss me teasingly whilst circumnavigating my body, all the while his fingers were paying special attention to my nipples. He teased every nerve, muscle and sinew, which caused me to cry sonorously as if I were a musical instrument. As my moans reached a crescendo, the American began a tune of his own until eventually we exploded together blissfully. Afterwards, he cradled me closely in his arms. Finally, I got up, showered and prepared to go back downstairs.

That was it; we were done. I was amazed that I’d enjoyed the experience as much as I had.

After paying the bar 500 baht for the room, he handed me 1,500 baht. I thanked him and took my leave. Looking at the three 500-baht notes, reality struck. This money was tax-free and it was half of what I earned in a whole month working at the department store. My terror from earlier evaporated as I wondered why I hadn’t chosen to work as a go-go boy sooner. They say that money has wings; but in my case, the money gave me wings and allowed me to take flight, away from my many worries—at least for a time. A business cog began spinning in my mind—or maybe it was simply greed, but I found myself projecting how much money I could make in a year. I’d been searching high and low for an easy money maker and all the while it was right here in my underwear.