Chinese Tequila

Thailand is my favorite place in the world (other than New York, of course) for three reasons: the food, the women, and the Buddhism; all three are done there better than anywhere else I am aware of (if you do know where these three things are done better, please fill me in; thanks). Of all the things I love about Thailand—from the oddness to the strange dichotomies and juxtapositions to the weather to the feeling of spontaneity that is omni-present—tequila is not one those things; it’s not even in the top 1000.

Normally in Thailand, I stick to Singha beer, a lager much in the vein of Heineken or Stella. Sometimes I opt for Sangsum—a ‘Thai whiskey’ that is actually a rum, that may or may not have some kind of serious and intense hard drug in it; if you drink too much of this ‘whiskey,’ you’re liable to have some kind of moment of clarity. I was once found speaking in tongues in a meditative sitting position on the floor of the apartment I was staying at, post-speaking with street dogs in the neighborhood, all after imbibing a pint of this devilish drink. #realtalk

But when the moment is right, tequila is the only option, regardless of your surroundings… but now I have gotten ahead of myself, allow me to explain how this moment came about....

After a lovely Chinese New Year in a Chinese-style river town (see previous entry Chinese New Year, Thai style) my travel partner and I set out further South to Phuket where we had a friend teaching at a university to crash with. As we entered Phuket, I couldn’t help but feel like a marine on R&R; the wild and untamed power-lines were tangled to levels that only decade’s worth of haphazard and non-cooperative infrastructure development could create; the architecture was low-effort Portuguese style; the skies were super clear and the air was super humid; and there were bars on the main drag and in downtown that aimed to entice men hungry for the visceral pleasures of life. All in all, these characteristics compounded to formulate a feeling that I was in Full Metal Jacket 2.

Over the hill and through the jungle from Phuket, the dingy but lovely beach paradise on a peninsula, was Patong—the 2^nd or 3^rd ‘sexiest’ place in Thailand (and of course, by ‘sexy’ I mean wrought with prostitution and steroided up dudes looking to mount anything they can). In addition to these two demographics, there were lots of Chinese families on vacation for the New Year.

Whenever I am surrounded by neon silhouettes of women and people pushing sex shows on the street, I wonder what decision process leads Chinese families to come to places such as Pataya and Patong, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there.

My travel partner and I had prepped for the night with some Northern Thai food, beers, Sangsum (it was one of those nights), Redbull©, and lighthearted existential joking about how we wound up in the places we had wound up in (see previous Thailand posts).

We strolled up and down the main drag of Patong, perusing the schedules for various sex shows and other adult entertainment (Man and Woman, Flower Shows, Ping Pong Shows… mostly standard stuff). We considered getting suits tailored for 80 bucks then decided against it. We stopped into a 7-11 and had another Redbull© and beer.

After stepping out of the 7-11, we were approached by 4 young Chinese women. They asked us to take a picture of them; it was relieving to be approached by non-salespeople. Being that both me and my travel partner speak pretty darn good Chinese, we wowed them and our crew and their crew became a singular crew.

As we walked down the main drag, women in tow, a tequila bar magically appeared out of nowhere. Normally I know to avoid tequila bars in Asia, but it was one of those nights, and the Chinese women had never had a tequila shot, so we had to school them.

There was a discount if you bought the shots by the 15-platter, so being the frugal folks we were, we took advantage of the discount.

As we explained the salted hand and the lime chaser, the tension was building; I had never realized how odd the process of a tequila shot was—the Chinese lasses’ fear was palpable. The process was explained, everyone had a salted hand, the limes were being gripped, the shot glasses were hoisted up… we then held them down (Chinese style cheersing) and called out ‘gan-bei, xin nian kuai le!’ (cheers! Happy New Year!)… the alcohol entered our systems… annnnndddddd…..

Turns out it wasn’t tequila; it was more like something between vodka and rubbing alcohol. Shit. There were no immediate adverse reactions so I remained calm; my travel partner, who had been living in rough and rugged Beijing for a few years at that point, was not standing for the counterfeiting we had become victims to. In a fit of rage he demanded to speak to a bar tender or a manager or someone that he could heir his grievances to. In a commanding Chinese style, he told them that their product was counterfeit and he wanted a refund. They said no. He demanded it once again. They said no. They offered more shots for free. We took it. Haggling 101, yo.

We left after 2 trays of shots to take on Patong once again, which had seemed to become smaller and more beautiful while we were in the tequila bar. We went with the only logical next step at this point: a ladyboy bar. We entered and ordered another bulk discount shot tray—this time it was Sambuca (real Sambuca! Yay!).

After a few songs and taking in the whole scene, I looked into the eyes of one of the Chinese women; it struck me like a ton of comedic bricks: they didn’t know they were in a ladyboy bar. I asked her which woman was prettiest, she responded with a finger and a ‘that one.’ I then asked her: ‘you do know that these women are all actually men, right?’ She denied it, I told her to look at the legs of the dancer in front of us, the rippling calves, the defined hamstrings. Her jaw dropped, her eyes scanned the room, a new sense of her surroundings was taking hold. 

After some chit-chatting with the Chinese ladies about their views on transgenderedness (it’s just a phase! They are confused!) and some informal interviews with some of the ladyboys to learn about the life of a transgendered sex professional, we set out for the beach.

The beach was pretty empty at this point in the late night. We enjoyed some more 7-11-bought beers and jokes with the Chinese women. Somehow, this turned into an unrequited match of truth or dare which ended with myself and my travel partner naked, with this group of fully-clothed women cheering us on and yelling out objectifying slurs. Luckily, as an experienced Boy Toy, I am not a masculinist and I don’t mind being on the receiving end of a bit of objectification from time to time.

After an awkward denial of entry from these young ladies’ hotel, my travel partner and I were forced to walk long distances in search of transportation—in soaking wet pants (literally). An early morning walk in a place like Patong is a great illustration of the dichotomy that is omni-present in Thailand and something I truly love: you can see street level prostitutes picking up their last customers or walking home for the night, right next to the monks who do there alms in the early morning, plus drunken foreigners looking silly and out of place in a land equal parts interesting and confusing to them (although we could only see the latter-most when looking at reflections in store front windows).       

The Dark Side Tour, Part II

Oat wakes up early because of his job as a high stakes sports better—I always associated sports betting with night time, but when you bet on basketball in Asia it’s actually an early morning job. Consequently, we always woke up early when we were staying with Oat to cheer on whichever basketball team he had money on. He had a lot of money riding on the Clippers-Mavericks game and didn't want to leave his apartment so we ordered McDonald's delivery (I’m still not sure how it works, but virtually anywhere in developed Thailand you can dial 1711 and have McDonald's at your door in less than 30 minutes). While eating our Big Macs and drinking our Coca Colas, Pap and Oat both won 10 thousand dollars, thanks to Chauncey Billups taking an unnecessary last minute 3-pointer to meet the spread.

With victory in our clutches, we hopped in Oat’s car to head to Pattaya, the capital of the dark side of Thailand. Phil, an American we met at the hostel came along; it was his birthday, which was the perfect excuse to kill a liter of bourbon before visiting Walking Street, the sex capital of the sex capital—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Pap contemplating go karts

When first arriving to Pattaya, we did what any 5 guys would do: go karts! We opted for the karts that maxed out at 45 or so, which was still pretty fast. Among the many ‘Masters of Southeast Asia’ (see above post) getting their race on, two stood out. Both of these two old, creepy guys had mullets and wore full racing body suits, Formula 1 style. Their 80 pound dark skinned Thai lovers looked on as they shaved seconds off their go kart laps.

Oat told me his dad was a doctor and that he owned a clinic, and we would stay at this ‘clinic.’ I had images in my head of poor sick people lined up out the door for treatment of herpes, TB, and gunshot wounds (you know, a clinic); I was a little worried, I didn't want to catch anything. Come to find out, a ‘clinic’ in Tinglish is a place for cosmetic surgeries, such as nipple augmentations, face lifts, and sex changes; it was actually a really nice, well lit, and clean place (think a nice dentist’s office with breast posters on the walls instead of teeth). Our accommodations were a former massage parlor on the 3^rd floor of the building. Instead of having five four-foot wide beds, we just had one 20-foot wide bed, with curtains in between.

Our not-so-humble abode for the evening

Making illicit whiskey drinks

We went for seafood on the beach and drank a liter of Jim Beam that I had brought for a special occasion (it was our friend’s birthday and we were in the sex capital of perhaps the world—what the hey). Our waiter was a cold hearted ladyboy who knew we were drinking outside alcohol but couldn’t catch us in the act. We would make ‘ladyboy alerts’ if (s)he was heading our way and someone was pouring. By the end of dinner, we were loud, rowdy, and ready for Walking Street.
DISCLAIMER: I will spare some (read many) of the details of the ensuing events out of good taste (but if you want to know more, contact me, I am more than happy to fill in all the gaps).

First things first: The Ping Pong Show.
Let’s just say these girls have special talents that they have developed through the strengthening and toning the muscles of their reproductive organs, allowing them to propel things with only the ‘breath control’ of their loins (that is about as appropriately as I can describe it). We wanted a solid performance so we asked around about the quality of the entertainers, duration of the entertainment, and show(wo)manship.

Phil (center) taken aback by the splendor of Walking Street

We settled on a 2 hour variety show with a cover charge of about 6 dollars, which included a drink. I want to make it clear and say this show is not very sexy, it’s more like a celebration of an impressive achievement (the said ‘breath control); it was more like going to a boxing match than a strip show. Being that we were sitting front row, we got to take part in the show—I got to light a cigarette for a girl, and hold a balloon which was popped by a blowgun dart; I have faith that my readership can understand what I mean.

The menu at the variety show... email me if you want the legible version

After 2 hours of beer drinking and enjoying some intensely impressive feats of adult entertainment, we moved on to a very classy stage show. The lights were impressive, the sound system was great, the entertainers were lovely, and the choreography was top notch. There were themed dances such as two nurses reviving a third girl, leather and whips, and vampires. These non-explicitly sexual sex shows were actually much preferred by my Thai friends, and based on their generalizations, preferred by most Thai guys. This was where I had my first encounter with a mamasan—a former prostitute turned head madame. Mamasans are notoriously cutthroat; they have seen and done it all, and they don’t put up with shit from anybody. This mamasan mistook my drunkenness for dullness and tried to charge me for 4 drinks when I bought one, and then made me feel bad for bringing it up—she had solid skills of instilling guilt for money.

After that we moved down the strip to a club with a live hip-hop band. They did sweet live covers of Jay-Z, TI, and Solja Boy Tell Em’, as well as Bob Marley songs. Literally for every one local/tourist club goer on this strip, there was a scantily clad Thai girl between 18 and 27. At one club, Pap introduced us to some girls from his hometown (small world!). At 5 or 6 am, after banging out dance remixes to every American pop song imaginable, the clubs all started to close. We decided an after-party was in order (the logical next step from a party, just ask R. Kelly). 

Can't stop, won't stop

We got back to the room and there we were, drunk and joking around. Then the truth came out: they were not friends of Pap; they were prostitutes that happened to be from his hometown (this explained why they were instantly so cool with us I suppose), and they wanted money. We deliberated and let them know that we didn't have interest in playing such a hands on role in the sex trade. They tried to bargain with us for a bit, and after more calculated responses on our parts, they finally left, seemingly not offended. By this time the sun was rising and we were still quite intoxicated; we all slept like one big happy family on our one big happy massage bed.

When we woke up the next afternoon, we were a little more hardened and a little more battle ready; we were men with a little more experience and a little less soul. I can only speak for myself when I say that Pattaya definitely took something out of me, but at least it wasn't money—this entire evening of drinking and world-class entertainment ending up costing about 25 bucks, god bless the power of the dollar.