Big Mango Bar
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Trying to be good – Pt2 – By Hunch

Posted by Hunch644 | Blog, Reader Submissions | Posted on June 17th, 2011

Trying to be good – Pt 1

Five days into a two-week trip and things are going quite well with my ‘good girl’ Jen. So what does any right-thinking man do next? Yep – clear-off down to Pattaya for 4 days. Jen can’t get time off work, but I still head off with Pete and his girlfriend Annie…who in her prim, cheeky manner tells us she’s up for Go-go’s and the like – even wants us to have a boys night or two. Arriving at the hotel, the spa lady calls out – ‘massage sir?’ as I pass with suitcase. I tell her ‘tomorrow or next day’, having no intention of doing so. Although somewhere, I make a mental note: mid-forties, but nice boobs, looks quite cute in her tight traditional costume….

That night we sit out front in a Walking Street bar and watch the Russians. Bizarre fashions everywhere you look – weird platforms, spandex, Lycra wifebeaters beaucoup de place. The women look strange as well – but also quite hot. Annie is obsessed with Katoeys and she follows several, snapping and filming at a distance. With her in mind, Angelwitch sems a ‘low-sleaze’ option so we transport ourselves there. Lots of new girls and some new shows. Thankfully, the mamasan, recognising me, doesn’t wade over and launch into litanies of how many months it’s been since my last visit. Annie has no idea how many times I’ve been on secret visits to LOS/Pattaya and Pete doesn’t know the half of it either. He unwittingly created the monster, back in 2006. Anyway, Pete keeps asking Annie if she’s OK, (she’s fine) but he keeps it up until an hour-or-so later, they start arguing and we have to pull the plug. I want to maintain a façade of respectability with Annie (she’s a route to more ‘good girls’) so I go back to the hotel with them – thankfully it’s only a short walk (or naked jog) down Second Road.

After saying goodnight at the lift, I sprint, balls-in-hand, straight back to Soi Angelwitch and into What’s up a Go-go. The thing I immediately like here is that all the girls are wearing their own lingerie…to my eyes a more appealing than standard-issue black bikinis. Not that there’s anything wrong with the black bikini, but what’s here is akin to spying on a girls locker room. I get a drink for a couple of saucy wenches – one slim girl in a nice tight brown set and another curvier lass in a lovely lemon-colored bra and thong. A proper thong, mind – with an inch-thick waistband and some semblance of tailored material covering her peachy derriere – not those string efforts. They are oblivious to my panty perversions and they seem somewhat distracted. They keep going off to chat with friends so I tell them I’ll be back another night. I’m now a man without a plan and end up in Office Go-go on Soi Bukhao. The birds that want to be barfined have been barfined. The others shuffle about sullenly. I ditch and slink back to the hotel for a wank while I can still visualise the What’s Up lingerie party. What can I say – Patts didn’t do it for me tonight, thoughts of Jen, the sleaze, Pete and Annie arguing. Royaume Uni – Nil Points.

Next night, the happy couple leave me alone. I visit Office Go-go for ‘happy hour’. And there’s only one place to go after – Happy-a-go-go. Inside Happy, I take a coveted pew along the back wall. I get ‘Care Bear stares’ going with a dancer on the main stage as she makes painfully slow progress from right to left….anchored to each pole for the duration of several song. I’ve seen Stromatolites move faster. While I wait, two old Brits – or Aussies? – enter. (What’s the difference anyway, both share a love for cricket, Fosters and incest). Accompanying them are what must be their Thai wives. The men take the perv stools stage-side; their wives sit next to me along the wall. I notice the younger one first (in relative terms) – she’s early to mid 40s, beautiful, modestly dressed and radiant. Then I notice the other lady – she’s over 50 – elegant and absolutely stunning. Like a Thai version of Liz Taylor in her sultry prime. They sip beers and giggle like schoolgirls, ignoring their husbands. I can hardly keep my eyes on the stage for watching these two. I begin to have ‘pool boy gets ravished by rich housewives’ fantasies.
I’m brought round from my own reverie by the dancer who’s now offstage and in front of me, smirking. We shake hands, she sits and the flat stomach that undulated seductively on stage doesn’t look as great up close – the go-go stage lights were definitely set to ‘flatter’ this evening. Dancer-girl immediately starts yakking away about her off-stage strife, and I ignore my lookout’ in the crows’ nest calling ‘icebergs two miles dead-ahead’ and order a lady-dink. Her voice is annoying and she squawks on and on about her domestic woes. But it’s no use – the captain of the good ship Hunch is not on the bridge – he’s passed out in the mess, shit-faced on sweet sherry. I do some quick reckoning – she’s passable for a short-time against bailing out and starting again – which can be slow work in Happy-a-go-go. (or anywhere, for saying that, right P4P kids?)

She doesn’t let up on the grief all the way back to the hotel but does beat down the Songtheaw driver to 10 baht when we disembark. At least she backs up words with deeds. Back in the room, we get on the bed and she’s still jabbering. I make a ‘shhh’ sign. When she eventually shuts up, I get a BBBJ to write home to mother about (on parchment with quill, by candlelight, of course). She pulls my cock out of the side of my trunks (now I do like that) and does all the good stuff. It’s so good in fact that my ears have almost stopped aching from her yammering. After the noshing, she comes back from the bathroom and mentions something about me ‘coming’. No I didn’t (much) and so what if I did? I pull her onto the mattress and yank off her shorts and pants. Just then, the captain of SS Hunch comes staggering back to the ship’s controls yelling ‘you’re fucking a skanky whore!!’ Maybe it was the glimpse of my tart’s grey and tatty knickers that prompted this – either way I couldn’t get the thought out of my head and rushed the deed just to get it over with. This feeling doesn’t come over me often when engaged in P4P activities – but it did that night.

Next AM, I’m feeling fragile so I decide on a day of pampering – after an early morning (before noon) run along Beach Road. It’s bloody hot (no shit?) and I don’t feel too clever at all on the walk back to the hotel – chiefly as I fuck-wittedly decide to walk in merciless sun with the other side of the road in complete shade. Speaking of fuck-wits – I haven’t seen my phone in a while…turns out I’d gone left it in Office Go-go last night, hadn’t I? A short, naked jog from the hotel and I’m back on Soi Bukhao/LK. It’s still before midday and I’m surprised to see every Go-go open for cleaning and other ancillary activities. Every Go-go that is, except, of course, Office.

Passing the hotel spa on my way back, the head lady comes out again with a look of mild reproach. ‘Massage today – what time?’ I say ‘yeah, yeah…’ but some subtle expression of hers provokes a laugh and I cave in – ‘OK 4pm’. Apart from periodic visits to see if Office is yet open, I pass an uneventful day at the pool. There’s a few wives/girlfriends to perv at – a lovely elfin Chinese-Thai lady in her 1960s style pastel two-piece and a saucy but classy Swedish MILF lying provocatively on her lounger. My book is ok, but like all autobiographies, it starts getting morbid once you’ve passed the chapter on the peak of their careers. (Jade Goody, RIP). Added to this, the saucy Swede keeps writhing and the little Chinese-Thai keeps frolicking in the shallow end. I order an iced Mocha for strength, then nip upstairs for a dirty wank. I should instead go to Sabai Massage on 2nd road but thoughts of Jen and my own conscience beat me down.
Anyway, from my room, If I peek through the gap in my curtains I’ve got the perfect view of the frolicking Chino-Thai and the saucy Swede. I feel like a young Robin Asquith…(Confessions of a Window-Cleaner? Come on, did Magna Carter die in vain??’)
After the chicken-choke, I watch some cheerleader championship dance competition on ESPN – loads of nice lycra and nylon-clad action. I happened on this after wading through the Arab channels (and one showing CCTV of Sikh funerals), and now I’m like Family Guy’s Herb the Perv stumbling on a cub-scout water-pistol fight. Yessh sshirrrr….

I’m awakened from a doze by a knock at the door. Crivens – I’d forgotten the massage lady! I let her in and she stands there and giggles like a giddy milk maid. Gone is the sober sales-person from earlier. I’m slightly incredulous at her manner, as every indication from the appearance of Hotel’s spa is that it’s a model of propriety and repute. Stop snorting with laughter – even in Pattaya, I like to give the benefit of the doubt. I’ve never had anything but a foot massage in Thailand and I’m hazy about what constitutes ‘body’, ‘oil’, ‘Thai’, etc. I probably should take Sukpsycho’s boot-camp at some stage – but just then I remembered hearing that ‘oil massages’ were all-over naked affairs. So I tell the masseuse that I’ll have a‘one hour oil’. She nods and comes out of the bathroom smirking and holding towels. She puts them neatly on the bed and tells me to strip. I leave the boxers on and am admonished like a naughty child – people pay good money for this sort of thing in England, you know. Shortless, I take her appearance in again before I lie down. She’s mid 40s, good-looking rather than pretty, slim but shapely, with lovely swollen, pert breasts. She’s wearing one of those traditional clingy Thai silk dresses. I feel like a young Robin Asquith….

She goes to work – it’s all medicinal but feels pretty damn good. I almost drift off a couple of times but am brought back every now and then with some mildly agonising manipulations of tendons I didn’t know existed. Then she flips me over. She begins massaging my chest and shoulders and navigates her frame around my pelvis area as necessary. The heavy squeezes and wringings from earlier are replaced by more caress-like touches. The trailing diaphanous material of her dress brushes my nether regions several times – and this, combined with the grandstand view of her splendid quivering norks – gives me a stork-on like a barbell handle. I’m surprised, given my earlier flog, but accept this weakness for the wretch that I am. She pretends not to notice my state but it soon becomes ridiculous. After a while she imitates surprise. ‘Oh!’ she gasps. Before I can react, she smiles and starts massaging my scrotum. As I’m thinking ‘the head hotel masseuse is taking it as a given that I want a naughty massage’, her hands have already moved expertly onto my member, oiling up and stroking expertly. Shortly after, she nonchalantly proceeds to slip a finger up my passage. So now I’m being wanked and violated by the head masseuse – does the hotel manager know of such practices going on under his roof?? I ponder this, drinking in the sight of her lovely swaying breasts and feel the first waves of the proverbial Jester’s Shoes as they tip-toe across my trunk. I’d been practicing Keigel exercises for weeks and I don’t think she was quite expecting the height of expiration that I achieved, which made up for in altitude what it lacked in mass. I roll over, feeling like a very old Robin Asquith….I toss her a brown note and kick her out.

I wobble down to Soi Bukhao twice more before dinner – and on the second attempt – at last Office go-go is open! I ask about the phone, a polite young man listens attentively, goes off and speaks to various personnel. Much ‘crowing’ sounds are heard from female mouths, before he returns to tell me ‘late DJ find phone last night…you come back at 11pm OK?’ Er…ok…

Over dinner, I related the massage tale to Pete and Annie, who couldn’t believe this took place in the hotel, administered by the head lady at the hotel spa. Annie blushed with shame and barely concealed delight. Annie gave us another free pass later that night, but after one drink in Airport go-go, I start feeling dodgy and after 30mins in Angelwitch I begin peaking with a weird flu-fever while Pete has his lapful with the house Katoey. (I didn’t think Angelwitch had Katoeys, but Pete was adamant, and I was too ill to care). Heatstroke from the morning run and those two afternoon air-conditioned wanks had done for me. Pete could see that I wasn’t looking too clever, so he politely punched the Katoey in the cock and check-binned. I just about made it back to the hotel. I mustered enough strength to stagger the few steps to Office go-go with Pete in tow. ‘I’m here about my phone’. After a long wait, I’m told ‘No hab. Find Brackberry no Nokia….’. Fuck squared – that’s my work phone and I’ve got all sorts of stuff on there….and Jen’s number…..

I type a sheepish email to work to tell them to cancel the global roaming SIM as I’ve lost my phone ‘somewhere in the Office’. (Well I did, didn’t I?) God knows what has been done in my name and how many Isaan chicken farms have been called in 24hrs. After this wonderful chore, I collapse into bed in near-delirium. No sleep, shivers, aches, delusional thoughts, mild hallucinations. I feel like a young Robin Asquith in Blue Velvet……(to be continued)