America's Finest Ambassador Chapter 36 – Schmit Happens When You Party in Bangkok

Chapter 36 – Schmit Happens When You Party in Bangkok

After a day of exploring the capital and taking in all the King of Siam murals, paintings, and photographs I could handle, we met up with my buddy Schmit from Chicago who for the last several months had been teaching English at a university in the Bang Na district of the capital. At that point I hadn’t seen the kid in a year or so but there’d been no doubt in my mind that he’d be down to pick up where we left off getting excessively drunk and exchanging views on perverted topics.

Following a dinner of fried papaya which we’d chased down with several bottles of Chang Beer, Schmit – or “Teacha Brian” as his beloved students recognized him – guided us to the Patpong area of the city. For those of you who haven’t been tainted by stepping foot in this two-block-long hedonistic sinkhole, Patpong is a live peepshow of a neighborhood filled with every type of vermin imaginable. While strolling through the area, hoards of porno-hawking Thai dudes shove cock-in-the-ass films at you from every direction as stinky bar-whores hang out the doors of their respective brothels trying to lure in potential clients.

When I wasn’t having DVD copies of Frankenpenis being waved in my face or having my attention hijacked by scantily clad pairs of big round slut tits, then it’d most likely been competed for by numerous touts in the area who ran up to us waving around menus for live X-rated shows. The performances offered on these menus gave us the option to see any item you could possibly imagine shoved into and popped out of a human vagina (take note: here I use the word “human” to describe these girls even though they’d probably lost that basic sense back when they first parted their lips and shoved dead fish into their babymakers for the entertainment of a bunch of white farang).

Even though we didn’t sign up to watch any shows that evening, the best one I’d ever seen was when one admirable young lady laid on stage, spread her legs wide open, sucked a bunch of air into her twat, slid a blow gun up in there and used it to fire darts with dead-eye accuracy and pop balloons which’d been hanging all over the strip club. This was actually really cool and not disgusting at all as some of the other shows can be, especially one I’d heard about from a Lebanese friend which resulted in the death of a monkey.

According to her, some terribly unfortunate Thai girl at a sex bar had been giving a blowjob to said monkey when it grabbed onto her hair and started pulling at it real hard causing her and consequently the monkey to freak out. So, in a panic the Thai girl supposedly picked up this little creature to whom she’d been giving oral sex, ripped it away from her head pulling chunks of her hair out in the process and threw the monkey as hard as she could at the wall where it met the end of his days.

As we traversed the tightly packed pathways of Patpong drinking as we walked, I noticed several locals strolling around the place accompanied by their kids. Now, I don’t know if I missed any studies some scientists might’ve conducted concluding that the exposure of young children to videos of grown men fingering their pee-holes or ones of eels being jammed into the assholes of Japanese chicks via funnel may in some way be beneficial to that child’s development, but I really don’t think that this was any sort of place for kids to be within a square mile of. Then again, who am I to judge the parenting of strangers in a foreign country – maybe Edward Penishands is the new Lion King in Thailand. Who the fuck knows?

Although empathetically a bit saddened, I’ll admit that I had for the most part been in a good mood while immersed in that salacious sex addict’s wet dream of a neighborhood. Not to say I enjoyed it sexually as this one fireman my dad used to work with who’d sit at the edge of his seat and foam at the mouth while watching the same porn tapes over and over at the firehouse even on holidays when families of coworkers had been visiting would’ve, but I found the whole Patpong scene to be quite entertaining in a dark, grotesque, black comedy sort of way.

While there, in an attempt to get the most of our experience short of getting jerked off in a bathtub by a ladyboy, we entered an establishment known as King’s Corner. Kathleen Osh had originally tried to weasel her way out of joining us three dudes in favor of continuing to browse the night market but ended up tagging along and I’m glad she did. For the most part, having a girl in our group helped to repel unwelcome advances from the overwhelming presence of bar hoz seeking cash returns for dick deposits in their sperm banks.

The hostess seated us in the middle of the bar at the base of a circular stage displaying close to ten poles and ten strippers from where we ordered a round of double Crown on the rocks. The joint was packed with all types of perverts and degenerates who’d been leering, gawking and drooling at young women maybe not even a third of their age. All pitching tents, the men sitting at tables in the back had been accompanied by topless chicks in G-strings who gave their johns gentle massages and under-the-table, over-the-pants rubs while negotiating prices before inevitably heading off to do the deed.

As we sat through a couple songs and watched the chicks on stage awkwardly back it up in a manner that hadn’t been nearly as raunchy or professional as any of the pussy poppin’ and twurkulatin’ I’d seen in some of the Ying Yang Twins’ videos on BET as a teenager, one of the girls in a skimpy little thong came up and popped a squat right in front of us. Figuring I’d miss out on all that is Patpong unless I got at least a little bit o’ titty residue on my grill, I spit on a hundred Baht note, stuck it to my forehead and invited the stripper to pick it off by clenching it between her breasts. She was very happy to do so and followed up by crouching and thrusting her camel-toe in my face as I tried to enjoy the rest of my Crown on the rocks without any pubic lice falling down into it.

“Thanks,” I waved. “But please, no more.”

“You’re stuck with her now,” Schmit said. “You shouldn’t have given her any money.”

“No more money,” I said and she frowned. “Sorry.”

I thought surely that line would’ve done the trick, but she kept her attention focused squarely on me. After giving it a moment of thought, I remembered I had a bunch of change in my pocket leftover from the day’s purchases that I’d been looking to get rid of. Seeking to eliminate both nuisances simultaneously, I reached down into my pants to gather the loose coins. As soon as my girl had seen me with hand in pocket, this proud father’s daughter once again squatted in my face and pulled down her panties to show me her landing strip and labia letting me know where I could stick my money as well as my penis if I were to keep the dough flowing. When I raised my tightly clenched fist up after gathering the handful of coins which had clanked and swung back and forth with each step prior to their removal and held it out for insertion, Stripperella quickly replaced her undergarments.

“No, no, no!”

I shrugged my shoulders while she stood back up and resumed her dancing, never completely taking her eyes off me. Because of this perceived albeit shameful interest she had in the handful of coins, I never put ‘em back in my pocket. Feigning a curiosity of my own, I opened my hand and counted the coins while she stared down, unable to look away.

“One hundred Baht!” I looked up and shouted, which is the equivalent of about $3USD. “You no want?”

She peered down at the coins with an expression on her face that looked like one a trying-to-get-sober drug addict might have while hanging around a bunch of people doping it up in a crack house. Because no response had been elicited, I again shrugged and lowered my arm to replace the hoard in my pocket.

“No, no! Me! Me!” she screeched and squatted back down.

I, relieving myself of the financial burden, dumped the whole lot of it in there and felt like a hugely condescending prick in doing so. Watching this girl try to dance to the rest of the song with a thong-load of coins flopping around like she was a pre-op ladyboy yet to be relieved of her big meaty penis made me feel quite uncomfortable – not to mention the way most of the coins had fallen out and how she dove down to pick them all up just after their mamasan called for a line change. After that, we all decided we’d had enough x-rated fun for the evening and blew the proverbial pop stand that is Patpong in search of greener, less AIDS-infested pastures.

Our crew then moseyed over to a popular strip of bars on Khaosan Road in central Bangkok where we listened to some live music and got ripped playing a game called “ride the bus.” In between rounds, I decided to ask Schmit a little bit about the details of his Thai lifestyle.

“So,” I began, “you ever see your students out at these bars?”

“God no, are you kidding me?” he retorted with beer in hand. “They’re not like us, they don’t do this shit. They’re at school strictly to learn.”

“Really? That’s surprising.” I couldn’t wrap my mind around a college experience that wasn’t defined by getting absurdly loaded at every given opportunity. “Whatta they do for fun?”

“Eh, they like to watch all that nauseating Anime and K-Pop shit. They’re in college but all act like little children.”

“What’s wrong with these kids?”

“They’re just a different breed out here. They wear their school uniforms twenty-four seven and are unbelievably superficial. All they’re interested in is skin-lightening products and plastic surgery. I got eighteen-year-old, cartoon-watching Michael Jackson wannabes in my class gettin’ nose jobs and bleachin’ themselves white.”

“Jesus dude, that’s fucked. How ‘bout a Thai version of the Jizz Bandit? You got one o’ those out here at good ol’ Assumption U?”

Schmit had attended DePaul University in Chicago and while there worked part-time as some sort of custodian. A constant adversary of the janitorial crew at this Catholic institution, the Jizz Bandit had been an unknown phantom who’d literally get his rocks off repeatedly going into the same stall in the same public restroom and blowing his load all over the wall where he’d leave it for the maintenance men to clean up. As the story goes, no suspects were ever apprehended and to this day the Jizz Bandit remains at large.

“No,” he laughed. “No Jizz Bandit out here, thank God.”

“That’s good,” I replied.

“Yes it is,” he concluded. “Now who’s ready to play another round?”

After several more hours of getting skull-fucked by bottle after bottle of Chang Beer consumed during round after round of Ride the Bus, we returned to the area near our hostel for a few more cold ones before hitting the hay. The O’Shaughnessy’s soon departed, leaving me and “Teacha Brian” to get in touch with our alcoholic roots and put this already drunken evening into overdrive.

At the time, I was in a particularly distasteful state to say the very least. After about two more beers, I was head-spinningly hammered and could do nothing to suppress the terrible case of hiccups with which I’d been overcome. Completely out of our element, Schmit and I eventually exited the bar and began staggering down Sukhumvit Soi Something-or-other, making our way back to the hostel.

I recall finding it impossible to walk in a straight line as my kaleidoscope vision steered me into walls, trees and parked cars that appeared to keep jumping out in front of me. Both of us had been falling down, zigzagging into each other and bumping into shit like a pair of little kids who’d just stepped off a high-velocity ride on a merry-go-round. Although the distance between the bar and the hostel had only been about two blocks, it seemed like an endless trek and, somewhere along the way, a third party had joined the brigade.

“Dude,” I slurred worse than Dudley Moore in Arthur, “I think we’re being followed.”

Schmit looked back.

“It’s just a whore. Ignore her.”

We didn’t say anything to this girl, she didn’t say anything to us and we just kept walking until we got to the hostel.

“Boom boom!” she suggested as I pulled out the key to unlock the front door.

I got the thing open then stared back at this chick like a cross-eyed retard. Unlike earlier at the strip club before my conscience and whatever self-respecting commonsensical part of my brain had been drowned in Chang Beer, I found the thought of affection and tenderness – exactly two things I wouldn’t get from a whore – to be absolutely irresistible.

“Hey Schmit, you go ahead,” a hiccup interrupted my sentence, “I think I’m gonna stick around here for a bit.”

“Alright,” he who wasn’t registered to stay at our hostel replied as oblivious as I had been to the fact that he didn’t have the slightest idea where the O’Shaughnessys’ and my room was.

Now, I don’t think I should feel bad for someone who’d been trying to take advantage of me in my unintelligible state, but if your only means of paying the bills, feeding your kids or funding your drug habit is fucking white dudes who are two shots away from a coma, your life is pretty sad. Drunk people are fucking disgusting. The thought of hanging around drunk bitches – let alone making out with them – makes me sick to my stomach and I’ll be the first to admit that, for females, when I’m wasted I’m the farthest thing from the exception.

Worse than the few times I had hiccups so bad while sucking face with some girls that they’d ended up pushing me away in disgust and saying something like, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” I was so wasted one time that I almost yakked down a girl’s throat while necking back in college. It’d been with this one girl who I sat behind in criminology class freshman year that I had a thing for since the moment I saw her but, like a pussy, never talked to when sober. Instead I waited for my alcohol induced alter-ego to strike up a conversation with her at the bar one night when I was hammer-timed and somehow we started making out.

I was so fuckin’ tanked that when I closed my eyes to kiss this girl, the entire world seemed like it was in tumble dry mode at the Laundromat. I could feel that I had to vomit and that I had to vomit soon, but never wanted to stop making out with her. So, I held on until the last minute and my abrupt wordless exit from our make-out session resulted in a trail of vomit leading from where I left her standing all the way to the bathroom. It had also prompted her to switch seats in class and from there on out pretend like she didn’t know me.

Okay, I’m disgusting – whatever. But having said that, you know who else is fucking disgusting? Prostitutes. Prostitutes are fucking disgusting and this one in Bangkok had been no exception.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Contrary to what it seems like, I’m not the type of dude who likes going out, getting random pussy and just jamming my dick in somebody for the hell of it. I’m actually the type of overly-emotional guy who wants to be in love so bad – the type of guy that needs feelings attached from both parties for the shit to feel right. But unfortunately, when drunk, I sometimes get so desperate for that type of affection that I trick myself into thinking I can get it from anyone – even from some random-ass nightwalker. Consequently, ignoring the obvious fact that people who give head to strangers off the street are not girlfriend material, I decided to start making out with this filthy, filthy whore.

“Uh yeah,” I pushed her away from me a few moments later after having tasted the dicks on her tongue and came to my senses. “I think I’m just gonna go to bed now. Thanks anyway,” I said and started walking up the stairs from the lobby.

“Money! Money!” she started shouting. “Where money!?”

“I don’t owe you shit!” I spat back and continued on my way.

She started following me up the stairs and screaming bloody murder while tugging on and dangling from the back of my shirt.

“Get the fuck outta here!” I tried to slap her hands away.

She simply would not stop. So, I pulled out all the coins I’d accumulated after ditching the earlier pocketful at the strip club and threw them down the stairs for her to chase after. She took the bait but everybody who’d heard the screaming had already woken up and were stepping out of their rooms to see what all the commotion was about. Although it was obvious I did, I pretended I had nothing to do with the sluttily-dressed Thai girl who’d been frantically picking up coins in the stairwell and continued walking up to my bed to pass the fuck out.

As soon as I got up to our room, I realized Schmit had never made it in there but was too drunk and tired to do anything about it. The next morning, concerned of his whereabouts, I checked my e-mail and read the message he’d left letting us know to meet him outside. After taking care of our respective morning maintenance, the O’Shaughnessy’s and I went down to meet my buddy who, to be fair, looked like complete shit. I can’t satisfactorily convey Schmitty’s experience in my own words, so here’s an excerpt from his blog telling his half of what happened after our split-up:

“I don’t know whose sandals I’m wearing. Introducing your friend to Bangkok is not good for anyone’s liver. I woke up to the worried prodding of the hostel owner of the place my friend Tim is staying at. Muttering confused Thai, he nervously shook me until I woke around 7:30 this morning. While he was justifiably concerned that I was not in any way paid or registered to be sleeping in his place of business, he was more focused on getting me out of the girl’s-only room where I apparently decided to go to sleep last night. I’m confident I permanently scarred the head-dressed Muslim girl who arrived just as I stumbled out of bed in my underwear, quickly apologizing and avoiding all questions about my name and reason for being at the hostel. While I would like to say that my genius plan of pretending my name was Chris Walken while denying that I had anything to do with my friend had been a success, it didn’t work out so swell and he kicked me out. Thailand’s insistence on going with the flow must be rubbing off on me because I’m not too hung up about the situation. Either that or I’m still drunk. Probably the latter. After my ignoble exit, I walked down the street to the parking lot of an art gallery and shared a bowl of noodles with the building’s night watchman while trying to commiserate with him in what little Thai I know. ‘I tired. I can no sleep at hotel. I wait for friend to no sleep.’ A nod and a thumbs up in response.”