A Young Man’s Strange Erotic Journey Around the Globe

Life of a Manchild Chapter 28 – Midget Stripper Extravaganza

Chapter 28 – Midget Stripper Extravaganza

Just a bit down the block from my hostel in Chiang Mai, Thailand, had been a large warehouse-sized building called the C.M. Entertainment Complex. Inside the entertainment complex are around twenty or more bars, many of which have pool tables and all of which employ a decent-sized staff of nice young-looking Thai ladies – as well as a few with ladyboys – for whom you can pay a “bar fine” to go and have a quick roll in the hay.

For those of you who have never been to sinful cesspools like this or other similar venues around the nation that offer sexual services and have no idea what I’m talking about, to pay a “bar fine” means to give a predetermined amount of money to the establishment where the object of your desire works to essentially “rent” that person for either short (one hour) or long term leave (overnight or longer). Before actually forking over the bar fine to the mamasan running the show, however, it’s pretty standard for any john on the scene to negotiate a separate price with the working woman (what she charges for her personal services once given permission to leave the bar) so there’s no sticker shock when heading over to your hotel room or a very nearby one used by hookers specifically for that purpose at the additional cost of five to ten dollars an hour.

Once at the ho-tel, mo-tel or the Holiday Inn, in addition to giving each trick a blow job and some pussy, these hookers will bathe you and themselves in the shower while discreetly inspecting your downstairs for crotch rot before any further proceedings as well as after the exchange just before you go on your merry way and she goes on to take as many more dicks as she can “fit in” to her busy, busy schedule over the remainder of the evening. Overall, I’d say the whole experience could cost you anywhere from sixty to two-hundred dollars and up depending on how hot the whore is and how willing or hesitant she is to sleep with your ugly ass.

In the form of bars and strip clubs from where hookers are constantly coming and going with foreign “customers” of every shape, size and color who have no qualms about emptying their wallets for a taste of honey, this is how the majority of brothels in Thai red light districts work. There are, however, exceptions to the rule – the most unusual of these irregularities being what are known as “blow job bars.” Even if you decide not to utilize the services offered, I feel like a visit to a blow job bar is a must for any individual who visits The Kingdom that’s interested in witnessing first-hand how very ironic it is that modern man can put together sophisticated structures with elaborate lighting arrangements solely for the purpose of providing a location in which these primordial exchanges can take place.

Upon entering your typical blow job bar in Thailand, you walk in, find an open seat, post up, order yourself a drink and scope out the scene. As you wait, during any time of the day, you can look around the barroom and see a bunch of other patrons – pretty much all barbaric aged-40-and-over Westerners – who will be casually sitting around with their pants at their ankles while drinking a beer, watching a soccer match and having their knobs slobbed on by some attractive rural-ass twenty-year-old Thai girl who probably has no more than a fourth grade education.

Once you get your drink, if you’re feelin’ it as well, you can also pick out a girl that doesn’t have a dick in her mouth at the moment – or, if you like the looks of a currently occupied girl’s technique, you can wait ‘til she’s done lapping up the last guy’s load – then wave her over to you whereupon you too will drop your drawers to the floor and become one with the fellatio fest that surrounds you.

It’s actually pretty hard to keep a straight face in a blow job bar, especially if you choose to participate. I couldn’t help but laugh while sitting there with my chowder cannon out, watching my girl of choice gag on and spit out my wad into a Kleenex before informing me I’d filled her gullet with “too much semen.”

Now that you know just a little bit more about the Thai sexpat scene as well as how big of a scumbag I really am, I inform you that the C.M. Entertainment Complex, as far as I could tell, had been comprised mostly of your everyday, average-ass bar fine hooker bars with no blow job bars in the mix. Although you might not believe me when I tell you, the reason I went to the C.M. complex on the night of which I speak was neither for sex nor to bask in the splendor of the ever-so-popular ladyboy cabaret shows they’re known for putting on there. In actuality, the reason I went to C.M. that night was solely in the interest of getting hammered on my ass wasted.

At the heart of all the smut and the sex offered at the C.M. Entertainment Complex, completely enveloped by all the whore bars whose entrances face towards a large open space in the center, is a boxing ring where free Muay Thai shows are offered on what I believe to be a nightly basis. As I had no prior knowledge of this, you can imagine how excited I was when walking in to C.M. to find out not only that there’d been a fight going on, but also that one of the two contenders on the stage at that very moment happened to be a midget.

After quickly finding a seat at a bar with the best looking hookers, parking my ass and ordering a whiskey double, I and the rest of the Westerners in the crowd cheered the little guy on as kicks thrown by his nubby little legs defied physics and managed to strike the upper body and face of his “normal-sized” opponent. Handfuls of tourists had their cameras out and were standing stage-side, snapping photo after photo, trying to capture action shots of the seeming David versus Goliath matchup. When the fight was declared over by the referee and the little guy determined the winner, the crowd went apeshit and reveled in the triumph of the bite-size combatant.

Upon witnessing the collective reaction, I couldn’t help but wonder if any of the tourists in the crowd would’ve paid as much attention, snapped a single photo or have even given a shit at all about the outcome had one of the fighters not been a midget. I mean, I think they would’ve enjoyed glancing over at the ring every now and then while playing a game of eight-ball with one of the hookers but not much more than that. To me, the midget was the game-changer. The midget was the main draw to the Muay Thai match – the attention-grabber as well as the attention-holder of all those in the audience.

Throughout college at MU, I organized three controversial gatherings that were based around my tasteless taste in party entertainment. During freshman year, my roommate Tommy and I hired a “slow” middle-aged guy named Rockin’ Roy we met at a bar who was a few pubes short of a bush if ya know what I mean to come set up and sing at a drunken karaoke party and then ended up stiffing him the couple hundred bucks we owed for his services.

The following year, he and I then held a party and got a stripper for his buddy Zeedis who has Down syndrome. There’d been a slight uproar from a few of our peers who, ignoring the fact that the kid had been having the time of his life, accused us of exploiting the Zeed-Man which hadn’t been the case. I mean, it’s not like the stripper was the one with Down syndrome, so I don’t know what those pussies were getting all pissed about.

Despite the good times we shared, my roommate Tommy transferred schools just before the start of our third year and since he was my partner in crime with that shit, I didn’t feel too motivated to do anything crazy on my own while I was a junior. By the end of senior year, however, even if I had to do it by myself, my desire to be a dickhead returned in full-force and I knew I needed to throw one more boorish party before entering “the real world.”

When tossing ideas around, I considered hiring a pack of midget wrestlers to come set up a ring in our backyard where they could beat the shit out of each other but after getting in touch with a dude named Puppet and discussing the service that he and rest of the “Half-Pint Brawlers” provide, I learned that that sort of thing costs well over a thousand dollars which was way out of my budget considering that I was all alone in the organization of this event.

The most outrageous thing in my price range I could find at the time had been a midget stripper from Milwaukee named CupCake who I’d found on Craigslist and proceeded to electronically approach with my proposition. Our banter via email went as follows:

Cupcake (February 27, 2010): Hello, my name is CupCake and I’m a 4’2″ female midget stripper. I would love to help you out with this party but I have one problem…I’m 6 months pregnant. If you don’t think that that would be a problem I’d love to come party with you guys. The choice is up to you. To see pics of me before I got pregnant go to http://cupcakesparties.weebly.com . Just imagine me with fuller tits and half a basketball in my belly…lol. If interested please e-mail me back. Hope to hear from you soon either way.

Sincerely, CupCake

Me (March 1, 2010): We are interested. How much is your hourly rate, and would you be able to perform in a month when you are seven months pregnant?

CupCake (March 1, 2010): That’s great to hear. My rates are posted on my website if you have any questions. It’s a free site so don’t be afraid to check it out. The average party ranges from $150 a half hour to $500 an hour depending on what you guys want (topless, full nude, etc…). I’m sure I’d be able to show you guys a good time, even at 7 months pregnant.

Me (March 1, 2010): Okay. Well, we’re considering Friday, March 26, if you’re available for that date. We’re not quite sure what we want exactly, but we’re leaning towards the topless deal – possibly with a side of whip cream show. The anticipated venue is O’Brady’s Bar & Grill. For your outfit I was thinking a cap and gown and also maybe hoping that you could write “Class of 2010” on your pregnant stomach. Think you could do that for us?

CupCake (March 3, 2010): Alright, I’m pretty sure I can do that. I have to go dig up my old cap and gown but it should work. I’ll get a hold of you about a week ahead of time to make sure nothing’s changed. Have a great weekend.

As you might imagine, after getting confirmation from CupCake, I was super pumped and told everyone I knew about the upcoming “Midget Stripper Extravaganza.” Pretty much everyone I invited had to some extent shared my enthusiasm, which had in turn gotten me even more pumped. Aside from the possibility of CupCake dancing too intensely and having a miscarriage while stripping at the party, I thought everything was as good as gold. A few days before the big show, however, I went to contact the guest of honor to tie up a few loose ends when I found out that something’s rotten in Denmark.

CupCake (March 24, 2010): Hello. I hope all is well with you. Unfortunately I can’t say the same for myself. I went to the doctor yesterday and found out that I have food poisoning and I’ve been put on bed rest until I can hold down food again. I’m really sorry that I’m not going to be able to make the party, I was really looking forward to it. But my health comes first. Congratulations again on graduation, maybe after the baby I can come party with you guys.

The news put me in a rather uncomfortable position. As a matter of fact, when I got that email I was straight-up panicking. After dedicating close to a month to the promotion and planning of the event, I couldn’t just say, “Aw shucks, I guess that’s it for that!” and not have a replacement lined up. Something had to be done. Even without the star, the show needed to go on.

I got back on the computer and started looking for more midgets who hailed from the greater Milwaukee area that were willing to get naked in front of privileged young white kids for money. To my dismay, I could find not one. So I broadened my search to include my hometown and eventually came across something that looked rather promising on a site for some Chicago agency and sent in a request for an intercity midget delivery. In return, some dude named Paul told me they could send me a “female dwarf” to perform at the rate of four-hundred dollars an hour, none of whom happened to be pregnant. Although that’d been a hundred-and-fifty dollars more than the price I’d agreed upon with CupCake, I went ahead, picked out and booked up the smallest midget they had available.

On the day of the party, my brother, a handful of friends from home and the assload of fellow midget stripper enthusiasts from Marquette gathered together at our house on 14th Street up in Trillwaukee where we spent about five hours drinking and doing coke in anticipation of the debauchery. Then, about two hours before the stripper was due to arrive, a few of us headed over to O’Brady’s to convene with the staff and talk about collection plans. As was agreed upon with the owner, I’d stand at the door collecting five dollars from each guest for the entertainment while an O’Brady’s employee would stand beside me collecting an additional five dollars for their unprecedented all-you-can-drink-from-as-many-kegs-as-you-can-drink deal.

As the crowd started pouring in, showing up among all the familiar faces had been handfuls of strangers. Some of these strangers – all college students, mostly underclassmen – had heard about the event through mutual friends and were excited to see and willing to fork over five bucks for the entertainment. Unfortunately, there’d also been a few assholes in the bunch who only wanted to pay five dollars for the drink deal while trying to tell me they weren’t gonna gimme five bucks for the midget. Since I’d rented out the bar a month in advance, their refusal to pay displeased me greatly. And since I’d been quite jacked up on booger sugar at the time, I had no problem grabbing these troublemaking cocksuckers and shoving ‘em right out the fucking door. In the end, I think that every last cheap-ass who gave me a hard time ended up paying because they didn’t wanna miss the show.

After about two hours of standing by the door like a Dalton-ass Roadhouse wannabe, the hour of entertainment came upon us. Even though back when I’d paid a fractional deposit of the owed four-hundred dollars on my credit card and figured I was gonna take a hit on this one, by kick-off I’d ended up collecting more than twice that amount as we packed O’Brady’s to what had to have been three times its legal capacity.

As I remember it going down, our eleven o’clock starting time came and went. Then it was 11:15. Then 11:30.

“Yo Lally bro, where’s the stripper at, man? I thought you said eleven o’clock – what the fuck?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I invariably replied while taking to my cell phone to text the number of the stripper’s personal bodyguard or whatever you call those guys who come along and make sure nobody rapes the entertainment, “she’s comin’. Any minute now, she’s comin’.”

Right around quarter to twelve I get a text back from this dude named Carlos telling me that they’re in the parking lot and to come out and meet ‘em. So, I do just that. I head over to the only vehicle I see has exhaust coming out the tailpipe and approach the driver side window. As I did, the window came rolling down.

“Hey there, are you Tim?”

“Yeah, that’s me. You must be Carlos.”

“Yep. And over here in the passenger seat is Cookie.”

When he leaned back and I looked across him, I hadn’t been expecting to see a person so fucking small. When reading midget stripper credentials online, I felt I needed to in some way compensate for the absence of a pregnancy and ended up doing so by going extreme and getting the teensiest broad advertised. Online it’d said this chick was three-foot-seven. I laughed when I read it because CupCake was four-foot-two and she was tiny as shit. But this chick…I don’t know, man. I think in this case the most extreme might’ve been too extreme. While sitting in the passenger seat, this nugget of a human being looked like she needed to be strapped in a baby seat and pushed around in a fucking stroller.

“Oh hi,” I said with a phony smile, “nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” she squeaked. “You guys ready to party?”

“Uh, yeah,” I chuckled, “we’re ready to party. Are – are you?”

“You betchya.”

“Hey um,” Carlos began, “you got a stage or something Cookie can perform on?”

“Uh, yeah. We got a pool table in the back of the place we can throw her on. That should be cool, right?”

“Yeah, I guess that’ll hafta work.”

“Alright, cool. You want the money now?”

“Yes, money upfront.”

“Alright,” I pulled out a massive wad of fives and singles and counted off the remaining balance. “Here ya go.”

After he recounted the crumpled stack, he secured the cash in the vehicle and killed the engine. Carlos then got outta the car and headed over to the passenger side to help the entertainment down and out because she was literally too small to get down on her own. Once she’d landed on the blacktop pavement and stood next to Carlos, the top of her head, while standing fully upright, was not even up to Carlos’s belly button. As we started to walk towards the front door, I could see her legs had been too small and weak to support her own weight. She could only wobble back and forth while holding onto the hand of Carlos for support.

“So, I’m doing a whip cream show tonight, right?”

“Yeah,” I nodded as we neared the door, “that’s what the doctor ordered.”

“Cool,” she replied. “I’m excited.”

Back in O’Brady’s, the masses had grown belligerent.

“Yo Lally, you faggot, this is fuckin’ bullshit. Where’s the midget stripper?”

“She’s here right now,” I said as I parted the crowd with Carlos and the toddler right behind me.

Bullshit! Where the fuck is she? I don’t see her. I want my five bucks back.”

“Dude, she’s literally walking right behind me.”

Eventually we made it to the back room where the lone pool table had sat in the center upon the perpetually beer-soaked carpeting and not an inch of floor space had been unoccupied by drunken shitheads. Once there, Carlos lifted Cookie up off the ground and set her on the tabletop. There she sat as a frumpy little blob unable to stand on her own, wearing a bright green dress that was probably made for a preschooler, revealing unto the world the butterfly tramp stamp just above her anus.

“Alright,” I said to Carlos, “you all good back here?”

“Yeah,” he replied, “we’ll uh, we’ll go ahead and get the show started.”

I really wanted no part in watching whatever sort of whip cream performance Cookie had planned for everybody. As such, I decided to make my way to the relatively less crowded front of the bar to sit with my brother and have a beer away from all the madness. Just before meeting up with my bro however, I couldn’t help but take one look back at Sodom before it was destroyed.

On that pool table in the middle of the room sat a little lump of a lady spraying whip cream on her chest while close to two-hundred wasted-ass retards surrounded her from every angle, sticking cell phones in her face, trying to a get a photograph. All the while, Carlos was doing his best to keep the crowd back as he slapped away the hands of the impatient perverts that’d been reaching in and trying to undo her top by pulling on the strings that’d been tied together around the back of her neck. And that was all I cared to see of the performance.

About five minutes later in the front of the bar, I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. The caller ID said it was Carlos.

“Yeah, hello?”

“Tim, the crowd is getting outta control! I need you back here to calm everyone down!”

“Hey, I can’t hear a word you’re sayin, dude. Just text me, okay.”

I got a text about a minute later that said something like, “Everyone is getting too rowdy back here. Cookie has become very frightened. If you can’t keep the crowd under control, we’re gonna hafta call off the show.”

I just continued sitting there, sipping my beer.

About three minutes after receiving the warning, I began to hear a bunch of angry shouting from the back. I looked towards the pool room to try and see what was going on. Charging through the crowd like a running back securing a pigskin had been Carlos with Cookie enveloped in his arms, making a break for the front door. As plastic cups full of ale rained o’er him and the bite-size booger of a stripper he carried, Carlos had been bowling over anyone in the way, plowing through the densest part of the crowd, eventually making it past my brother and I in the front and attaining the freedom for which he so ardently fought.

Few photos of the little woman from the big event…