Like clockwork, the Stick has presented his annual homage to the ladyboys. They were due for their plugging, and plug them he did. And good for them. Their nasty stories were compelling evidence that the great majority of sex tourists in Bangkok have likely encountered a ladyboy, and have, in turn, been penetrated. This is not a surprise. Saphan Loy would venture a guess that ladyboys now account for the majority of sex workers in the bars. If you don’t believe it, then your own form of self-delusion is more potent than a tall bottle of Chang beer.

A plague of cockroaches! That’s exactly what the Stick encountered on his way to interview a few snaggle-toothed escorts for his latest and greatest. He reported that shortly after his cheaply constructed condominium was nearly demolished by a rainfall, the Stick went out into a sea of dirty water to bring us a feeble interview with Isan’s poster-girls of bad dentition. Like Indiana Jones, he became covered in cockroaches while standing in floodwaters in the red light district. Ho hum. Were the Stickman more resourceful, he might have handed over the roaches to the insect vendors for a tidy little profit. Ultimately, though, I think that the rainfall, the roaches, the shitty flood water, and the mediocre interview with the call girls have all the hallmarks of a bad Biblical prophecy. Had it happened to Saphan Loy, we would have taken it as a sign from God that our work in the impoverished red light districts of Thailand should come to a merciful end, and that we should make a full confession to our parish priest, or the abbot of the local temple, and issue an apology to our readers.

Over at the Big Mango Bar blog, this recent post nearly forced our analytical skills into overdrive. Was it legitimate? Was it written by a woman, or, worse, Professor Sexpat Ng? Was someone trying to take the piss, as our British friends like to say? Clearly, the writer suffers from a subcranial deficiency of some kind. One of the most repellent paragraphs from the whole train wreck of a story is the following:

We take a taxi to Khaosan Road — we start cuddling in the taxi and she steers my hand down to her pussy so I can finger her (covered by her purse) — I consider if I should take her to a bathroom when we arrive at Khaosan Road and fuck her, as I’m pretty turned on, but wasn’t sure how she’d like that, so I hold myself back and instead we get a roti with banana and chocolate sauce and a beer at a bar.

What in Christ’s name was this man thinking? Checking her oil in the taxi, then going for a roti on Khaosan Road? How romantic. And how completely unhygienic. Saphan Loy would only travel to Khaosan for one of two reasons: sudden and irreversible poverty, or a desire to bone a sweaty European backpacker chick with hairy legs and armpits (just to change things up a bit). But hell, if I wanted to discharge some protozoans into a pasty, idealistic young hippy chick with hairy legs, I would simply enroll in an economics course over at California State University at Northridge.

The View from Above

Stickman Bangkok

Let’s start with the biggest and the brightest of the online luminaries, Stickman Bangkok. After teasing his audience throughout the year with hand-wringing and indecision regarding his future, he has decided, not surprisingly, to stay put in the red-light districts of Thailand, which have come to define him. His photography has devolved, and his favourite subjects still seem to be poor children and bargirls. While he unashamedly takes cold (hard) ladyboy cash, and the filthy lucre of brothels as advertising revenue, he still insists that he doesn’t partake, and that he is stupefied by changes in the country. Saphan Loy believes this is the most interesting part of his website, though he doesn’t intend it as such. He is constantly flummoxed by Thailand’s changing demographics and the demographics of the sex tourist population in general. What does the new year hold in store for the poster boy of sex tourism himself? Likely, he will find himself stuck in Thailand, a “lifer”, ping-ponging from bar to bar like some character in a Greek tragedy. Always tantalized by the offerings, but never partaking, we predict he will end up much like Dean Barrett.

One day in the new year, he will break down, step into Bar Bar or Demonia, and be offered a sound lashing from a Thai rice farmer’s daughter who will then insert an uncomfortably large sex toy into his rectum while he barks like a soi dog. Stickman will consent enthusiastically, and find it so pleasurable that he will dedicate himself to BDSM for the remainder of his natural life, never sitting comfortably again. From there, he will slip down the slippery slope and avail himself of the services of a small group of ladyboy escorts, who will treat him like a schoolgirl in the comfort of his Bangkok highrise.

Big Baby Kenny Ng

This year marked the departure from the serious blogosphere of Professor Big Baby Kenny Ng out in California. He has clearly given up the ghost, allowing the only active thread to be overwritten by the criminally insane. His brand of lunacy will be turned off in the new year, and he will likely be joining the swelling ranks of American unemployed academics, scratching out a living by tutoring semi-retarded children. But not to fear. There are plenty of openings at TEFL International, and perhaps the clown-in-chief there can teach him a thing or two about the Thais.

As of this writing, however, it appears the Ng has just published another word-fart about a cheap buffet in Bangkok. He is clearly celebrating his holiday in Bangkok, courtesy of the moronic California taxpayer, who is so immobilized by political correctness that he (or she) cannot stand up in the face of basic humanitarian atrocities.

The Chinese love all you can eat buffets. They pile their plates full of crappy fried food and rejoice in the low cost of eating it, then pass it through their intestines, then clog up the plumbing, much to the horror of the chambermaids at the cheap flophouse he calls home in the city of angels. Saphan Loy predicts that Ng’s cheap Bangkok buffets will soon turn into long lines at his local soup kitchen.

Big Baby Kenny will soon join the long lines at the soup kitchen.

Mobithailand

Our friend Mobi has been busy and, mercifully, staying sober. He has interestingly decided to post photos of his paramour, Noo, who is quite lovely indeed. We wish Mobi the best in the new year. He has been one of the few stalwarts among the blog-heads, always posting honestly and without artifice. Mobi consistently proves that a dotage spent in Thailand can be tempting, relaxing, and enjoyable all at the same time. We hope he avoids temptation of the spiritual kind, and continues to post about the darkside and all the darkies that can be found there.

The Redlight Scribblers (and Painter)

Stephen Blather et al., including the abominable Chris Coles, will likely continue to type unreadable prose, and render unspeakably offensive arts and crafts that assault the senses (unless those senses happen to be dulled by the local lager and barbiturates.) Look for hefty additions to the pulp-making machine, or network-clogging ”e-books” that appeal to the inpatients at your local veteran’s home. Also in the coming new year, perhaps Coles will finally sell a neon bargirl to the half-blind, or the blind-drunk, who would like a painting to install above the commode. Or, better yet, perhaps the new year will inspire Coles to retire from his paint-making efforts, hang up his smock, and, instead, take up semi-permanent residence on a barstool on Patpong, administered to by a snaggle-toothed ladyboy.

Jimmy Smithers

So, what of that lady(boy’s) man, Jimmy Smithers? He has exciting plans for the new year. He is currently in negotiations with a major motion picture studio for the rights to his personal stories. He also has a new line of merchandise planned, including coffee mugs, tee-shirts and insulated beer holders. He is hard at work on his e-book, and is scanning his local classified sections for shemales, transvestites and ladyboys. Because he was recently fired, it is unlikely that a Bangkok trip is in the cards for the new year. Look for further depravity to escape from his keyboard, prolonged struggles with alcohol and sinus medication, and lurid accounts of his masturbation habits. He may even develop adult-onset diabetes, or have what he calls a “crap-attack” at an inopportune moment (like a job interview.) We predict great things for Jimmy Smithers. He’s one to keep your eye on. You know, by covering your other eye with your hand when the room is spinning, or you can’t navigate the Bangkok sidewalks after consuming too much Mekong Whiskey.

At any rate, Saphan Loy wishes you the best of the holidays, and a happy new year. As long as sex tourists are willing to jot down their half-formed ideas, their tawdry hopes and dreams, and their sinful encounters with third world prostitutes, we will be there. And despite all our plights and gripes, we still give them credit for trying. After all, an internet absent of their presence would be a boring place indeed.

The View from Above

Betty White and Dean Barrett: Perfect Together

A coy Viagra advertisement

One of the things possible, we suppose, is that you can now apply for, as Mr. Barrett has done, a “Non-Immigrant, Submissive Retiree/Pensioner” visa. That helps Thai immigration suss things out a bit easier. Perhaps the ladies at Demonia can facilitate this? And perhaps, just perhaps, Dean Barrett’s contemporaries, like Stephen Blather, might follow his example, and go gently into that good night, and take their lickings like real men:  at the feet of coconut farmers’ daughters.

Dean Barrett

So what? Okay, maybe we are too hard on the old man. Who wouldn’t want to be lashed to a rubber tree and assaulted by several barefoot Malay/Thai girls run amok? I know Jimmy Smithers would be first in line for that treatment. In fact, and here Saphan Loy is admittedly being indiscreet, Smithers confided in me that one of his many nasty fantasies involves the jungle, a rounded bamboo pole, interrogation, and VC ladyboys. But we are friends, and for all those who write to him to sign his glossy 8 X 10, he thanks you for all the kind attention. And yes, he really is going to be in motion pictures, specifically a tawdry little tale that just wrapped shooting in Chiang Rai called “Luck Be a Ladyboy.” But you didn’t hear it from the Loy.

The View from Above

One could say that he squandered his fifteen minutes of “fame” or infamy, whichever one prefers. But the real question remains, how would you, in fact, have spent that fifteen minutes? For one, he should have hired a writing coach, or made liberal use of the writing lab on campus to help him with his tortured, often incorrect prose. Two, he might have hired a personality coach, to help him when he compulsively felt the need to cut and paste content from other sites, or at the very least, to help him meet an actual woman and potential marriage partner. Or three, he could have consulted his psychiatric care provider. Yeah, the one with a Singha beer in her hand and the blue contact lenses and the sun-dark farmer’s tan.

Well, we all predicted it, didn’t we? It seems that when there are few left holding any cards of value whatsoever, the odds greatly improve. In our opinion, the Big Baby’s downfall occurred when he started the useless charade of allowing the Galt airtime on his blog. That was the kiss of death. What is unfortunate, of course, is that he will now have to concede his defeat, unless he has an ace up his sleeve, which we doubt he is capable of producing. The drama of it all was fun while it lasted. Even the paranoia of Prufrock had its moments. But alas, you know what they say about all good things.

The View from Above

III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom

– T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men (1925)

The station chief who came up with the title Hollow Men Operation was apparently a well-read man. Yale educated in the classics, his knowledge was encyclopaedic. Not only did he directly incorporate T.S. Eliot’s poem as part of the vast operation that comprised Mike’s work in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, but he also ensured that the nomenclature of the operation itself would go without detection for so many years. Most government bureaucrats, for example, did not understand the allusion, and they generally followed orders regardless of what it was called. Mike’s decision to tell us the details, marked by many years of soul-searching, but also vague feelings of remorse, coupled with a slow breakdown of his faculties which were the result of excessive alcoholic drinking, truly denote how “secret histories” are often related: orally passed on in dark corners of dark bar-rooms in the company of women who don’t understand a word of what you are saying.

Once the Potemkin villages of the red light districts in Bangkok served their intended purpose, controlling large parts of the military population and providing dollar-denominated currency to the Thai treasury, and once the conflict in Vietnam was over, there were questions that remained. What to do with the actresses and agents involved? What to do with the physical structures themselves? Was there a way to mothball the entire operation? According to Mike, the solution was fairly complex. Rather than keep close tabs on the military population, and to ensure that communist sympathizers were weeded out with efficiency, the decision was made at the top to keep the structures functioning, but now in an effort to attract the detritus of the entire globe who would be attracted to places like Patpong like moths to the flame. In short, it was an excellent way for Interpol and other organizations to follow international vagrants more closely and to monitor seedy business deals closely.

According to Mike, the operation was not mothballed, and an interim caretaker operated the “fronts”, or what we know of as the go-go bars. As their purposes changed over the years in terms of intelligence collection, it was decided that a quasi-governmental organization, comprised of several interested nations, would continue to monitor Bangkok’s red-light districts in order to sort out the various and sundry who come to Thailand’s shores yearly, looking for only God knows what.

We miss Mike dearly. The guy at the Madrid who paid for all the drinks, who shared his thoughts on everything from literature to God to conspiracy theories. He was the master of ceremonies in a time when Thailand needed him most. He was generous with the women, almost to a fault, and generous with his motley group of friends. He will be remembered for his service and dedication. Happy premature Veterans Day.

To be continued……

The View from Above

In the hold of the little boat, an ailing Bernard Trink was being administered intravenous antiemetics by a topless Khmer girl who also fed him what was left of the provisions, which consisted mainly of 100 Pipers whiskey, durians, some jackfruit, and warm satay. The scene of degradation was, according to bystanders, awful to behold. Barrett, in his loin cloth, looked old and emaciated as he desperately tried to row the craft while the dominatrix lashed him and berated him for his lack of physical strength. Stephen Blather was nowhere to be found, likely hiding in the stern, quaffing warm bottles of Chang and washing down whatever pills he takes to erase his imagination completely.

At this rate the craft is scheduled to enter the Gulf of Siam sometime tomorrow morning, or around the time a new Stickman column comes out. Whichever comes first.

Rendering of the Ship of Fools

The View from Above

The scene from Dean Barrett's hovel.

Big Baby Kenny, meanwhile, is up to his neck, and he’s nowhere near Bangkok. He has been writing about the things he likes to watch on television, particularly shows that old women usually enjoy while crocheting. His problems are amplifying in California, as has been reported on Big Dummy Kenny and elsewhere (you know who you are). We will reserve comment until we have a chance to discuss the matter with the Chancellor in greater detail.

Stay high and dry.

The View from Above

Meanwhile, when not feigning astonishment about other people’s sexual predilections (foot fetishes, ladyboys, etc.), his bleeding heart reaction to some German drifter really takes the cake. I mean, really. Freud would have a field-day with the utter irony represented by his entire website. It is clear that Michael, the German drifter, who clearly suffers from schizophrenia, was sucked into the vortex of the very kinds of places advertised on the Stick-site, then suffered the consequences of a lost mind and an empty bank account. The only way the German embassy will intervene, incidentally, is if Michael dies on the street, or is murdered, or asks for help himself. Surely, the consular officers have better things to do with their time than read the Stick site. How can you even be sure he is German? He may even be a spy whose cover is a homeless sex addict with a mental illness.

So is the Stick biting the proverbial hands that feed him? Were I an owner of Demonia and had an event like the foot fetish event (that looks quite intriguing) mocked as being perverted or, as he puts it, “on another wavelength”, or were I an owner of Big Mango Bar and had my place called the “coldest bar” in Bangkok, Saphan Loy would seek other advertising venues that were kinder and gentler.

In targeting other writers on the Thailand scene, the Stick makes it clear that anyone who diverges from the pat and glib “gosh golly” tone that he effects when dealing with a very serious subject matter (i.e., sex tourism and transnational promotion of prostitution) is thus labeled a “weirdo” or a “shit-stirrer.” It goes to show that in New Zealand, political correctness of a different sort rules the roost and the freedom of expression is but a vaporous mirage of western European and North American ideals that enshrine the right to free speech. Furthermore, we now know the following about Stickman:

• He doesn’t bar fine.
• He doesn’t like ladyboys.
• He does not have a foot fetish.
• He prefers to take his mother to Soi Cowboy.

Just who is Stickman Bangkok? And why doesn’t he start a blog about another topic, one which he is more qualified to write about? Like the homeless situation in Bangkok, or the dangers of freedom of expression on the Internet, or teaching English in a language mill, or just how perverted foot fetishes are? Better yet, how about a little blog about rugby. See how many banner ads he can sell for that project, thus avoiding the “nasty” characters that comprise his readers.

Jimmy Smithers, Big Baby Kenny Ng, and Dean Barrett love bare feet.

Because Saphan Loy was embarrassed for the Stick by his latest blunder of a column, we are listing (gratis) the Big Mango Bar (which is not the coldest bar in Bangkok) and Demonia in our Views You Can Use section. The ladies of Demonia may thank me with a solid ass-whipping and the privilege of licking their bare toes.

The View from Above

Stickman reported that Barrett will go against Colin Hastings, a local publisher. All proceeds from the event (that appears to promise an abundance of scotch whiskey) will go to the charity Rescue the Bar Girls from Dean Barrett’s Lecherous Paws and Protect the General Public from His Pathetic Prose. Saphan Loy is all for charity events. Especially one with lots of scotch on offer.

So, in the spirit of this event (literally) we offer you a new poll of likely outcomes for Dean Barrett’s ill-considered boxing debut. As this blog post title suggests, Saphan Loy would encourage Barrett to use illegal means to achieve cheap points and to avoid the utter humiliation he routinely pays Asian Dominatrices to administer. Namely, a “magic” razor blade discreetly concealed in one of his boxing gloves. Best of luck, Mr. Barrett, from your friends at Saphan Loy.

The View from Above

We know that some women (or at least as it is sometimes depicted in pornographic websites) are “squirters” and are somehow able to “ejaculate” vaginal fluid at great distances. Whether they are employing some crude carnival trick or not, perhaps only a circus clown can give you an answer. My theory that “squriters” are in fact playing a kind of trick was once challenged when Saphan Loy witnessed in one particularly vulgar pornographic clip what appeared to be a woman “squirting” while the man was fully penetrating her. You could clearly see on the video clip a stream of fluid run down the man’s erect, inserted penis, as though she were actually urinating. (She was “seated” on his lap, facing the camera.) Whether she urinated or produced an abundance of vaginal fluid is difficult to tell. You are, of course, welcome to make your own conclusions about the myth of “fejaculation.” But Saphan Loy remains skeptical.

We cite here in its entirety some literature from Wikipedia on determining precisely the nature of the supposed fluid that women produce during this hypothetical situation, while noting that most scientists have neglected the simplest test of all: The taste test.

Nature of fluid

Critics have maintained that ejaculation is either stress incontinence or vaginal lubrication. Research in this area has concentrated almost exclusively on attempts to prove that the ejaculate is not urine,^[43][63] measuring substances such as urea, creatinine, prostatic acid phosphatase (PAP), prostate specific antigen (PSA),^[6] glucose and fructose ^[64] levels. Early work was contradictory; the initial study on one woman by Addiego and colleagues reported in 1981,^[30] could not be confirmed in a subsequent study on 11 women in 1983, ^[65] but was confirmed in another 7 women in 1984.^[66] In 1985 a different group studied 27 women, and found only urine,^[46] suggesting that results depend critically on the methods used.

A 2007 study on two women involved ultrasound, endoscopy, and biochemical analysis of fluid. The ejaculate was compared to pre-orgasmic urine from the same woman, and also to published data on male ejaculate. In both women, higher levels of PSA, PAP, and glucose but lower levels of creatinine were found in the ejaculate than the urine. PSA levels were comparable to those in males.^[5]

Pussy Breaks Water

The other option in this show is that possibly the performer “breaks water.” This would be even more mordantly repellant than the actions described above. Who would be interested in viewing this? When a woman “breaks her water”, she, of course, is actually giving birth, so such shows would clearly be available only at the finer hospitals and with special permission, presumably, of all concerned parties.

Finally, if we can all recall from our catechisms, we know that Jesus Christ changed water into wine. Now this is a demonstration, were it available on Patpong, that would surely attract attention, for a variety of reasons. The establishment would indeed be able to serve as a wine bar and a live pussy show: an elegant combination indeed.

Pussy Drinks Water

So what occurs in reality when the “Pussy Changes Water?” Or, better yet, what happens when [a] pussy is “charged” a few baht for water?

Photo of pussy changed water courtesy of BBK.

We suppose, ultimately, that it is anyone’s guess.

The View from Above