It is interesting the way my reading patterns of the Stickman site have changed over the years. Lek and I cannot recall with certainty when we first encountered the site, but one thing is certain. In approximately 10 years, the aesthetics (if one would even call it that) of the site itself have not been modified at all, and seem stuck in a place in the history of the Internet that recalls a period of time when people actually still used the word “webmaster”, a term that now strikes us as downright silly.
In the thirteen years or so since the Stick has been stuck in 1999, everyone has in essence become a “webmaster.” Hell, Big Baby Kenny Ng, the bloated professor of bar girl economics and sex tourist from California, might justifiably call himself a “webmaster”, even though the only thing he has ever “mastered” is the fine art of not getting his dick stuck in the zipper of his trousers.
At first glance, it seemed that the Stick is comfortable with the dubious layout of the site, and Saphan Loy, for one, was content to let it go once we discovered a way to circumvent the minefield of banner advertisements (yes, they still exist) strategically placed so that an errant click by an alcoholic sexpat would create, what is it, like $.035 revenue per click to fill the Stickman’s coffers?
At that rate, the Stick may one day enjoy a jet-setting lifestyle similar to celebrity blogger Big Baby Kenny Ng, or high-profile writers like Dean Barrett and Stephen Leather. Or even, if he dreams big enough dreams, Christopher Moore.
“I know your price. And I’m buying. Buying something for myself this night.”
Speaking of Moore, the “naughty” darling of the sexpat/bar crawling crowd, Saphan Loy was recently gifted a copy of the miserably written and horribly plotted A Killing Smile, which Lek and I picked up the other day here in the executive suite of Saphan Loy headquarters while enjoying a tall glass of lemonade post-coitus. Jumping around the book a bit (which is easy to do because all of the words that are strung together sound exactly the same and make no sense whatsoever), we came across the following passage:
At Headquarters [Thermae Coffee Shop], Lek and her friends became the grammar for the abstract words “sexy,” “good,” “beautiful” giving those words faces and flesh and emotions. They floated around the floor like dreams auctioned off to the first farang who gave that discreet nod, wave of the hand, or an of the other signals that meant the same thing. “I know your price. And I’m buying. Buying something for myself this night. Something I can’t point out but I find outlined in the way you dress, walk, and smile.” And they created the illusion that each farang was part of their dream and the promise in each gesture and glance that their world of smiles lacked nightmares.
Shortly after reading this passage aloud to my sexually sated Lek, who lolled about on the leather couch in the executive suite with nary a stitch of clothing, like the kind of Siamese woman you see in old Daguerreotypes from the 19th century bathing in a muddy river naked to the world (and she did in fact get damp patches all over the fine Corinthian leather in places), I then asked her to become the “grammar” for far less-abstract words like “blowjob now” and “get me another ice cold beer from the refrigerator.” I know what you are thinking, and I am the first to agree. Yes, pretty “naughty” of me.
So what is with the Stick’s use of “naughty bar” or “naughty boys”? Think about it. If a friend of mine told me one day that he was planning a trip to Bangkok, and I responded by saying “Great town. Say, you’re not planning on going to the ‘naughty’ bars, are you?” he would likely look at me as though my brain had just been cataclysmically rendered inoperable as the result of a stroke or irreversible brain embolism.
There is something else implicit in the word “naughty.” And it usually means someone “naughty” is about to get a spanking. Yes, Dean Barrett, that would mean that you are. Now bend over, and take your buggering like the “naughty” man-whore that you are. My question, then, is this: do the ‘naughty’ boys who ‘partake’ in the ‘naughty’ nightlife of Bangkok therefore deserve a spanking from the ‘naughty webmaster’ himself?
Listen, you naughty girl! I am a Webmaster! Get it through your pretty little head. Do I need to spell it out? W-E-B-M-A-S-T-E-R!
No wonder then that this week, the Webmaster plugged the BarBar bar, which is where one can pay to indulge in a bit of fetish play — that is, if you are ‘naughty.’ In BarBar, where Saphan Loy (pre-Lek) once enjoyed a cocktail or two, one is treated to a scene of your choosing. For my benefit, one of the Isan farm girls trotted out a young minx in a school uniform (her slave) and forced the young fawn to kneel at my feet, while the mamasan hovered about trying to get me to purchase lady drinks for all and sundry. Or should that be “slave and Mistress drinks?”
Excepting the hard pressure salesmanship of the mamasan, all in all it was so far, so good. Or should I say, so far, so naughty? After all, the Siamese sin-seller at my feet was stunningly beautiful and played the part of my slave quite convincingly. She was so stunning in fact that, because of my advanced age, I started to hyperventilate.
We won’t bore you with the details of what happened after I started to hyperventilate, as it involved a “nurse” with an extraordinarily “naughty” disposition and a satchel of undoubtedly non-standard medical devices. But should you have a fantasy that you would like to have played out in a darkened playroom in a tropical Southeast Asian metropolis, you would do well to pay them a visit at BarBar.
Saphan Loy’s only complaint is that the staff could not accommodate my fantasy with the staff on hand or the crude bondage equipment on offer. I had shared with the mamasan that my fantasy would be to convert the entire premises into a garment factory, complete with sewing machines staffed by the lovely ladies, where I would be the “naughty” supervisor and force the women to meet grueling production quotas or receive strange and unusual punishments.
When the fantasy was described to the staff at BarBar, they seemed confused and offered instead a few whacks with a rattan cane, followed by a hot water enema.
So, call us “naughty”, Lek and me, as we dream about our garment factory. And when in doubt, keep in mind the mellifluous words of Mr. Moore.
“I know your price. And I’m buying. Buying something for myself this night.”
And should you find yourself feeling”naughty”, and that a visit to the “naughty” bars of Bangkok is in order, you should ask yourself: What would Elvis do?
The View from Above
Saphan Loy 