Chapter 11 – Shenanigans with Excrement and Human Fluids
We had been introduced to SangSom buckets at a special price: 290Baht buy one get one free, with the option of one for 145B; as is the common slogan (and can be bought readily on a t-shirt), same-same. Three quid for your 35cl bottle of local SangSom dark rum, a pocket-sized bottle each of coke and red bull and (if you should be so lucky) a seasoning of rohypnol, noticeable only to one of a more refined palate. And so it was that from twelve until three a.m. (finally passing out with his face sporting the careless graffiti of a public toilet) Luke enjoyed our first night excreting from a facial orifice which had earlier in the day been stuffed with cheap 30baht meals and countless curb-side ‘Beer Chang’s.
I recall the main event of the evening; of course four males in their early twenties would be ashamed to recall a visit Bangkok and have no tale to tell of the infamous ping-pong show. And infamous it shall remain in my forever degraded memory. We were proud of one thing – having bartered the price down from six-hundred to three-hundred baht, including transportation via tuk-tuk and a free beer. And what a price to pay to witness acts so surreal as to succeed in giving the vagina new meaning as a human pouch or pocket, a bag in which an infinity of objects can be stored and procured at will; vagina smugglers.
Aaron undoubtedly experienced his money’s worth as a ping-pong ball sopping with a concoction of KY Jelly and human fluid landed lifelessly in his lap before being hip-thrusted away. I wondered whether the “show” girls would have taken offence at his refusal to handle the object which glistened with their secretions of a hard day’s work.
We left by no means because of the obscenities – the handkerchiefs and even razor wire dragged endlessly from gaping female genitalia with the infinity of a clown’s pocket, the puffing of cigarettes followed by bottles of water entering clear and exiting brown, the joyless live sex both lesbian and hetero, horizontal and vertical, standing and in handstand – but for the more practical reason that we had sat so long that the “acts” had actually began to repeat. It seems that even the most exotic of occupations has their monotonous routine.
I recall this evening’s entertainment whilst squatting over a toilet located at the rear of the SangSom Bucket bar, one which will become Luke’s companion for the next few hours in a very short while. Having finished up with expected ill consistency and a freshly burning sphincter I survey the sole cubicle for appropriate tools. Of course there is no toilet-roll, that much is to be expected, so I look further. No hose; confusion. No bucket; anxiety. No tap; panic. The situation has quite clearly taken a problematic turn. And there is only one solution, save walking out into the bar with no shorts. It is one so obvious that I feel almost sick for thinking of it as much as having to realise the act. I flush whilst staying squatted. I flush twice in an effort to convince myself the water is entirely clean. I reach down into the bowl and cup my hand as tight as possible so as to reduce the number of repetitions needed to finish the job. I wash my ass robotically, in complete detachment in an effort to prevent mental scarring. It would be only the first of many Shenanigans with excrement and human fluids to come.