Maid Service Required by the Bangkok Bad Boy

For my final full-length post on this website, I’d like to take you back a few weeks – to the day I made my first post.

It had been a slightly odd weekend. Bangkok was experiencing the beginnings of a full-scale political crisis. Not that I noticed.

Friday had been Werewolf’s farewell night out at Mojo’s, already covered here by the man himself. Saturday consisted of a rare mid-afternoon jaunt to Soi Cowboy to meet up with a pal and watch the street slowly come to life over the rim of a bottle of Beer Lao. Or several, in fact. Then onto Nana Plaza, and oblivion.

Sunday though… Sunday was different.

Beginnings

It began at Gullivers, on Sukhumvit Soi 5.

We drank beer. We ate sandwiches. Eventually. We put the world to rights. “We” were myself and a couple of English pals. Life was good. The elder statesman of our group declared that it was time for his late-afternoon nap, and three became two.

And with the daylight fading as inexorably as a Rainbow 4 superstar’s enthusiasm for a punter who turns out to have forgotten his wallet, we made the short journey to Soi 4 to take a peek at the as-yet unopened new Big Mango bar, before settling in for beers on the rail at Big Dogs. Back at Nana Plaza again. Who’d have thought it?

We spotted a scary-looking bargirl entering the Plaza, who we’d seen the night before. She had been working at one of the ground-floor beer bars, and my friend and I had agreed that a sexual adventure with this woman would be an interesting experience. Not least because she appeared to be completely insane.

She was an older woman – I’d guess mid-late 30s, maybe even 40 – not ugly by any stretch, but her attractiveness was of the unconventional variety. Whatever it was, she had a certain je ne sais quoi. Older, certainly past her prime, and a bit scary – but yet you still would, because you know it would be memorable. And so I shall call her Margaret Thatcher.

We supped our beers and made our way over to her bar. She was in conversation with an older gent as we arrived, and I thought he might leave with her before I got the chance to charm her. Insomuch as an ageing bargirl needs to be charmed. Which isn’t much at all.

Curiosity Killed the Cat

I think it was perhaps the difference. The difference between the nubile young lovelies who make up my usual bed rota, and this older, more experienced, and clearly completely loopy lady. I don’t know whether she was drunk, high, or whether this was merely her natural demeanour, but Margaret was a couple of cards short of a full deck.

The customer she’d been chatting with soon disappeared, and I beckoned her over to our table. She had a fidgetting, twittering presence. Sometimes wandering off across the bar mid-sentence. Sometimes gazing into the distance, her attention completely focussed on apparently nothing at all. She completely refused to tell me her name. So Margaret it is.

What had begun as an inquisitive wondering of “what if?” was slowly becoming – not quite an obsession, but a powerful yearning to discover just how many tricks this woman might have picked up during her years of whoring. Plus I reckoned she’d probably take it up the pooper.

Either way, my curiousity was getting too much for me. Over a few beers, egged on by my pal, I decided that it had to be done. A couple of gins for the Margaret, and the discussion turned to business.

Short time. Two thousand baht. Those were her terms. Not so much steep as practically vertical. Clearly, it was time to unleash the BBB charm. I did so, but to little avail.

She told me she didn’t need the money. She had a nice house, and a nice car. She was only going with me because she liked me. But she didn’t drop her price for anyone.

We were at an impasse. She wasn’t budging, but I wasn’t keen on paying more for this woman than I would for a twenty year-old pert, pouting lovely. Eventually, my pal leaned in. “Look, I’m dying to hear what she’s like in bed. Give her two thousand, and I’ll give you five hundred back after you tell me all about it.”

Deal.

The Dirty Deed of Darkness

And so the barfine was paid. Drinks were finished. Egged on by my pal, I took Margaret’s hand, and led her to the elevator behind the staircase on the ground floor, just in behind Lollipop bar. There was no way I wanted to be spotted climbing the stairs with this one.

Up to the short-time hotel, and there was – mercifully – a room available. No sitting around in reception being stared at by swarthy Germans with their ladyboy companions. Straight into the room, and straight to business.

I’ve often said that one of the more immediately noticeable differences between Thai girls and their western sisters is their impeccable attention to cleanliness. They shower before they do anything, especially sex. And so as Margaret entered the deluxe en-suite bathroom, I was fully expecting to hear the shower start.

It didn’t.

“The bathroom’s fucking dirty”, she said, as she returned to the bedroom, lifting one leg to kick off her knickers into the corner.

“You’re not going to take a shower?” I asked, incredulously.

“No. Fucking dirty”.

I was taken aback, but figured it might make for an interesting article. How little I knew.

I showered, and the bathroom looked fine to me. Back to the bedroom, and to business.

I think she started on top. I’m not sure, to be honest. My mind has blocked a lot of it out.

Either way, she was keen and enthusiastic, and extremely competent. Not to mention utterly filthy.

She accomodated The Staff Of Justice with what can only be described as wanton abandon. Up the right ‘un, up the wrong ‘un, down the throat, it was no-holes barred action, and I was having a splendid time. So, it seemed, was she.

Eventually, that familiar stirring made itself known, and with a hearty “Geronimo” I set loose the swimmers within her snug and accomodating bumhole. Which was nice.

Twist In The Tail

Lying in the aftermath of a rampant session, dripping with sweat and fanny batter, I was ready for another shower. I was by now only half surprised when the filthy minx declined once again to take one herself.

And as the water washed away the juices of my sins, and I scrubbed the minge muck out of my pubic hair, making a mental note to cut my fingernails when I got home, I was hardly surprised at all when I heard Margaret let loose a rasping fart in the bedroom. Refined, she was not.

I finished off the clean-up, towelled myself off, and returned to the bedroom. Sat on the end of the bed, I started to dress, as Margaret arranged her generous bosom, and pulled her knickers up.

“Two thousand”, I said, as I handed over the cash.

“Thank you. You pay tip for cleaner”, she replied, subtly arching her neck and nodding in the direction of the bed behind me.

Time seemed to stand still. Slowly, and with no small sense of dread, I turned around.

There was shit everywhere.

Great long dribbly streaks of poo, with the consistency and appearance of Nutella – but not, I would imagine, the deliciously morish taste – lay proudly upon the bedsheets.

It seemed that my enthusiastic probing had loosened things up somewhat in Margaret’s back passage. And the rasping fart I’d overheard when I was taking a shower had, evidently, included more than a little follow-through. Which she’d then apparently wiped up with the bedsheets.

A Question of Etiquette

Margaret was disarmingly matter-of-fact about it. I was mortified. I briefly considered burning the sheets, as surely the consequences couldn’t be as embarrassing as leaving them in this state, but I didn’t fancy being responsible for burning Nana Plaza to the ground. Now that would have made for a really embarrassing article.

But I couldn’t think what else to do. I searched my soul, and realised that there was nothing in my upbringing, experience or instincts that came anywhere remotely close to any kind of guide as to how one should behave in this situation.

I figured that Margaret’s suggestion of a tip for the maid would have to do. The only question was how much.

“Forty baht”, said Margaret, emphatically and without hesitation.

This threw me completely. Not so much the amount, as her confidence that this was precisely the correct figure to appease someone who would shortly be dealing directly with her excrement.

Did this sort of thing happen to her often? I found myself wondering this, almost out loud. But then realised that there are some questions to which we are not supposed to know the answers.

I checked my pocket, and found no twenty-baht notes, but a single fifty. That would do.

The only question left was a matter of diplomacy, not to mention respect.

I would have to leave the tip on the bed, rather than on the floor. I wanted the maid to know that I had deliberately decided to leave a gratuity by way of an apology for the mess. If I left the cash on the floor, she might assume that I’d simply dropped it by accident.

And so I tried to figure out where the cleanest part of the bed was, where the money would be reachable without having to lean in too far. I settled for a relatively clean point in the middle of the bed, approximately equidistant from the larger trails of poo. An effluence enclave, if you will.

And so I delicately set the money down, left the room, and strode briskly down the stairs, straight through reception, out of the hotel, down the elevator, and straight out of Nana Plaza.

My pal eventually found me sat at the Golden bar with a Beer Lao, shaking. I haven’t been back to that bar, and it’ll be a long time before I return to that short-time hotel…