One Sunday In Pattaya – What Do You Think?

One Thai Sunday (15/01/2017) – Some Very Selected Events Which Indicate The Importance Of Appearance

The most memorable events were those unplanned. It was another Pattaya Expats Club meeting but with the added woe that no speaker was scheduled because the committee members had quarrelled over who should speak and what sort of notice should be given to the main speaker. Result? Half the committee members were absent (a sort of boycott?) and the other half were there and boring the pants on us. What’s the average age of the assembled gathering? I’d say sixty-eight or seventy.

I went into the air-conditioned room of the main eatery-lobby and spoke to the big boss, a Viking who speaks good Thai and very good English. I asked him why he never attends his own meetings. They take place in the other room. “Watcha mean? I’m attending.” The Scandinavian is very fit and sports a brand new Thai wife. The joke today was that she said, “Oh, my God!” at home, and he replied, “That’s not my name but I don’t mind you calling me that.” I smiled, and said, “Wow!” I scuttled off into the main meeting and various comments dropped out of the mouths of babes and expats. For example, that we are forbidden to work here, that we need excessive amounts of money to buy our visas, that we are forbidden to buy houses and own land, and that despite our considerable talents and qualifications we are considered aliens and second-class citizens. The microphone was being passed round and after a considerably fruity, “I’ve lived here for twenty years and the Thais will not allow us…” I grabbed the microphone and asked in a docile tone, “How many of us here think the Thais are racist?” I repeated the question, “How many of us here think the Thais are racist?” and I amplified, “because of the way we are marginalised, because of what you are saying?” and the answer was a unanimous, “The Thais are easy to get along with, we have a cushy number, and no, they are not racist.” I agreed, saying I had only spoken up to put the cat among the pigeons. It was a case of George Orwell’s political language giving an appearance of solidity to pure wind.

Cheating, I think

I went out to the pool edge and eyed the talent. I was joined by a jolly German, a volunteer tourist-policeman who even policed the aforementioned Viking at his wedding. “Ah, it was not always like that,” he told me. “The boss broke off with his lady for some months and hired a private detective to ascertain her honesty. That ascertained, the marriage took place in the swishest of hotels with a thousand guests adancing. I was his personal bodyguard.” Appearances, appearances, let us not appear to enjoy their disappearances.

Talking of which here is an appearance. She is beautiful and is walking past us with a towel around herself. Ten paces on she drops the towel and sways on to the blue pool-edge. We do not notice the pool because she is thonged and her bum is doing what ladies’ bums do when young and exposed. Our eyes are lefting and righting in unison with her sway. Our eyes are going at it like nobody’s business. The tourist-policeman and boss-bodyguard says she comes from Coconut Bar, that is…the stretch of Pattaya Central Beach where the Thai freelancers, hookers, ladyboys and gays hang out. “No,” I contradict, “I don’t think she is Thai.” I note though that he has compared this girl to Thai prostitutes and the reason seems to be exhibitionism (which is something most Thai ladies do not do by pools and on beaches). I further reflect that Thai hookers in a go go bars show their bums like this tourist is doing here in the open. We carry on talking but she has taken a curving dive into the pool and said dive has necessitated her bottom being up and curving in a sexy arc which the sun lights up and delights to alight upon before it hits the water with a luscious, lascivious splash-waasshh-waasshh.” I get over the ripples but she is out on the other side turning this way and that, pearly-dropped. It’s a perfectly shaped bum (all relative) and it’s there for the eye-taking. I take more than the Viking protector because I have the better view. Now, there is a photographic session going on and after the inevitable faccies, there are the bummies. Yes, she is self-snapping her very own bottom. A waiter has bought her a high and tall, green cocktail-glass which overfloweth with verdant alcoholism which she is sipping while selfie-ing and pirouetting. Her short, black hair frames her pretty face and her nose sports a pair of green-rimmed sunglasses with smoke-white lenses. “I’m going to ask where she’s from.” But I’ve already decided she’s from Russia. I go up to her and she smiles. “You’re Russian, aren’t you?” “Yes,” she says. “We were watching you taking photos.” “Beautiful?” she asks. I laugh. “Oh, yes,” I reply, “very.” She looks as pleased as punch.


I return to my friend, the expat, volunteer police-constable. “I’m always right,” I brag, and tell him she’s Russian. So, he mistook her for a coconut-bar, freelancing hooker whereas she’s an exhibitionist Russian tourist – no way a prostitute – and her behaviour is mere, 100% European! I’ll even bet you she’s married! All grist for the mill. We conclude our parley and I head on out towards my car but the restless, rebel thoughts just won’t let me get there. I’m sure I noticed a big guy with her but for the moment I dream she is single and ready to be invited out. I return to the poolside and, sure enough, there she is on her own and sitting on the attribute that has stirred my unviagra’d hard-on. I’m almost on top of her, and she is looking at me without taking her sunglasses off this time. I swallow hard and overcome the disadvantage she has slapped on me. I can’t see her expression. “Are you free on Tuesday night?” I ask. (Friends and I are hitting the bars and I intend to turn up with Miss World on my armpit.) She shakes her head and answers in Russian. Undaunted, “Free, you?” I ask. “No understand.” But I think she does. “Come with me Tuesday.” She lifts her left hand and plants an imaginary marriage-ring on the appropriate finger. I smile. “OK.” I turn and there’s a massive guy coming up, signalling to her to tell him if anything is amiss. His Mrs. probably does just that (tells him she has just heard a tadpole talk) but I am already out of range and making for the car. I am happy I asked her. The bodyguard had said if she is snapping her bum her face can’t be worthy of a selfie, but he is wrong. Both appearances are worthy.


It is a day of appearances and now it is ten-thirty at night and I appear to have run out of steam. I imagine the dark pool without its Russian bottom and I imagine her in her lit room with her incredible hulk descending on her stripped, double-peach, bum-bloom giving it an incredible hulk’s slappery-kissovery but he is too incredible, too hulk-like, and I would advise a more ample arse for the likes of him. The small Russian in her black thong could do far worse than to court a guy like me – an intelligent guy who guessed her nationality first time, who risked his all conversing with her, and who is sitting here slapping his computer around in frustration while writing up the transient memorable so as not to forget it though it’s already foregone and wasting with a massive waster. (Still 15/01/2017)


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