My Date With a Man

A little background: Several weeks ago, my friends at Quit Your Day Job Radio dropped my name in an episode where Danny's gay brother Andy was a guest. I had never met Andy, but his on-air persona seemed funny and cool. For reasons I can't fathom, Andy was shown my picture--in the middle of recording the episode, mind you--and began swooning over me, commenting on how hot I am and requesting a nude photo. A good laugh was had by all, then I forgot about it.

Wednesday I appeared on the podcast myself (with a big assist from Ken's alcoholism) and Danny asked me out on Andy's behalf; I was flattered but didn't wish to lead him on, since I'm not even bi-curious. Danny insisted that Andy wouldn't try anything and it would just be a fun platonic night out--plus we could jokingly film it, Love Connection-style, for the benefit of the audience. Well, what the hell. It'd make for the better story, right?

Never having been on a man-date before, I asked Danny how I should dress. He replied that I should wear the same tight T-shirt and manpri pants I had on that day. Alrighty then.

Friday night we arrange to meet at the Freakin' Frog, a dive bar and Vegas institution. Andy is waiting for me with a bouquet of flowers. Danny and his wife are sitting next to him with a Flip video camera. We make introductions; Andy says he will be playing the character of "Andrew" for the camera, though it's never made clear to me where Andrew ends and Andy begins. I ask the barkeep for the fruitiest beer they have--might as well play the part, right? We chat about gaydar, Thai ladyboys and whatever else takes the edge off. One raspberry lambic later, the four of us get in a car and head to a mystery location for dinner. Andy drops a couple of clues: "American food" and "orange moose knuckle".

We soon arrive at the Hooters Casino, the armpit of the Vegas Strip. Andy holds both sets of doors open for me. What a gentleman! I proudly carry my flowers around with me; Danny is concerned that this might attract the attention of some homophobes, but like I give a fuck what those ignoramuses think.

We dine at the Hooters restaurant inside, where Andy asks probing questions about what I intend to eat. He then orders for me(!): an Elvis burger, well-done. Not my first choice, but not too far off. He also proves to be a great first-date conversationalist: lots of questions, interesting stories, gets the waitress to comment on how cute his date is. I try to pay for dinner but he will have none of that. After we leave, Danny and Andy both announce their intentions never to return to the cesspool we have just fled; I'm having too good a time to fret about such trivialities.

We make a short trip to New York New York and check out their replica Coney Island arcade, where Andy is determined to win me a stuffed animal. An old lady comments on how cute we look together. Andy can't defeat the claw game, but $20 later we have accumulated enough tickets to redeem for this star necklace (which I wear out the door) plus a sheet of temporary tattoos. Andy makes some interesting suggestions for where and how the tattoos can be applied to my body; I tell him that's more of a second-date activity.
As we wait for our carriage at the valet, Andy tells Danny to roll the camera, then asks me on-air whether everything about me is a mixture of races. I reply that I've been told I'm white where it counts...whatever that means. We ride back to the Frog, where I offer a goodnight handshake and go off on my way. On the drive home, I receive an "I had a great time" text, which I normally hate because it's meaningless and often leads to false hope that the girl intends to date me again. Here, it's no sweat.

I'm supposed to go on the air and explain whether or not I'd go on a second date with Andy and why. (Pretty sure I have that answer, and the justification for it, worked out already.) But what did I learn?

- Girls have it pretty good on first dates with nice guys. Andy planned everything; I wasn't allowed to pay for anything; doors were held open for me; he even pulled my chair out for me at dinner. I suppose this is where the American woman's sense of romantic entitlement comes from.
- It's easy to make strangers feel awkward in a public setting. Just be affectionate with a male friend around them, and it takes care of itself.
- Andy wants to play Gay Chicken, but I don't think it would be very fair.
- Though I openly despise blind dates, they don't have to be terrible. All I really need is a date I'm not sexually attracted to, and who doesn't make me buy her things. Is that so difficult?

Photo Dump

Quick Bites

When someone asks me where I'm from, my answer is heavily dependent on where I am at the time.

In Las Vegas, I say Chicago.
In Chicago, I say Naperville.
And in Naperville, I say Las Vegas.

...well, I thought it was interesting anyway. In Thailand I've learned that nobody has ever heard of Chicago*, so the rote answer is simply America. With your typical farang, the follow-up is "what it like there?" For me, it's "so your parents, mix? 50-50?" I think it might be better for America if we could all talk about race so openly.

*-Come on, Chicago! Barack Obama! Michael Jordan! McDonalds! Oprah! Transformers 3! (What the fuck was up with that emo music scene?)

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Thursday, I go out for another medical procedure day, starting with an "ear picking". I've cleaned my own ears many a time, even had the wax sucked out with a vacuum; but having a dude poke around in there is an entirely different feeling. This may be the closest I'll ever get to understanding how women experience sex. On at least one occasion, I think: Wow, I didn't know anyone could even reach that spot! He must have a big Q-tip.

I then move on to a battery of tests at a medical clinic. We know I'm HIV-free, but it's time to see if I've dodged the whole gauntlet of STDs. The doctor takes a quick blood sample from my hand--no sweat. Then comes the syphilis test. If I had to rank all the orifices of my body in order of how much I would enjoy having a cotton swab inserted into them, the one he actually chose would come in dead last. "This part a little painful." No shit.

This name sounds to me like the third edition. "Now penicillin-resistant!"

I get my tests back--I'm clean. The doctor then offers to give me a shot and some pills to make me super-resistant to contracting anything in the future. Um, deal? 1000 baht well-spent. Bring on the whores!

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I follow this up with a trip to the Pattaya floating market. This is a little like the Las Vegas version of a floating market: an outdoor shopping center is located on an artificial lake, with bridges traversing canals throughout. It does feature one thing Vegas doesn't: Water Ball. This basically looks like Atlasphere from the old American Gladiators, but on water. Unfortunately we discover that running in the water is nigh-impossible. This doesn't stop us from continually getting up, only to faceplant again; but most of the ten minutes are spent looking like this:
When we finish, we're all glad we did it, but we're also sweaty, exhausted, and in need of beverages--which they are all too happy to sell us. They've got a good racket going here.

---

If for some reason anyone wants to send me mail, it must be addressed to Margaritavilla Bar in Pattaya. That's right, I live in a bar. Even Barney Gumble had his own place in that one episode. At least it is comforting to know that the one-letter difference in the bar's name protects us from a Jimmy Buffett lawsuit.

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On the drive to the Tiger Zoo, our cab driver (in the far right lane) and another car (in the far left lane) attempt to merge into the same space in the center lane at the same time. We are concerned, but he reassures us: "No, is okay. We share lane. We share everything in Thailand...except girl! Ha ha." Remarkably, his prophecy comes true: both cars merge half a lane apiece, and each continues along, straddling two lanes and playing Pac-man with the lane dividers. Only in Thailand.

Conversations With Elise

I don't particularly care for this girl.

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Elise: "I'm 1/3 Native American."
J: "That's not possible*."
Elise: "That's what they told me I am. The math is complicated."
J: "Perhaps you're 5/16 or something like that?"
Elise: "No, I'm 1/3!"

*-I later decided she was conceived in a menage a trois and they're not sure whether the father is Tyrone or Chief Running Cloud, so they just averaged it out.

---

Elise: "I'm not okay with illegal immigrants not paying taxes."
J: "Quick economics lesson. Jose comes to work at your favorite restaurant. He gets paid under the table. What happens if we want to tax his income? To keep his take-home income the same, the restaurant gives him a raise. The restaurant owner increases the price of fried chicken to keep his profit margins steady. Now you have to pay more for the same food. Who is really paying for Jose's taxes, you or he?"
Elise: "You don't understand what I'm saying. I pay taxes; they should pay taxes too."

---

(A young Thai man is walking atop a wall of buoys at the beach.)
Elise: "I hope he doesn't fall in, because Asians can't really swim well."
J: "What an appallingly ignorant statement."
Elise: "I was in Vietnam! They weren't great swimmers."

---

Elise: "How much was it to send your postcards?"
Melissa: "It was 225 baht for nine postcards, so that's...25 baht each."
Elise: "25 baht each? So how much is it to send two?"
J: (Rolls eyes so far back that both girls, who are walking behind me, notice my head tilting backward and comment on it.)

Cabaret

What did you do to celebrate your most recent graduation? I'm guessing your story would lose a game of Gay Chicken against mine.

Despite not completing half my assignments in the manner the school would have preferred, I receive my TESOL certificate Friday afternoon, probably because they had printed it already and didn't want it to go to waste. I am able to touch the diploma for about two seconds before Indy reclaims it; he says I will get it back when I finish my volunteering assignment. My classmates who are seeking paying jobs get to keep their certificates straight away. Ben Franklin was right: "If happiness thou seeks, a paper chaser be."

We celebrate by heading to the Malibu Bar, Pattaya's famous ladyboy cabaret. Six-foot-tall divas show off their Adam's apples and shake their nonexistent hips while lip-syncing everything from Beyonce to Lady Gaga. The main event features Tina Turner belting out her greatest hits in a wig and too-short dress. It's quite a trip. The dancers parade around the audience being all flirtatious with the guests, and I wave at them and blow them kisses, because we're here* in Pattaya, damnit.

*-And we're queer, and we don't want any more bears!

One dancer is particularly enamored of me. She doesn't have any mannish features or man-nerisms. In any other venue I would be reasonably certain she's a woman and a foxy one at that; in the Malibu Bar, Bayesian probability warns me against trying anything fresh.

When Tina has finished Simply the Best and is about to launch into Private Dancer, my probably-female suitor walks into the audience, touches my hand and asks, "Dance?" Longtime readers know my M.O. is "what would make for the better story?" This time, that question has an obvious answer. I take her(?) hand and head to the main stage, where we light up the floor for four minutes of twirls, dips, and not-too-close-just-in-case slow dancing. A good time is had by all.

Several songs later, my maybe-girl comes back and sits in my lap. This time she has brought a friend; the only uncertainty about the friend is whether the penis she was born with is still attached or on its way to Jeff Swanlund for a transplant. My lady grabs my head and motorboats her friend with it. Jeepers creepers, that's one terrible boob job. The doctor who did this should be ashamed of himself.

I get a simple proposal: "Dance? Take five minute." I'm not about to turn this down. My probable-girl takes me backstage(!?) Like much of Pattaya, it is pure visual overload. Softball-shaped boobs are hanging out while dancers change clothes. A rack of 100 outfits covers every possible diva one could imagine. Everyone is wearing flesh-colored tights; I can see we have a couple of pre-ops in our midst.

One of those is Tina Turner himself, who appears to be the boss man around these parts. "Tina" introduces himself and immediately begins to reveal that this enterprise is a giant slowroll. I learn I will not just be casually dancing onstage; I will be dressed down to my boxers and shaking it for the benefit of the tourist audience. Better story? Check. I cautiously agree.

Tina comments on my skin tone, and I mention I'm half a nisei. He tells me that people like that are in demand as male models here, and I should really give up teaching to pursue such a career. Well, I do have unfinished business in that area, I think to myself. He even starts to compliment my physique. That's sweet of him to say--oh wait, he was just using that as a segue to start feeling up my chest. Lovely.

When he's done rounding second base, Tina tells me I need some pictures of myself "looking like this" to send to modeling agencies. "I don't have any," I protest. Never fear, he has a camera and is willing to take them for me!

What would make for the better story? This philosophy almost always means saying yes to any proposal, but while "Farang Found Sodomized and Shanked" would probably make for a compelling read, I want to be around to write my own obituary**. For once, I choose the blue pill.

**-How can I trust a newspaper reporter to insert the proper amount of snark into such a somber article?

Finally it's almost time for my big performance. Tina offers me a good luck handshake, but misses my outstretched hand by about a foot--conveniently the exact distance between it and my genitals. Thanks, it was nice meeting you too.

I go through my routine without a hint of shyness. Pictures of me hugging ladyboys onstage will surely surface on Facebook soon. I wear a silk scarf like a boa, eventually giving it to a 50-year-old white woman. My classmates in the audience are naturally getting a solid kick out of everything.

My five minutes are up. Time to get dressed? Nope, they have a limbo contest planned. I defeat the audience volunteers, but the divas annihilate me. Finally I take a bow and retire to the dressing room. Tina makes one more offer to take modeling pictures for me, and I politely decline. My junk gets another rubdown from a different ladyboy as I make my way out.

Ah, Thailand.

Just Another Manic Monday

Monday: My day off! (Or so I thought.)

I set my alarm for 9:30. In the crazy world I now live in, this is considered "sleeping in". I actually wake up at 9:07 when my phone rings.

"Hello?" I groggily answer.

"Teacher J? Where you? Teach today!"

"No teach today. Day off."

"Teacher J! Students at church. No teacher there. You teach?"

"No teach Monday! Teach Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday. Goodbye." I hang up and go back to sleep, hitting the snooze button a few times before I reawaken.

When I do, my phone shows several missed text messages. It seems Indy and my other mentor Jam had a slight miscommunication, and they have gotten into quite the snit over it. All I care about is that my class understands LanguageCorps is at fault, not their beloved Teacher J. Later, Jam will tell me that she told the students I was sick and gave no notice. Not a textbook example of taking one for the team, guys.

I head down the street. What does one do with a day off in Pattaya? I start by getting a $13 "HIV Quick Test". The doctor pricks my finger and puts a drop of blood on a stick that resembles a pregnancy test. We make some small talk about Las Vegas, then he looks at my results. "One line good, two line bad..." He stops abruptly, gasps and holds his mouth agape for several seconds.

I don't panic. I've resolved to take the test results stoically. Then he shows me a negative result and says "Ahhhh, just kidding!" Either I really look like I can take a joke or the doctor likes getting punched in the face every now and then. Whatever, I'm clean; time to go celebrate with a wild orgy.

Before I get dirty, it's time to get my teeth cleaned. I head to a legitimate-looking dentist. They get some quick information from me, then rush me into the back for a ruthlessly efficient checkup. Four different procedures take a total of perhaps fifteen minutes, and I'm out the door $27 lighter in the wallet. I assume they checked for cavities and the like, but frankly I have no idea. I immediately set about destroying my teeth again by purchasing the first of the eleven diet colas I will consume today.

All this has only taken an hour, so I pick up a kebab and cruise around a local mall. I have to find a local and give her a language assessment and lesson before Friday. I had planned on using this as a conversation piece with a local hottie, but every good-looking girl in town is hooking. I can't exactly blame them--legitimate jobs don't pay very well here.

I attend my language and lesson planning class. Indy asks me how today went. I assume this is some kind of joke, but apparently he just forgot about the fiasco. I ask him if he can absolve me of blame for not showing up this morning, and his only reply is "don't worry about it." Nick Moreles would be proud.

This is followed by dinner and a movie--man Green Lantern has a convoluted plot--and prepping for tomorrow's return to work. Hopefully I remember to show up this time.

Crazy Town

One week has elapsed since I descended into the nexus of hedonism. How are things going?

- Crossing the street here is like playing Frogger with your life; even the walk lights at major intersections are purely incidental. You take it one lane at a time, and gradually adjust to the feeling of standing still in the middle of the road while cars and motos zoom by inches away from you on either side.

- A tailor introduces me to the most luxurious fabric I’ve ever felt—I want to spin it into a cocoon and live out my days inside it. I give him $40 and 24 hours, and he makes two dress shirts to my exact measurements.

- A mere six days after I move in, a light is finally installed in my stairwell, so I no longer have to brave pitch black to climb the last two flights. Plus, my shower has been functioning as both a sink and shower for five days with no interruptions.

- I find the world's most glorious gelato on Walking Street. If you could freeze an orgasm and give it a nice chocolate hazelnut flavor, this is what you'd get.

- Hopping on a baht bus is like signing a waiver saying that the driver can strand you in the middle of nowhere, clear across town. Or turn the other way and drop you off right at your doorstep. It's always a coin flip either way.

- For $13, a shady mobile phone shack turns my old backup iPhone into a universal acceptor of SIM cards.

- Speaking English with my class is like yelling at a vending machine that eats my dollar bill: it makes me feel a little better, but I know nothing good is actually going to come of it.

- The beaches combine magnificent white sand with salespeople hawking everything from massages to sunglasses to themselves.

- I'm surrounded by so many old white men hand-in-hand with young Thai girls that I actually begin to wonder if I'm too young to attract a mate here.

- The ladyboys are everywhere. Watching them lip-sync and dance to Lady Gaga at the cabaret is great, but playing the "ladyboy or woman?" game is also nonstop fun.

Call it a mixed bag, but I love it. All of it. People say Las Vegas is a party town, but widespread gambling addiction and a stagnant economy are a nasty combination. Nothing in Pattaya can compare to the Magnificent Mile, but Chicago would never publicly advertise a Pussy Ping Pong Show. Tokyo hides its true colors better than any other city in the world, while Pattaya lays it all on the table*.

*-Sometimes literally. It's one hell of a show. Uh...I mean, so I've heard.

Yes, I dare say this is a great place to live for someone who can wrap his head around all of it. For one week, anyway. We'll see where it goes from here.