Two stages ran through the room with seating all around them. Each stage held about about 15 girls, standing crammed next to each other. They were wearing identical, skimpy white underwear. These were bad girls. Bad girls with lots of tattooes and a number visibly pinned to their bra straps.
They were all ... I think the word is ... dancing. The dominant dance style tended to be a slow, gormless, twisty sway. Out of time with the music. This must be their Macarena.
If I was on So You Think You Can Dance, this is the routine I'd like to pick out of the hat.
The girls were casually chatting to each other as they were swaying, somewhat oblivious to the leering men in the audience.
They could have been subway commuters.
They could have been socialites at a busy cocktail bar, drinking Cosmopolitans. Socialites in undies, holding poles in lieu of martini glasses.
The girls were casually chatting to each other as they were swaying, somewhat oblivious to the leering men in the audience.
They could have been subway commuters.
They could have been socialites at a busy cocktail bar, drinking Cosmopolitans. Socialites in undies, holding poles in lieu of martini glasses.
In an attempt to avoid eye contact I scanned the room for signs of pubes (no result). In a second attempt to avoid eye contact I started checking out their Fuck Me boots. I noticed that they all had different coloured socks peeking out over the top of the boots. Glimpses of individuality: probably their only creative outlet. That and the hair. Most of the girls had died and styled their hair to the extreme. This hair was more than just teased. It was bullied. Combined with the babydoll make-up and the swaying, they looked like abandoned drunk gonks.
At the table next to us was a middle-aged Japanese man sitting with his son (early-20's). A young, skinny girl in white underwear was sitting/leaning on the son's lap. She was laughing hysterically and patting her hair at everything he said, all the while knocking back her drink and encouraging him to do the same. Lots of cheersing.
The son had his left arm around her waist. He had worked his hand up and through her armpit, so that he could fondle and squeeze her left tit without his father seeing. His hand was continually scanning the breast terrain, stopping occasionally for a break or a slow squeeze.
It looked like she was having a breast examination but he didn't look like a doctor.
I bade my colleagues farewell as they left to get a massage. 400 Baht. Special price. Just for you. Them. Not me.
'I'm so lucky to be here.'
I thought to myself as I climbed into a cab.
Who would have imagined I would have such glamour in my life?'
I thought to myself as the cab driver started handing me a couple of cards with pictures hookers on them while giving me a cheeky thumbs up.
