The Missile Sites
2 January 1985Chris takes us to one of the legendary Bangkok sex shows. All public sex shows all over the world take place in the same terrible milieu: tiny tables, smoky rooms, miniscule stage, watered-down drinks, sleezo maitre'd.
Still --- there is something special about this one. I have to confess that I never guessed that one could introduce such an alarming number of artifacts into the old squeeze-box --- making what a contemporary rock song calls "the place where the sun don't shine" a veritable lost and found depot. Mercy me!
For instance, on arrival, there's a rather hefty lady on her back, on the stage, extracting what appeared to be plastic daisies or doilies, a long string --- a very long string indeed --- of flowers of such quantity that it would have shamed the ladies at the North End Begonia Society.
Then shortly after our being served the usual tenth-of-an-ounce of whiskey --- another lady arrived to indulge herself in an involved and intimate way with several large bottles of Coca-Cola, both empty and full, or (at times) halfway between the two
Then we got the Camel show, where cigarettes (not a dainty one or two, but a whole pack) were placed in media res, promptly lit, and puffed, in a great cloud of smoke --- giving us a real fear for the safety of the patch-of-lawn of our supine friend. All the time, a choice selection of music belted forth from the speakers, including (but not limited to) "You Can't Always Get What You Want (But If You Try Sometime You Just Might Find You Get What You Need)."
The trick-of-the-week for those few of us still functioning was the Banana Shot --- said artifact which was cast forth, not unlike an ABM missile from a silo, to great and amazing heights. All our Early Warning Systems had gone off by this time, making the next six tricks anticlimactical, including darts shot with remarkable inaccuracy at red and yellow balloons suspended overhead. It quite reminded us of Samuel Johnson's tale of the walking dog: the concern was not that it was done well, but that it was done at all.
The finale was the Traditional Act of Congress taking place with grunts and suchlike between a husky young fellow and a slim-waisted little thing who earned my respect by staying firmly connected all the while she was thrown about the room by her consort. When the Master of Ceremonies announced that the next act was The Ping-Pong Playoffs, followed by the Razor Act --- we high-tailed it for the door. I mused for a while on humans' --- at least Porn Parlor humans' --- insensate need to show strange objects addressed to commodious privates, objects that would not normally be expected to be found in or near such places. Chris insisted, absolutely insisted that the final act of the evening came when the indefatigable young man placed his factotum on the counter and his lady friend addressed it vigorously with a sledgehammer "to blow the wax out of his ears." Maxima cum laude.From The Blob That Ate Oaxaca