I am not to blame. Though that is a motto that has served me well in life, in this instance it was true. Still relatively new to Bangkok, and definitely still a newbie to the world of Bangkok’s gay gogo bars, I assumed they all were basically the same. I assumed they all worked alike. Peddling flesh isn’t rocket science and someone figured out all the angles centuries ago. Sticking to the basics works best: offer hot flesh, grab the cash. But then I’d failed to take into account the three First Principles that have always guided the Asiatic mind: never look a cop in the eye; if it slithers you should eat it; and money is the root of all evil only if you don’t have any. And I’d not yet learned the universal truth that a farang and his money are soon parted.

In those days Sukhumvit was my beat. Even when chasing the exotic, the familiar has an undeniable draw. The first hotel I stayed at in Bangkok was along Sukhumvit. I liked the area. It was convenient, there were plenty of taxis available (the BTS was still years away), there was cool shopping just outside the hotel door at night, and the ride over to Patpong cost less than a buck. The ladyboy population was almost nonexistent then too, and since visiting gay gogo bars was still a new thing to me there didn’t seem any good reason to hunt for accommodations elsewhere. The neighborhood fit my needs well.

Back then finding a gogo bar still required a bit of a hunt even in Patpong. There was no soi filled with less than salubrious establishments whispering promises of sexual fulfillment that would make a porn star blush as there are today. But the allure of cheap sex worked its magic fairly quickly on me and it wasn’t long before I started the hunt for a bar closer to my hotel, a handy spot to grab a boy before the more serious night time trip to Patpong rolled around.

In those days there was a small bar on Sukhumvit that did little to entice passersby to drop in. Windows that hadn’t been cleaned since the king was crowned refused to offer up a glimpse of what might be waiting inside. The door was always open, a halfhearted attempt at welcome with as much impact as a sparrow’s belch in a typhoon thanks to its efforts being foiled by a dingy black curtain blocking the entryway that allowed just enough noise to float out into the tepid air to let you know that despite looks there was some form of life happening within.

But then Barbiery, the hottest gay gogo bar in Patpong at the time, didn’t do much to welcome punters either. There you entered a long narrow bar staffed with a few lowlife locals whose entire reason for being seemed to be to hurry you along toward the partially hidden staircase at the back of the bar that led upward to what would either be heaven on earth or an unexpected and possibly violent death. If not yours than at least your wallet’s. Having survived that trip on more than one occasion, and in dire need of a blow job, the small bar’s dour and dingy appearance failed to keep me from entering.

Sometimes initial appearances can be deceiving. This wasn’t one of them. The bar’s interior was dim, lit only by a few low-watt bulbs hanging from the ceiling and a string of Christmas tree lights – the only hint that the place might serve a gay clientele – that would have twinkled in the early evening light if they’d had any twinkle left in them. Inside it was hotter than out on the street, the floor was done in peeling linoleum that might have once been gray, and the whole place smelled of sweat, the efflux of the crapulent who’d visited in the past, and moldy wood. It was a narrow, low-roofed space, with plumbing lines serving as a ceiling and insect eaten wooden walls keeping the neighboring dives at bay. A rickety counter toward the front – at best guess the bar – divided the room from a small factory space in the rear, where a rag-tag group of brown-eyed boys in jeans and T-shirts worked an ancient karaoke machine, deep in debate over which favorite would be played next.

Huh. I’d wandered into a host bar. I’d read about them, but had not yet experienced one. And if this place was any indication of the promise they held, I hoped I’d never stumble upon one again.

But my little head won the day as it so often does and I grabbed a stool at the bar and ordered a beer. Management, having saved money by not having refrigeration, served a snack with my luke-warm brew; a tiny winged creature was struggling to stay afloat in it and looked about to lose the fight at any moment. Meanwhile the boys in the back continued their debate over the best tune to put on, or possibly it was an argument over how to make the magic genie in the machine do his thing.

Realizing even the locals are smart enough to demand their insect snacks be fried first, I gave up on my beer, then looking for an excuse to wander back to where the boys were, headed to what turned out to be the filthiest, foulest, and fetidest toilet in all of SE Asia. Fortunately I didn’t need to use the facilities, my visit had been a ruse, and excuse to saunter nonchalantly past the staff, an opportunity to surreptitiously check each of them out. Unfortunately in the quick few gag-worthy seconds I’d been inside the head the boys got their karaoke machine to spin a tune. And one of them joined in, letting loose with that Asian-falsetto howling that makes you think of a castrato in a wheelchair falling down a fire escape. Thai music hurts your ears the way it hurts when you accidently staple your tongue to the wall. My atavistic instincts kicked in and urged me to flee.

I’d been in the bar for about twenty minutes and so far none of the boys had paid the least bit of attention to me. But like a night market vendor’s desperation when you start walking away before the sale is concluded, my heading toward the exit brought the group to life. A hand reached out as I passed by stopping me long enough for a greeting to be made. “My name Tick,” came a sing-song cadence barely floating in the air. Somewhat dubious of what a Tick would look like, my eyes followed the dusky brown skinned hand up a well-formed arm and into a vapid pair of dark brown eyes that promised a world of pleasure, a world of delight, a world of my wildest fantasies brought to life. Or at least a night with a beautiful Thai boy seraphically free of pesky gag reflexes. I was sold.

Tick had exhausted his command of English in greeting me. No probelmo, I wasn’t interested in debating world affairs with him. Even back then, in my early days of haunting the flesh pots of Bangkok, I’d learned to deal with expectations up front. Using universal sign language for the acts that my soul required, I confirmed that Tick was both willing and able, paid the bar fine, and headed home, a short stroll down the soi to my hotel with Tick following closely behind.

I had a quickie in mind, a short short-time off, a wham bang, thanks, here’s some baht now leave proposition. Tick had a different idea. Settling into the room he turned on the TV using the remote to set the volume to stun. Sitting on the flow at the foot of the bed, he compressed his lips and put on a truculent expression, immediately sinking deep into his personal misery and radiating broadband resentment. I know the whore with a heart of gold is but a fantasy, but I expected, at the very lease, a false sense of bravado, possibly even an insincere attempt at looking as though he might enjoy what was to come. But then his extreme pout made it easier to move things along, so no foul. “Shower,” I told him.

Tick cranked his dour expression up to a level he’d been busy perfecting since the age of three. But he’d been in the game long enough to know when the customer is ready further delay won’t cut it. He showered. I showered. We hopped into bed. I don’t know why either of us bothered. I’ve seen bread harder than his dick was. His desultory attempt at a hand job proved he’d learned his technique from milking the family’s cow back home. He gave the word dud and entirely new meaning. And left me feeling more frustrated than an Amish Electrician.

Time is a relative concept, as either Einstein or my first bar boy once pointed out. I began to consider how lucky premature ejaculators are when Tick’s cellphone buzzed at him from the teak wood nightstand next to us, skittering across the gleaming wood like a shiny black cockroach. Saved by the bell, or in this case a poor monophonic rendition of Just Beat It, Tick had to go and even though I’d not yet come his hasty departure seemed the best use of both of our time.

I’ve never considered my off with Tick to count toward the worst sex I’ve ever had. Mainly because our time together really didn’t count as sex. I did consider it a lesson and avoided host bars from there on in. Not that staying clear of host bars in Bangkok is a difficult trick. For the gay farang customer, they are few and far between. Gogo bars are more lively, the stable of boys usually more numerous, and you get a much better idea of who you are hopefully getting into. As Soi Twilight grew into the destination for gay punters, it filled with gogo bars. There was no good reason to search out a host bar for your night of fun.

But times change, the world evolves, and even in Thailand they make some concession to demands of the market. Caucasian customers are no longer the primary source of income on the soi, Asians from surrounding countries are becoming the norm. And while they enjoy cheap sex as much as Westerners do, they have a much more healthy respect for money. At least for theirs. Host bars, where drinks are cheaper, off fees are less, and tips are half the price of what those working their trade in gogo bars expect, are becoming the latest hot venue of the soi. One popped up a year or so ago, and several others have joined in since bringing new life to what had started to look like a dying scene.

I’ve got the Bangkok gay gogo bar paradigm down to a science. I know what to expect and what is expected from me. Through experience I can tell which boys will be duds and which will rock my world. Navigating the world of host bars is a different matter. The basics are the same, and maybe now the experience is too. But my history with host bars, as brief as it was, still sounds a note of caution. Part of me still balks at trying a host bar again. But then maybe, like the soi, I need to evolve. Maybe I need to give the host bar scene a second chance. Maybe doing so will be just different enough of an experience to bring back some of the old excitement that used to course through my veins when I hit Bangkok.

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