Why you should care

A word of warning is worth a pound of cure.

It’s 1 a.m. in Bangkok’s Patpong neighborhood. Ten of us — eight women, me and another guy; six of us Aussies, the remainder Americans — have gone beyond the Thai tourist wrangle of floating markets and temples and straight to Patpong 1. Which is to say, right into the heart of an even more tourist-trappy, market-like alleyway swarming with college-aged bros in tank tops.

Did I mention that the street was also slick with vomit? This, in literary terms, is what we call foreshadowing. Especially as we were also drunk. Drunk enough that when some Thai guys, let’s call them “promoters,” made a pitch for popping into their bar, the piquantly named Super Pussy, all we could think to say was: Why would we want to go to a place called Super Pussy?

The promoters were very direct: good times, hot girls and a live show that involved what the bar was named after.

Tickets were 600 baht, or approximately $20. We paused, and he countered with 100 baht per person. Plus a free beer each. We did the drunk math under the neon flash of the Super Pussy. We had cash. We had time. We were already there. The Super Pussy sign itself was bright and fun! How bad could it be?

And before we got too deep into evening-altering ramifications, a short Thai woman who couldn’t have been less than 60 years old appeared and ushered us in, after we paid, up the dark stairs to the bar. I had to use the glow of my cell phone to see where I was going.

My whole entourage was mostly female, so I wasn’t sure how this was going to work …

Our chaperone — let’s call her Sunny — sat us at the bar, which faced the stage. All of which smelled like sweat and alcohol, with a sort of unabashed dampness in the air, and if smoke from smoke machines can smell old, this one did. Young Thai ladies moved toward us as we sat, and with our eyes finally adjusting, we saw the place was empty of customers outside of two white dudes sitting in a booth. And there were at least 10 booths.

It felt suspicious for a Saturday night.

“Buy now.” “We take dollars.” “Drink? Drink?”

It seemed like Sunny ran the place, but while everyone enjoyed their free beer, Sunny started nagging me to buy a drink. I ordered a shot, which was 100 baht. The male bartender brought over my shot, though it was Sunny who was in charge of the transaction. I gave her a 1,000 baht bill. She returned with 400 baht. I told her it was the incorrect change. This annoyed her, so she threw in another 100 baht. This annoyed me, so I screamed loudly over Super Pussy’s techno music, “More! more!”

This pissed her off. She threw in another 100 baht, insulted. At this point, I just said thank you, while she did something equivalent to a mom cheer with her fist in the air. Next up? The bikini-sporting, makeup-laden performers hit us up. The aforementioned promise of “hot girls” had, it seemed, been a slight overexaggeration, as the transgendered Thai lady who approached me was neither hot nor a young girl for that matter. She was an escort who held out her palm.

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Would you want to go to a place called Super Pussy?

Source Gerhard Joren

When she saw I wasn’t going to give, she scowled, stomped her foot, then continued down the line to my friend Jen sitting next to me. My whole entourage was mostly female, so I wasn’t sure how this was going to work, and while I was figuring it out, the bartender tapped me on my shoulder. With a huge smile on his face, he said, “You buy me drink!”

Not wanting to engage, I fake-laughed, pretending he said something funny. Over the loud music, he actually made the international gesture of drinking a beer, then smiled hugely: “You buy me drink!” I knew exactly what was happening here. I was no longer that drunk. I put a hand to my ear and shouted: “Haha! I can’t hear you!” Then I pretended to have my attention swayed by a performer making her rounds so that he would think the bar would get money some other way.

Super Pussy had sounded fun. Like it would make a unique travel story to bring back home. This was not that …

And they tried every other way until they eventually got on the stage and did an un-choreographed dance routine to Chumbawamba. The girls were blasé, bored and not into it. I was mesmerized for all the wrong reasons, especially when two dancers giggled for a good two minutes during a Tone Lōc song. There was no upside in this situation. The entire show was fascinatingly tragic, a massive train wreck.

Finally, the music lowered, the lights stopped flashing and a few new girls came onstage. By all indications this was it. I was just waiting for it to be over and so was excited that we were close to the end. But the main attraction was now, according to Sunny, going to be performers popping Ping-Pong balls out of their vaginas. Also known as an almost immediate reason to flee the premises. I tried to make eye contact with literally any of my friends at this point to get the hell out. They were all involved in conversations, not paying attention.

superpussy

A few words of caution …

Source Photo courtesy of Jimmy Im

Super Pussy had sounded fun. Like it would make a unique travel story to bring back home. This was not that, and when one girl came out and lay on the stage, spread-eagle and naked, we almost didn’t believe what happened next was going to happen, until a white Ping-Pong ball popped out of her, right at the wall. And another. And another.

The next girl stuck a Magic Marker inside of herself and, squatting real low, wrote my friend Jennifer’s name on a piece of paper on the floor. To clarify, she used her vagina to hold the marker and perfectly write “Jennifer” with the movement of her hips. She handed her artwork to Jen as a gift. When another girl fired a pussy-powered dart at a balloon on the wall, popping it, we had had enough.

I couldn’t figure it out, or why we had even come in the first place. Were we entertained and, more significant, was this entertainment? I didn’t know, but I’m sure it wasn’t entertainment. Entertainment is 10 tourists sobering up fast and leaving even faster.

Was I traumatized? Yes. But then a realization: The only thing that could have been worse than being there was working there. Now why did we come again?

OZYTrue Story

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