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Khao San Road was everything I was beginning to hate about traveling. Inflated prices, budget travelers by the bus load, video bars, westernised food and switched on locals who knew how to squeeze you for a buck. T-shirts that loose their color and shape after a single wash, watches that cease to tick moments after a completed transaction, fake credentials, fly by night travel agents and second hand bookshops charging first hand prices. I wanted out, I went to Patpong Road. I had been assured Patpong can be a laugh in a group - ours was again up to nine. We had bumped into John and Obie buying banana shakes earlier that afternoon along Chakra Bongse Road and they decided that a night of nudity and cold beer held merit. "Bitchin man! Like those babes shoot darts from downstairs. Awesome!" Obie was later proven correct. Before I go on, perhaps a little history lesson is in order. In the late 1960\'s an American entrepreneur turned an existing tea-house into an opulent nightclub catering solely for the predilection of American GIs on rest and relaxation leave from their efforts in Vietnam. From there, word spread, the red light district grew and Patpong\'s infamy was born. But the true roots of Thai prostitution are buried much deeper than this. Long before Thailand openly promoted itself to western cultures as a destination for the sexually voracious, Thai men were practising polygamy and using prostitution at rates that many Westerners would find staggering. Even up until 1910 and the reign of Rama VI, Thai Kings kept a harem of minor wives for sexual gratification. Although Thai royalty has seen the wisdom of monogamous ways, many Thai men still juggle a mistress with an official wife - seen as a perfectly acceptable practice for those in a position to do so. For those who can\'t, prostitution offers a cheap and supposedly, satisfying alternative. Strange, since its been illegal since 1960. But Patpong is merely a name that Westerners associate with the Thai sex industry. It is barely a pimple on the bum of Thailand\'s skin trade. It caters predominately for farangs, from the sex tourist to the slightly curious. The number of Thai females earning a living from prostitution is estimated by the Children\'s Rights Protection Agency at up to two million. Many of these come from the poorer Northern and North Eastern regions where a single nights work can reap more than a months income derived from a job tending crops. Of those an estimated 800,000 are under the age of sixteen. Sad but true. A low rise sprawl, directly contrasting the surrounding business district, Patpong comes to life when the sun goes down. Neon and sparkles promote places like Lipstick, Fire Cat, Pussy Galore, Super Pussy, KISS and Goldfingers. Open doors offer a glimpse of skin and a lick of lingerie to the passer by. On the pavement scantily clad Thai beauties work in tandem with persistent doormen drumming up business. "You want pussy?" Young drunkens out on a bender, backpackers, businessmen, the curious and the depraved. They\'re all here, for whatever reason. The sticky, summer air complements the sleazy milieu. A section of Patpong Road between the eastern ends of Silom and Suriwong roads is blocked to traffic and market stalls take over the tarmac. The usual crud is sold. Fake designer watches, electronic gadgetry, bogus branded T-shirts and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Sleaze and junk merchants. Sort of like, Dollar Savers meets Deep Throat. After doing a couple of laps and seeing what was on offer we made our decision. A decision based solely on the cover charge. There wasn\'t one, and backed up by an aging piece of laminated paper showing stick figures in intriguing, if somewhat unbelievable contortions. "Look at the flyer man", Obie said slowly, quietly and deliberately. "There\'s gotta be some double jointed shit going down up there." he added, with a lot more enthusiasm. I questioned one of the many doorman regarding the possibility of being herded into a back room, striped naked, relieved of our cash and passports, being done over with frighteningly large, black dildos in front of more fiscally fortunate clientele behind one way glass, and then being ejected via a fire exit into an alleyway full of mangy mutts. He assured me the rumors about Patpong were just that. At his club anyway. However, he couldn\'t vouch for the competition, who may well do much worse. "He does have a badge", Belly offered. Which was true. Apparently our chosen venue was a member of some elite group of porn merchants. His I.D. was supposed proof. Hard to swallow when you\'ve just come from Khao San Road. If you believed my recently acquired credentials I am a student at Hull University, a photographer for the London Times and the Sultan of Brunei. But our decision was made and as a group we climbed the stairwell. Pushing through some decidedly seventies string bead curtains we had arrived. Like VIPs we were ushered to stools at the island bar by a short well dressed greaser with a porno mustache and a penchant for cheap aftershave. Pole position seats for the show that was already in full swing. The lighting was dingy, the place smelt of sweat and smoke. A passage for prostitutes ringed the bar stools. The clack of stilettos soon signaled their arrival. Apparently, I had caught the eye of Vulva, although I doubt that was her real name. No sooner had I shelled out a months wages for a round of Tiger beers, she was onto me, kneading my shoulders and nibbling my ear, oblivious to the fact we had arrived with three women. Vulva, was an aging, widening woman who was once possibly a man. Maybe she still was, I was in no mood to find out. Looking a little too much like Zsa Zsa Gabor\'s long lost Thai sister for my liking I had to think of something quickly. "You like me, you like me" she repeated. I\'m not sure if it was a command or a question. She ran her hands up and down the length of my arms as she rubbed her ample bosom into my back. I was afraid to ask her to stop. To my left, Ben was receiving similar treatment from an infinitely more attractive and decidedly more petite version of Thai femininity. He threw a smile in my direction. I gave him the finger. I took my leave, despite pleas from my new found friend. I needed the toilet, or at the least the distraction it provided. Now toilet, there is a word that if you think about it for a moment implies at least a small deal of privacy. A chamber of isolation in which to perform those most private and primitive of functions. In the strict definition of the noun it hints at a physical structure complete with S bend, seat and flush function, but a sink? That is where the toothless, grinning attendant pointed me when I ventured
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