I slept with students, teachers, three air hostesses, half a dozen nurses, and even a policewoman; and yes, she wore the uniform and handcuffed me to the bed. I never told any of them my real name and I kept changing SIM cards because I didn’t want then phoning me after the event. Besides, there was no need to make any return visits because there was a constant supply of fresh girls coming on line. Word was spreading that the website was a great way for Thai girls to meet Western guys and new girls were logging on every day.
After a few weeks, though, even the thrill of free sex began to pale because there was just so much of it, and I was actually looking forward to starting work. But the week before I was due to leave Thailand, I found myself browsing through the Craigslist website, looking for something, or someone, to do. I checked the Women Seeking Men page but didn’t see anything there that I fancied, so I went through the Erotica section, but they were all pay-for-play birds. If I wanted to pay for sex I’d rather pick up a dancer from Soi Cowboy.
Then I went to Casual Encounters and, bingo, there it was: ‘Fancy A Gang Bang In Pattaya?’ I wasn’t sure whether the offer was giving or receiving, but I clicked on it anyway. The first thing I saw was a picture of a fit Asian bird, probably Thai, with great tits and hair down to her waist and a black strip across her eyes and nose so you couldn’t see her face, but the body was out of this world. Fit as a butcher’s dog, as my dear old dad used to say.
It was hard to judge her age. She wasn’t a teenager, but she could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty and didn’t look as if she’d had kids.
She was lying on a bed, her back against the headboard and her legs akimbo, her modesty shielded by a small white towel that wasn’t much bigger than a flannel. It was her husband that had placed the advert. He said that his wife had a fantasy about being gang-raped and he wanted to film her being shagged by half a dozen or so blokes and that anyone interested in helping to realize his wife’s dream should get in touch by email.
Alarm bells were ringing because I couldn’t think that any man with a wife like that would want another man going near her, never mind inside her, but I opened up a fake Gmail account and sent him a message saying that I was interested and asking for more information.
He got back to me later that night with another photograph of his wife, fully naked this time, but with another black strip across her face, and a list of questions. Where was I from? What colour was I? How old was I? How much did I weigh? And he wanted a photograph, though I didn’t have to show my face. I did, though, have to show my dick, which seemed a fair enough request considering what I was hoping to do with it.
So, I answered the questions fairly truthfully, though I did knock four years off my age and a couple of kilos off my weight. I took a photograph with the webcam of my laptop and made damn sure that I was holding my breath and attached that to the email. An hour later, he emailed me back with a mobile phone number and asked me to call him.
I went out and bought a new AIS SIM card and tapped out his number.
He was English, quite well spoken, bit of a Hooray Henry, I thought. He said his name was Bill and I said I was Jonah. My private joke; I said I was hoping to have a whale of a time, but he didn’t seem to get my attempt at humour.
He had more questions for me, basically checking that I was who I said I was. I guess he didn’t want a big sweaty African turning up to do the dirty with his nearest and dearest, which I guess under the circumstances was only natural. Eventually, it was my turn to ask a question, and to be honest I only had the one. Why?
It turned out that his wife had a bit of a past. She used to be a go-go dancer in one of the racier Nana Plaza bars and had been working for five years or so before he met her. In his mind, he was a white knight, riding to her rescue. I didn’t see it that way, of course. Five years working in a go-go bar meant she’d probably been with more than a thousand men. Sloppy seconds didn’t even come into it.
Anyway, she’d been the perfect wife for going on ten years apparently, a whore in the bedroom and a three-star chef in the kitchen. (Or maybe it was the other way around.) But recently she’d seemed unhappy, and after he’d got her drunk one night, it all came tumbling out. She missed the life, she missed having sex with strangers, and having just turned thirty-five, she was worried that men no longer wanted her. She didn’t look thirty-five in the photographs, I have to say. I mentioned that to the guy and he agreed, saying his wife spent a lot of time in the gym and the beauty parlour.
The news of his wife’s unhappiness hit Bill hard, but she explained that it wasn’t about him, she loved him and never thought about being unfaithful, but she had this ache, this craving, that just wouldn’t go away. He didn’t say who first came up with the idea, but between them, they arrived at a solution. One night, with half a dozen guys. All strangers. For that one night, she could do whatever she wanted, as many times as she wanted, and her husband would video it so that she would always have the pictures to relive the memory.
It was the first time that he had mentioned a video and I said I didn’t want to be filmed, but he said all the men would be wearing masks. He explained that his wife didn’t want to see the faces of the men that she was having sex with, and also it meant that the men wouldn’t be worried about being recognised, which suited me fine. Like I said, it’s a small world. I asked him if our dicks would also be wearing masks, and he said that was up to the guys. Condoms would be optional because everyone would have to email him a medical certificate saying that they were free of all sexually transmitted diseases.
He asked me if I was still interested and I said I was, and that’s when he gave me the details of where and when. It was that coming Friday, which suited me just fine because on the Sunday I was flying to Singapore to start the new job. The next day, I went and paid a doctor five hundred baht for a medical certificate. The doctor didn’t even bother asking for a blood test. I emailed a copy to Bill and he emailed me back to say that he looked forward to meeting me. I couldn’t get over how polite he was, considering that I was going to be banging his wife and all.
Bill said that he’d booked a suite at the Sandy Spring Hotel in Pattaya, not far from the beach. On Friday, I paid a taxi driver one and a half thousand baht to drive me from Bangkok and had him drop me on the beach road. I told him that if he waited for me, he could drive me back in a few hours and he agreed to wait. He gave me a card with his mobile phone number, and I walked up Soi 13.
The event was due to kick off at eight o’clock in the evening and would end whenever Bill’s wife said that she’d had enough. I was early, so I walked across Second Road and had a coffee and a sandwich in Starbucks as I watched elderly overweight sex tourists in vests and shorts waddle by with their bargirls. Pattaya is a funny old place, where every man is handsome and every girl is available-at a price. It’s also one of the suicide capitals of the world, where membership of the Pattaya Flying Club is achieved by taking a dive off a high-rise balcony, usually the result of a broken heart or an empty bank account and probably both.
At five to eight on the dot, I swallowed a Viagra tablet and wandered back down Soi 13 and into the hotel. I don’t normally use chemicals to get an erection, but I was a bit apprehensive about performing in front of an audience. A uniformed busboy smiled and wished me a good evening. The pretty girls at reception nodded and smiled as I headed for the lift.