Thursday, March 31, 2016

RIP Zaha Hadid

I miss aspects of being in the Arab world - the language - and there is a tranquility in these cities with great rivers. Whether it's Cairo or Baghdad, you sit there and you think, 'This river has flown here for thousands of years.' There are magical moments in these places. Zaha Hadid

Sadly thisgreat architect passed from his world.

Her jewels live on.

Day and night.


The 1980s are thirty years in the past and when I tell stories, the listeners suspect that I’m lying about jumping off the Quincy Quarries cliffs or nearly making love with Darryl Hannah in Jamaica or watching bears eat garbage at a dump in Maine.

Sometimes I wonder if they are right, but my memory is spot on about many things like how a Paris friend and his girlfriend would leave the Bains-Douches nightclub high on heroin to sleep in the cemetery of Pere Lachaise.

Guilhomme was a cold-wave musician. His lead singer Eric was squeamish at the sight of blood and tolerated Guilhomme for his keyboard play. Their crow-black band never possessed a name, although a model/friend from LA suggested Les Mortes D'Aube.

"I love The Dead of Dawn," Guilhomme trilled, since he resembled an unburied cadaver. His chubby copine was a Pigalle dancer with orange hair and skin as white as chalk. Sex had nothing to do with their relationship. He was gay and Claudine was asexual. Their first love was drugs.

Neither junkie had money for a room, so every night they scaled the high stone walls of the Pere LaChaise Cemetery to squat in a tomb not far from Jim Morrison's grave. Guilhomme painted his fingernails black to hint that he might have frantically clawed his escape from the depths of the dirt.

"How's living in a grave?" I asked him one night at the Bar Helium.

"It's not a grave. It's a tomb."

“As big as a two-bedroom apartment. The only problem is that Mssr. Les Doors' mourners wake us in the morning with their crying. Boohoo, Jim." Claudine hated hippies.

"And he isn't even dead. The cemetery workers tell me that the grave is empty."

"Ouais, Jim Le Grosse is eating cheeseburgers in Marbella." Claudine didn't like American pop stars either.

"But it's close to the plinth of Jean-François Champollion," Guilhomme told me one night at the Bar Helium in the Marais.


“Champollion deciphered the Egyptian hieroglyphics.” Guilhomme pffffed at my ignorance of the great linguist. “The Khedive of Egypt gave him the obelisks from the Luxor Temple, which now stand in Place de Concorde.”

“A smaller version marks his grave.” Claudine had dropped out of school at age 14, but Guilhomme tutored her in all things living and dead.

"So who's the famous Frog buried in your crypt?" I asked with anger, since I loved the Doors' CRYSTAL SHIP.

They shared a blank expression about the word 'frog' and Guilhomme looked to Claudine to ask, "Who is buried there?" .

"A rich bougie family. A lot of them are buried there, but none since 1919, so they must have been wiped out with the Spanish Flu." Guilhomme put on his leather jacket. It was the end of the night and the American barman had shouted out 'last call'. "Neglect tends to their remains and allows us to live in stone splendor."

"It's quiet in our crypt at night, but it is not peaceful in the cemetery,"declared Claudine. "Grave robbers roamed Pete Lachaise to plunder the bodies of the newly dead. Normally they only take the head, since it’s easier to hide in a bag than a corpse."

"And heads are 3000 new francs, while bodies are 5000 francs. Heads are easy to transport," Claudine said, then stop seeing Guilhomme's glare.

"We only go there to sleep."

"Like Dracula."

"No, more like the dead. I love my sleep."

As would any junkie.

“The grave robbers are quieter than the devil worshippers on the full moons.”


"Ouais, they hold rites on the full moon, gathering at special graves and dance to a music from another time. They ask us to join them. Naked. Sweating. Pagan. Ugly. A knife slipping into a dog. I don't like them.” Guilhomme painted a tapestry of horror, tainted by the French people's love for their dogs.

“They scare me.” Claudine's clothing was in tatters. Her breasts slipped in and out of sight. She sometimes worked the streets of Pigalle and Guilhomme liked to think of himself as her pimp.

“Do not worry.” He brandished a long stiletto. A cutlery shop sold them near Notre-Dame. “I will cut them first before they touch you.”

“They are no fools.” Claudine knew the limits of Guilhomme’s protection. "The devil worshippers are many and the ghouls are even more."

"Enough with scary stories. Let's go." Guilhomme spotted his Moroccan dealer on the sidewalk. Ali worked all hours and Guilhomme said, "Come visit us one night and we'll show you the sights."

"Thanks." I had no interest in joining them. The stone walls of Pere Lachaise were fifteen feet high.

Guilhomme's sojourn in Pere Lachaise lasted a summer and the crypt offered cool comfort during the hot season. Autumn brought the damp and junkies hate the wet. The two broke up and Guilhomme went back to live with his parents in Versailles.

They were haute-class. His eccentricities were a family trait. He quit drugs and became a businessman, although Guilhomme disappeared over the weekends. Eric, his singer, said, "He frequents Pere Lachaise with the ghouls.

“I hope he grows out of it. It is so perverse.”

My 90s and 00s were spent in Asia, but in 2011 I hadn’t been in Paris my benefactor invited me to come down from my writing residence in Luxembourg to act as a translator for his trip to City of Lights.

We stayed at a four-star hotel on the Rue de Rivoli. Our meals were epicurean adventures. Days were spent in galleries and museums. I called on old friends. Most of them were busy with work. A few met us for dinner. My benefactor ordered vintage wines and picked up the check. I had very little time to myself, but one morning I escaped to wander through the Marais.

The old Jewish quarter had changed in my absence. Old stores were now trendy boutiques and my old hotel particular had become a townhouse. By midday I wanted a drink and headed over to Rue Vielle du Temple, hoping that the Le Petit Fer à Cheval was in business.

I was in luck. The small bar was a monument to the unchanging character of Paris. The bartender was old enough to have been serving ‘pression‘ thirty years ago and he greeted me with a nod, indicating I was not a stranger.

Neither was the man in the black suit across the bar.

It was Guilhomme.

He hadn’t aged a day in thirty years and I checked for a reflection in the mirror before calling out his name.

He lifted off his sunglasses to grin with green teeth.


“Good to see you.”

We exchanged fingernail stretches of our lives over the last decades. He was working for a bank. He laughed to hear that I was writer in residence in Luxembourg.

“A boring town.”

“Boring is good at my age.” I had stolen too many people's share of excitement over the years.

“Tu a raison.” Guilhomme wore his years with a studied heaviness.

He ordered an absinthe.

I asked for a demi.

The other patrons of the bar sniffed the air.

Guilhomme’s dirty black suit smelled of the grave.

“Did you go to work today?”

“Are you with the tax man?” Nothing frightened a Frenchman more that an audit.

“No, just that you seem a little dusty.”

“Ah.” He lifted his sleeve to his nose. “You know it wasn’t me that liked the tomb. It was Claudine. She liked sleeping with the dead. She would take off their clothes to fondle their cold flesh. I think she even made love to some of them, but I never watched. Sex was not my thing.”

“And what happened to her?” I feared the worst.

“Claudine” He touched a tooth like he was searching for a morsel of yesterday’s meal stuck in a gap.

“She turned out like all women. She married a lesbian transvestite farmer and moved to the Haute Savoy to be a peasant. They had three enfants. I send them Christmas cards.”

“And you?” I didn't question any of the oddities of his last statement. Everything was within the bounds of normal with Guilhomme.

“Moi, I don’t sleep in Pere Lachaise anymore, but I like to lay on the ground before closing to remind me that we will all sleep in the dirt one of these days.”

“But not today.” I toasted the truth of his prediction, but Guilhomme wore too much of the fragrance of death on him to be healthy and I drank down my beer fast. I didn't bother to say 'plus tard' and walked out of the cafe, my heart beating with life.

Later that evening at dinner I entertained my benefactor with a tale of the walking dead. My friends were thrilled by my encounter, but I neglected to mention Claudine’s love of the dead.

Some secrets are better left to the grave.

Especially about those about the living, because some secrets are better left dead.

ZOMBIES IN MY DREAMS by Peter Nolan Smith

Pattaya iswasnot Venice and certainly no one on the Coasta del Crime pretended to be a reincarnated Thomas Mann writing a Thai version of TO DIE IN VENICE. At least no one I knew, however plenty of farangs and Thais died in the Last Babylon.

Many of natural causes. Some by misadventure.

Dying is what makes us the same, because none of us live forever.

Murder, accidents, and suicides are headlined by Pattaya's morbid editorial staffs. Their photographers barge into the bedrooms of the deceased to chronicle the sad events like Cheap Charley Weegee.

One tawdry rag reported on a senior member of the German community hanging himself over indebtedness to his Thai girlfriend.

Flat broke and 65.

The man couldn't face going back to his Heimat.

He had nothing or so he thought, because there was always a reason to keep on breathing and I learned that secret over 30 years ago traveling out of Mexico out a Tres Estellas bus. The driver stopped in a small mountain village outside of Monterrey. Church, cantina, market. I ate a couple of tacos for dinner and then got back on the bus. We arrived at the Mex-Tex border at sunset. I booked a cheap room at the nearest hotel. My stomach was pitching, as if my innards were in a typhoon. I ran to the toilet countless times. I made it each time with a second to spare. My body was whacked by spasms. Sweat spewed from my flesh. I tried to read my book.


The gothic horror tale troubled my soul and a wicked fever dragged me to a fitful sleep.

I had no watch in my dream. The light belonged to the realm of limbo. I stood in a rusting garden. The rotting flowers smelled of iron. Mumbling voices belonged to shuffling zombies. They weren't fast, but their numbers were countless.

The living dead chased me through the garden. Their green teeth clattered like plates on a tile floor. Their stomachs were empty. I was dinner. The ghouls trapped me in a gazebo. Their nails scrapped at the fly screens. Grave dust filter through the metal. I was two seconds from screaming like a Hollywood extra, when a thin man barged through the mob of flesh-eater and demanded, "What is the secret to human life?"

My Philosophy 101 grade had been a C+. I was no Nietzsche and the leader of the undead offered a once in a dream opportunity.

"If you give us the secret of human life we will let you live another 60 seconds."

"I know and I'm not telling."

"Then," he turned to his tortured minions. "Bon appetit."

My scream woke me from a horrible fate and I shook in terror but also armed with the truth that no matter how bad things might be we want to draw that next breath until there's no sense, despite how in THE COMEDIANS Graham Greene writes about how suicides are great mathematicians since they calculate the odds of ending it to be greater than going on.

There is always a reason to end life and begin it. I have always considered every delirious drunk to be a life and death experience. Living through a hang-over breeds another rebirth. 

"It's not the despair I mind so much as the hope." Woody Allen.

More like running out of hope, which killed the German retiree this week.

Life is that intense right now.

So hold onto your minds. We will ride out this storm. Most of us and for those who pick the fast way out, "Via con dios."

And you know I'm not a religious person?

Even In distress.

My SOS will be sent to the bartender.

LE NECROPHILE by Peter Nolan Smith

The biggest house in Quincy, Massachusetts was owned by a funeral director. His daughters were the most beautiful girls on the South Shore in 1967 and they introduced Cream to their admirers. I was one of them. So was an apprentice embalmer for their father. The other suitors joked that Adam made love to the still bodies in the basement of the funeral home. He played a strange style of guitar. The older daughter loved his licks. Like Ulysses he slayed his rivals with a secret weapon.

A Fender Stratocaster.

One night when we were high on LSD, Cherie confessed that her boyfriend liked for her to pretend that she was dead.

"I lie on a cold stone slab."

I remembered a similar line from the film IN THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT, in which a young white trash girl tells about a night with a cracker cop.

He said to me, "Hey, little girl, you know what the coolest spot in town is?"

And I said "No, Sam. I guess I don't."

And he said, "The cemetery. That's where."

"Cos they got all of them big, cool tombstones to lie on naked."

That was a real 'huh' moment for the movie viewers of the time.

Like what the fuck are they talking about.

I learned what later when I found a copy of Le Nécrophile.

A photocopied English translation of THE JOURNAL OF LUCIEN H.

Most incredible passage of someone who loves the dead.

No serial killer.

Only a man cursed with the desire for death cooled flesh.

I think I have the copy up in Boston.

Probably get arrested for zombie outlawism.

It's probably on the books.

SKIN COLD AS ICE by Peter Nolan Smith

When Lou Reed died three years ago, a friend called to ask, if I had known the singer.

I said, “No."

El-Roy was a pussy hound and asked if I thought Nico was a good fuck.

“I don’t know,” I replied and hung up thinking one thing.

The Velvet Underground’s singer was probably great in bed.

Once in Paris I had a Nico lookalike girlfriend.

Mirabelle was a blonde aristocratic junkie model, who had more success at ripping off rich men than getting on the covers of VOGUE or ELLE.

I was working at the Bains Douche as a doorman.

An American in Paris.

There were over 200,000 of us in those years. Most of them worked at banks or attended university. My job offered better perks than pay or wisdom. The patron of the Bains-Douches allowed me to treat the French, especially Parisians, in his words 'comme le merde que ils sont'.

I was 'd'accord with that edict, but my friends and beautiful women received start treatment. Mirabelle was one of my favorite thanks my my preference for skinny women.

One winter night Mirabelle accompanied me back to my flat on the Ile St. Louis.

We snorted some H and made love without satisfaction until the drug sang us to sleep.

Neither of us took off our clothes.

The next morning I woke to the bells of Notre Dame.

The windows were open and I shivered with the cold.

Mirabelle’s skin was ice to my touch.

I thought she was dead and grew hard as a rock realizing that realize the dead can't feel anything and shove my cock in her bony ass. My medical diagnosis was wrong. The first thrust woke her from the grave and Mirabelle said, "Plus profound.",then her lungs drew a shallow breath.

I closed the window and fucked her with the dawn.

It was like making love to a beautiful corpse

And she gave a death rattle as a moan.

"Good?" I asked from on top.

She simply pleaded, "Encore."

I gave what she wanted,

Because Mirabelle was very good for such a bad girl

And I bet Nico was the same.

A goddess best undressed in the cold.

Tuesday, March 29, 2016

Bernie Sanders - WHAT WE CAN BE

When millions of people believe, we can win.

To hear this deeply moving speech, please go to the following URL

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Red Is the Color Of My True Love

The fall of the Iron Curtain inspires various other countries to embrace democracy. Eastern Europe opened its borders and their populaces flooded the West and the American voters exiled the GOP from the White House. Asian countries were not so lucky with their aspirations for freedom. Their leaders were well-supported by the rich, the military, and the police. Burma remained under a draconian dictatorship. Nepal's monarchy repressed the dissidents with gunfire and I was in Bangkok during the 1992 demonstrations against the return of military rule.

The newly-appointed Prime minister had broken his vow to the King. The resistance of the Thai people was bolstered by the lack of action from from hometown troops. No one thought that the protests would ended in violence.

"Violence not Thai Way," Kenny told me, as we stood at the tail-end of the hundreds of thousands gathered before the Democracy Monument. The sun blazed down on our heads. Kenny and I retreated to the Hotel Royale. Tourist had fled the city in anticipation of serious trouble and I booked a room for a quarter of the normal price. The balcony overlooked the entire avenue and we surveyed the masses with a pair of counterfeit binoculars I had bought in Patpong.

Our beers were cold, but I spotted a shift in troops deployed beyond the distant traffic circle.

"Things are going to get ugly."

"Why you say that?"

"Fresh troops are replacing the city regiments. their replacements. Thousands of frightened murmurs wavered through the crowd. "Suchinda has found loyal soldiers."

"They not shoot Thai people." Kenny had a bar near the Malaysia Hotel. He dealt with the police and soldiers. They laughed playing poker in his backroom. None of them ever mentioned anything about his being gay.

"I'm not so sure about that." I focused the binoculars on the new troops. Something about their sinister smiles spoke murder. "Suchinda and his bosses don't want the people to be free."

"Free?" Kenny dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "No one free. My mother slave to father. Father slave to big people. And Kenny slave to good time. But Khon Yai not free. Rich people slave to poor people. Everyone know place. Good. Not mob. No one know what come next."

"Nothing good."

And I was right.

The troops had been transported Bangkok from ban-nok or up-country. Their officers told these raw recruits that the King had ordered them to put down a communist revolution. The gunfire came as a surprise to the demonstrators. They died by the hundreds. The number will never be known.

Kenny and I hide several in our hotel room. The police wanted to take them outside. Kenny gave them all his money. I gave all mine too. The students were left alone.

The next day I traveled by a bus to Chiang Mai. Suchinda was ousted by the King.

A week later everything was back to normal. Kenny was right. The Thais knew their place.

Nearly thirty years later the people are not so obedient.

The yellow-shirts represent the old school of Khon Yai.

Privilege and power.

Cars are 30% more expensive in Thailand.

Gas too.

The money lines the pockets of the rich, but violence is only a weapon for the rich.

The poor fight the Khon Yai in their dreams.

Sadly it is the only way they can win that war, because it's the only place the poor can be free of the rich and powerful this side of ban-nok.


COME ALL YE FAITHFUL by Peter Nolan Smith

Pattaya is a city not well known for monogamy. Promises of fidelity last until you leave the room, because this city on Thailand's Eastern Seaboard has temptations by the thousands and those temptations rarely say no.

Bar girls, rent boys, ka-toeys, booze, and drugs added up to damnation according to Reverend Joe Stannis of the Holy Revival Church located down the street from my old soi. He preached in a black suit to passing motorists.

A megaphone in hand.

“You are all going to hell.” Only in English.

The Thais thought he was crazy, because attached to his concrete chapel was a sign pointing the way to the nearest ‘Love Motel’.

The Angel Inn.

The rooms rent by the hour or day for Heaven on Earth testifying to Pattaya's motto.

“Good men go to heaven. Bad men go to Pattaya.”

This quip was borrowed from Mae West’s epithet. “Good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go anywhere they want.”

Nevertheless this doesn’t mean everyone in Pattaya is all sinners, because even Sodom had one good man and my friend Richard has never cheated on his wife in Pattaya.

Several years back we were sitting at the Buffalo Bar.

Beers before us.

The DJ was playing HOTEL CALIFORNIA. The Englishman's girlfriend was at his side. Despite working the bars for ten years Lee's undying beauty was a miracle and Richard explained his faithfulness.

“I’m too lazy to be unfaithful and it’s not in my nature.”

Richard was a London contractor working 10-12 hour days, so his lassitude only pertains to matters of the heart.

Thankfully he doesn't know that his Thai wife sleeps with another man. His friends never tell Richard, because the Englishman feels good about himself for being good.

After Richard and Lee left my friend Nick said, "No one is faithful in this town, unless it's to their football team."

Nick was a Tottenham Spurs fan. His girlfriend worked as a service girl at the Buffalo Bar. Fen was too pretty for words and too pretty for just one man. The lanky Brit explained, "Fen has a boyfriend. He pays for her schooling. She only sees me when he leaves down. She considers herself 'faithful' to both of us. Fen never asks me for money, so I'm the only man in Pattaya getting free sex."

"Nothing is free in Pattaya." Everything had a price, even if it was marked 'free'.

Two nights later Richard asked Nick at the Buffalo, "Is Fen your mia noi?”

“No, she not mia noi. She geek.” Richard's girlfriend answered for Nick and waved for another gin-tonic.

“What’s the difference?” Richard's question was directed at his girlfriend. The seeds of suspicion were worming into his trust. Lee stammered for a second, but Nick saved her from having to tell the truth.

“A mia noi you take care of along with having a mia leung or first wife. A geek is someone you have sex with and care about, but only a little. You see her when you see her and it’s no big deal.” Nick obviously had been educated in the difference.

“But your girlfriend doesn’t think she’s your geek?”

“No, Fen is what she is.”

“So you never say the love word?”

“No.” Nick shook his head. “It’s a sex thing.”

“So she’s a geek?” Richard couldn’t fathom why people sleeping together for purely sex.

“No, not geek. Not mia noi. Not friend.” Richard’s girlfriend was exasperated by the his husband’s density, but he only wanted to know where Nick’s girl stood in the scheme of things.

"I like her, but I'm not in love. I'm not faithful to her either. Not like you and Lee."

I got up and left to avoid any examination of my situation.

Jamie Parker was sitting at the other end of the bar.

When I told my friend about the discussion, the New Yorker smiled slyly and said, “This is not a town for the pure of heart. Some women here regard their husbands as faithful if they don’t bring anyone home or are seen with another women by their friends. Other women think you’re cheating if you look at another woman or think of one. Men will believe any story by these bar girls to grant them immunity from a life of sleeping with complete strangers. I call it the Eliza Doolittle syndrome. I can rescue her from this life of sin. Ha, but it’s not the farang boyfriend most men have to worry about. It’s the Thai ex-. They never die, even if the girl says his husband was killed in a motorcycle accident.”

“I’ve heard that story twice.”

“Bet every man in Pattaya has heard it at least once.” Jamie had little use for stories. His girlfriend had been working on Soi 6 three years. Ort liked being a bad girl and so did Jamie. “

Everyone has been unfaithful in either thought or deed and I don’t know what’s worse. Thinking about it and doing it.”

“Doing it.”

“Yeah, but at the end of your life are you going to be sorry about not doing it or doing it?”

"There were twins at the old Blackout a Go-go. I should have taken them home, except I was been faithful to my previous girlfriend. She left me for an Italian."

"Regrets I have a few but then again too few to mention."

“Sinatra the Philosopher.”

“Do-be-do-be-do,” Jamie crooned off-key and several bar girls stared his way, as if he was a dog with his paw stuck in a door. “Are you thinking about going home with someone from here?”

“No way.” I lived two minutes from the Buffalo. Mam was my steady. We had been seeing each other for over a year.

"Are you still faithful to her?"

Yes. Maybe she gave me a love potion."

"Maybe she did, because there's something wrong with being faithful in Pattaya. You're not scared, are you?"

"Of what?"

"Of Mam cutting off your penis and feeding it to the ducks." Castration was a favorite punishment Thai women inflict on philandering males. So much so that Thai doctors had become the world’s premier saviors of amputated penises. Accordingly Thai women cast the severed member to the duck pen, since quackers, unlike pigs, eat anything. Even cock.

“Better to keep your sins in thoughts.” Jamie advised, for Ort was equally vicious as Mam when it came to his roaming eye.

“Deeds we can save for the after-life.”

“Or secrets we never tell anyone else. Is it a sin if no one knows?”

In this town everyone knows sooner or later. Mam also knows that once I’ve had two drinks all I really want is a couple more drinks and I went home to surf through the ennuidom of international TV. Mam was playing cards with her friends. She wasn't answering her phone. The night was still young, but I shut off the TV and went to sleep with dreams of becoming a saint.

At least in deed.

Thought was another story, because anyone in Pattaya is going to hell.

At least according to Reverend Joe Stannis of the Holy Revival Church and a baptist knows Sin when he sees it and so do I.

Lawang Jesus

I'm thousands of miles away from Thailand.

I wished I could click my heels and find myself in Sri Racha with my family, but instead I shut my eyes and visualize Easter morning on Pattaya's Beach Road, where most Christian farangs hoping to rise from the drunken dead for a recuperative beer in the late afternoon, however back in 2006 an American George Patrick Dubie who purported himself to be the 2nd Coming of Christ, was shot by his Canadian girlfriend in a Chiang Mai restaurant.

The Thai authorities sentenced her to 3.5 years for killing self-proclaimed Messiah and carrying a pistol in public. Her confession of premeditated murder halved her sentence along with her claim to have been driven insane by her beloved partner's affair with a Thai woman.

"I was so pissed that I killed Jesus." The disciple swore before a Thai judge. "He was spending the money he owed me on another woman."

Not Jesus.

Just another fucked-up farang fucking a Thai lover.

And Thai mia nois are experts at being Magdalene.

Bernie And Bird

No Matter what, Bernie's my man.

No more wars.

And the Dove says the same and so say all of us.

We don't have to listen to the others.

Peace on Earth.

To one and all.

Friday, March 25, 2016

Beauty And The Beast a la GOP

Donald Trump has achieved much during his campaign for the GOP's choice as their presidential candidate.

The billionaire has won the hearts and minds of disenfranchised rightwing voters seeking a change from government as usual and his demagoguery has ignited the hopes for a return to American greatness.

His followers are rabidly devoted to their leader and have responded with violence to any opposition.

Nor are they upset by his wife's near-nude appearance on the cover of GQ.

Or joking about having sex with his daughter.

Or that he has a small penis.

Mostly because his greatest rival has small hands.

Even his rival."

BREAKING THE LAW by judas priest

My landlord's wife read a book about Motley Crue. The mother of two was converted to heavy metal. AP her husband exposed her to Penelope Spheeris' DECLINE AND FALL OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION - THE METAL YEARS. For better or worse and I promised her a heavy tee-shirt as a belated Mother's Day gift.

"Black Sabbath or Judas Priest?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"Black Sabbath." She wasn't familiar with Judas Priest.

"Judas Priest was sued by several courts as accessories to murder." Two Texas teens read a little too much into the lyrics of "Better By You, Better Than Me" during a night-long session of drinking and pot-smoking. Their suicides was seen by the DA as a direct result of heavy metal and satanism. Judas Priest was acquitted of all charges. "And Rob Halford is the best dancer in Heavy Metal."

"And even better that millions of young boys idolized him without realizing that he was gay." AP was no Judas fan, but know his rock.

"Gay?" His wife seemed surprised that Heavy Metal didn't exclude gays.

"Very." I loved his dance sequence in BREAKING THE LAW. His sexuality was never a secret to those in the know. "Nothing better than HEAD OUT ON THE HIGHWAY. So I'll get you a Judas Priest t-shirt too."

"Okay." AP's wife had a good heart and a free t-shirt was a free t-shirt.

For a listen to Judas Priest's BREAKING THE LAW go to this URL

Rock On

Happy Purim

This afternoon I wandered through West 47th Street looking for a job. No one was interested in hiring a goy on Purim and my Hassidic friends cajoled me into having a drink with them.

"Whiskey is kosher."

They poured a good measure of Scotch into a glass.


I clinked glass with them following the tradition commemorating the six-month drinking feast by the Persian King Ahasuerus.

"What do you know of Purim?" Rondell invited him into his office and poured them Scotch.

"Me? A simple goy."

"There's nothing simple about you." The chubby diamond broker and I had cut a few deals, but none this year. "And you're more a sheygutz than a goy."

"A wise guy."

"So let's hear it."

"This Persian king celebrates his reign with a six-month drunk by demanding his wife appear naked before his nobles. Vashti refused this humiliation and the Persian ruler demanded all young women to audition to be queen. Esther won, but didn't inform the king that she was married to her uncle or that she was Jewish."

"You didn't mention the queen's embarrassing skin condition."

"Probably bullshit." I had drunk tree whiskeys with my friends.

"Please don't use that language."

"Sorry, anyway the king chooses a new queen to replace Vashti. Esther a Jew married to her uncle."

"That's not sure."

"The Book of Esther is a little sketchy as is all the Bible." who was orphaned at a young age and was being fostered by her first cousin Mordecai. Some rabbinic commentators state that she was actually Mordecai's wife, since the Torah permits an uncle to marry his niece. She finds favor in the king's eyes, and is made his new wife. Esther does not reveal her origins and that she is Jewish. Her uncle is appointed vizier, but the non-Jews plot against them. Is that enough?'

"No, I like the part, where the king kills all the Nazis for Esther."

"The Torah says nothing about Nazis."

"They were thinking about killing Jews."

"But Esther beat them to the punch. Not many goyim know this story. Another about killing."

"There was a lot of killing back then."

"And not enough drinking like we Irish." I tapped my glass for a refill and Rondell poured three fingers in respect for my ancient race. "You know why Yashim created whiskey? To keep the Irish from ruling the world."

"No, your people must have sold it to us."

"You're good customers."

"Repeat ones too."

I drank deep from the Scotch. I like Jamison better.

"If you don't mind, I have to be going." It was Shabbas.

"Se`udat mitzvah."

It's a good time."

"With kosher wine."


"Better you than me."

"There was no such thing as good glatt wine and I downed the whiskey.

"Sie gesund."

"You too."

I walked back onto the street.

It was good to be one of the old Tribes. Mordecai assumes the position of second in rank to Ahasuerus, and institutes an annual commemoration of the delivery of the Jewish people from annihilation.[13]

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Another Lookalike - MARS ATTACK

I see it.

Maybe no one else does.

But as the French say to Martians."


It always sounds better in French.

Lookalikes - Maria Schnieder / Abbey lee Kershaw

Beauty is not separated by time.

Only by years.

And then only by those who never see beauty.

You Bet I Would - Goth Who

This photo of Paul Coulson was ripped off by Richard Prince for his Instagram series.

Last year he sold them for $100,000.

They now go for twice that.

Neither the photographer nor the model remunerated by the 'artist'.

A rip-off and no one says 'boo'.

As Proudhon said, "All possession is theft.

Hand Of God Cloud

Believers see their God in many forms and last month a weather blogger on Madeira shot a photo of an amazing cloud formation, which many viewers call the 'Hand of God'.

As an atheist I see the beauty of nature.

I leave seeing God to others.

And he isn't Chuck Norris.

Old Sol's Cosmic Vortex

Man has gazed into the stars for millions of years from the time of Richard Leakey's Lucy in Africa to the Neanderthals and Cro-Magnon into the Druids' sun meters at Stonehenge to present-day astronomers surveying the galaxy and beyond with orbiting telescopes and earthbound radio transmitters.

For most of that time the earth was considered the center of the universe, although that belief was challenged by Galileo, who discovered the first hints of a heliocentric solar system. His heresy earned the scientist a lifelong house arrest from a Vatican clinging to the ancient translation of the stars, however his doubt inspired the search for the truth and nowadays most intelligent people accept that the solar system is traveling through the galaxy.

Of course flat-earthers from the Bible Belt still adhere to the bible-thumpers' canon of the sun being stuck on the back of God.

There is no room for science in the hearts of the faithful, but recently DJ Sadhu, a computer graphic designer, constructed a video of Ole Sol's travels with the nine orbiting planets. His naming the passage as a vortex has upset many naysayers attached to the old heliocentric model, calling his video fanciful, but controlled chaos makes sense to me and should to any like thinker, even if it's hooey.

Decide for yourself and view a version of the solar system's passage through space by going to the following URL

Spring Equinox 2016

Last year was a fierce winter.

Snow came early and the cold stayed late.

On several occasions I exited from the Fort Greene Observatory in my ski gear, which was good for -20 Fahrenheit.

This winter New Yorkers prepared for the worst, but we were spared the last year's harshness.

Only one real blizzard and the three feet of snow was gone within a week.

This weekend a predicted storm only produced a light covering of snow and I celebrated the Spring Equinox by packing away my parkas, fleeces, gloves, scarves, sweaters et al.

A day later flowers blossomed in Fort Greene; magnolias and tulips.

The day was as long as the night.

The equinox or Alban Eiler in Celtic commemorates the equality between night and day and my tribe regards the 'Light of the Earth' with great veneration, since the feast signaled the time to sow crops with the sun high over the equator.

I honored Alban Eiler with sobriety, having drank more than my share of beer and whiskey on St. Padraic's Day.

It's good to be warm again.

Monday, March 21, 2016

ALMOST A DEAD MAN by Peter Nolan Smith - Chapter 1


The blonde woman on the battered chair lifted her black stiletto heels in horror, as rats scratched across the basement’s damp concrete floor. Once the horde scurried into their lairs, she lowered her feet relieved by their passing, but rats were the least of her problems.

A 40-watt bulb dangling from a rotting wooden beam barely illuminated the two men in the shadows and Greta pleaded fearfully, “Please let me go, I haven’t done anything wrong?”

"Nothing wrong? The black man in the spotless jogging suit stepped closer to lean on the chair. Sunglasses hid his eyes.

“Nothing.” Her body shivered with the denial. “Willi told me to meet him here.

“For a good time in a dirty place.”

“Yes.” Greta nodded, stifling a sniffle. She had arrived on time only to have these two men drag her underneath the old meat warehouse. “Is that a crime?”

“No, but let me ask you a question. Are you a saint?”

“No, I'm not a saint.” The expensive wig flopped off Greta’s crew-cut head onto ‘her’ lap.

"Are you an artist?"

“Yes, these black and white shots are very kunstlerisch.” The black man tapped Greta’s gaunt face with a set of grainy photos. “I can’t see that you are a man and your friend’s skin shines white as snow on coal.”

“They are only souvenirs.”

“Expensive souvenirs, nicht war? Your last weekend in a St. Pauli hotel had you cost over 2000 Deutschmarks or half your monthly salary.”

“How do you know that?”

"It is my business to know these things and also to know that you have been raiding the accounts of your bank’s customers to pay for these holidays with Willi.” “I plan on putting back the money.”

“I believe you, but any magistrate will regard your borrowing as embezzlement and sentence you to prison, so now you are in trouble. Big trouble.” The black man flung the lurid snapshots at the man. “You know who I am, yes?”

"You are Cali Nordstrum." Hamburg's newspapers regularly featured stories on the harbor city’s most notorious pimp. Only last week he had escaped a murder attempt.

"What is my real name?"

“Yes, I am and I am here, because my best hustler has fallen for you.” Cali handed a handkerchief to the man and backed away from the banker, so his scarred face melted into the gloom. “Stop your slobbering.”

"Es tut mir lied." The trembling transvestite glanced at the silent white man in the shadows and buried his veiny hands into the fallen wig like a muff.

“Sorry for what? You visit Willie for sex. Sex is sex. But that is not the problem, is it?”

Cali lunged like a cobra at his prey and the man on the stool toppled backwards. The pimp caught his arm and righted the stool. “The problem is that I am not running a marriage service for hustlers, am I?”

“No.” A high heel slipped off the banker’s foot.

“Willi told me all about you, your cross-dressing, your weekends at the hotel.”

“He told you about this?” The banker had trusted the hustler. “All the Kalbflescht work for me. The Schwules tells me everything, which is always better than someone else finding out before me and Willi also told me how you control your bank’s wire transfers throughout Europe and I thought maybe I can help you, if you help me.”

“I couldn’t do that.”

"Then maybe I'll send Willi away to avoid more trouble.”



"Do you have an open mind?" Cali crouched by the chair.

For ten years the banker had protected his name, job, and family from disgrace, yet now he asked hopefully, "Why?"

"First, you are woman trapped in a man's body. Second, your affair with Willi has put your position at the bank in jeopardy, nicht war?” asked Cali, because most people required more than one motive to cross the line from good to bad.

The banker in the woman’s dress nodded in dismay and Cali mapped out the scheme in whispers. The banker’s eyes shined with hope, because the desperate loved long shots.

“This is your chance to leave Germany with Willi. No one will search for you in Thailand, especially if you become a woman. Were you lying about your commitment to Willi?"

"No." The man’s Adam’s apple gulped his commitment.

“Your first name is Hans Roth, nicht war?"

"I prefer Greta."

"Better for our purposes for me to call you Hans. After we succeed, you can be Greta forever.” He handed the banker a wad of 100-DM notes and a business card. “You can contact me at this number in an emergency. Tell Willi nothing about our scheme. This is 'our' secret. Also this money will come out of your cut in the end."

“I’ll follow your every command.”

“I know you will.”

Cali’s hand snatched the man’s ear so hard that the cartilage separated from Han’s skull, then released the ear and Hans shriveled into the chair.

"I don’t want to hurt you, but you must understand there's no backing out?"

" I understand," Hans moaned through watery eyes and re-arranged the wig on his head. "Thank you.”

"Thank me, when this is all over and you're in Thailand with Willi."." Cali nodded and his tall friend opened the basement door for a black leather angel with white-blonde hair. Willi.

While Heroin might have gotten the better of the hustler’s thin beauty, the banker was blind to Willi’s deterioration and the two embraced as man and woman.

“Let’s leave the lovers alone.”

On the stairway Kurt Oster pulled out a cigarette. The flame from a gold lighter illuminated a rugged Teutonic face.

"Are we really going to cut him in?"

"Just because we are criminals doesn't mean we have to be dishonest."

“And no one will get hurt?

“In the beginning it is better to believe no one will be hurt.”

“And in the end?”

“Everyone will receive what they deserve in the end.” Cali shrugged with a knowing smile and the two men climbed the warehouse stairs to exit onto the loading dock, while Cali stopped and lowered his Italian sunglasses.

“Anything wrong?” Kurt flicked the cigarette on the cobblestones.

“Someone is out there.” Cali scanned the deserted street.

“No one comes to the harbor at night.” Kurt checked the block.

The Speicherstadt had once been the busiest warehouse district in the world, although tonight only three cars were parked on the street. The two friends walked to Cali’s Mercedes Benz 380SL convertible.

“We did.” Cali’s premonitions acted as his early radar warning.

“And we haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Yet and if anything goes wrong, the police will come looking for us, but the police are not Our real problem.

“Which is why I picked an American for the Sonderboch."

“It’s always good to have a sucker holding the bag.” Cali examined his car for any sign of a bomb.

Standing up he asked, "Is this American stupid?”

"No, even better. He’s broken-hearted."

“Nothing blinds a man more than a failed love.”

"Plus Petra will keep him occupied."


"I know she’s a gamble, but the greater the risk, the greater the gain.”

"And the greater the danger too. If she talked to any of my associates, we could end up dead.” Cali’s business partners would impose the death penalty for not cutting them in on the action.

“We don’t tell Petra or anyone else anything, but if you want to back out, now’s the time.”

Cali was aware of Kurt’s debts to the loan sharks and said, “No, we’re in it now, plus after last week I don’t give good odds of dying in my sleep.”

“You were lucky.” Kurt hadn’t been in Hamburg during the attack on Cali.

“Luck had nothing to do with it.”

Two weeks ago Cali had exited from a Reeperbahn restaurant. A 5-DM coin lay in the gutter. He had bent over to pick it up and someone had pumped five shots over his head. Cali fingered the Heiermann hanging from a thick 18K gold chain.

“You have millions, yet stooped to pick up a coin.”

“I was a poor boy like you. Money is money, so this is my lucky coin.”

“Mine too.” Luck was not a commodity for sale and Kurt reached over to caress the coin.

“So we begin.”


Cali opened the trunk of the Benz and reached into the trunk's secret compartment to hand over a thick manila envelope.

“Is that enough money?”

"For now.” Kurt tucked the envelope inside his jacket.

“Then it is you and me against the world.”

“Same as ever.”

“Das ist rechtig. Gute nacht, mein freund.”

Kurt shook Cali’s hand and sat in his electric-blue 1960 T-bird, as the black pimp got into his Mercedes to drive away from the warehouse.

His night was young. He had business at the Eros Center, the business of giving pleasure, and no one in Hamburg provided happy endings better than Cali Nordstrum. After all Hamburg was his city and he was King of the Reeperbahn.

Saturday, March 19, 2016

Palm Sunday

According to the old Judean calendar the Christian messiah entered the Roman occupied city of Jerusalem on the seventh day of Nisan during the reign of Augustus Caesar. Jesus or Yeshua Bin Joseph symbolically rode a donkey as opposed to a horse, since the former was considered a sign of peace. while the horse was symbolized war. The palms spread on the ground came from ancient Greek traditions and the Holy Day of Sukkot.

Roman historian Josephus wrote that at this time the capitol of Judah had a population of 80,000.

10,000 belonged to the Pharisee sect with the rest coming from all parts of the Empire.

Yeshua was feted by his followers singing the psalm 'Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord. We bless you from the house of the Lord'.

Neither his apostles nor their leader could have foreseen his demise was only a week away.

Palm Sunday is celebrated by millions of Christians around the world.

But not by me.

I missed church and stayed in bed.

The altar of sleep.

It's better than any ride on a donkey.

A BAR OF INFAMY by Peter Nolan Smith

Some bars' names evoke grandeur; Harry’s in Venice, The Oak Bar in the Plaza, Raffles’ Long Bar in Singapore.

Other bars elicit yawns from real drinkers; TGIF, Hooters, Harry Beans.

Yet a few are notoriously renowned for their sleaze and mayhem, where most people’s fun ended where the fun of those those frequenting these haunts begins.

Such dubious dens of inequity as Ave B’s Save the Robots, Miami’s Ace of Space, Phnom Penh’s Sophies and the late Grace Hotel in Bangkok faced a rival in Pattaya.

JP Bar off Walking Street and this beer bar doesn’t gather steam until the other bars shut their beer coolers and the discos closed their doors. By some miracle of light-refraction sunlight refuses to pierce the corners of this bar, where drunken farangs drink with beautiful dok-thongs and more beautiful ka-toeys well past dawn.

JP's is a bar to avoid and be seen avoiding, except for when holiday-makers refuse to call it quits and head to JP Bar for a coup de gracelessness with drugs and drink and the dregs of society. I’m not condemning their behavior. Every city should boast of a dive that hardcore miscreants can frequent rather than roam the streets endangering the public.

I even know people who go the JB Bar.

Me, never.

My holidays in Thailand are spent with the lovely Mam and our son Fenway. We're in bed with Mam long before the guns are firing into space off Walking Street. I'm almost a good boy, although if I were 20-30 years old and single, I’d be at JP's every morning.

Probably once a week in my 40s.

At 58 I drive by it on my way to buy the Bangkok Post on Pattaya Klang.

Several of my friends have taken my place on the dawn patrol.

I'm proud of their dedication to the wicked ways of life.

They deserve medals.

Joey from New Hampshire hangs out at JP Bar in a ketamine hole. He drags home beastoids who inevitably rip off his cellphone and remaining cash.

Mark from OZ likes to drink and suck down whiskey until the warning lights on his kidneys flash ‘failure imminent’. A ladyboy once dosed him a knock-out drink. His friends saved the Aussie from a fleecing on the beach.

The ever-lovely JP Bar.

Girls on ja-bah, lady boys on Viagra, boy band karaoke gigolos, and 40-50 year-old men pretending to be 30 present an eclectic scene best suited to those not willing to question the sins of the previous night, because this kind of fun has its own special costs as my friend, Klaus, found out the other night.

Klaus was an ex-armed robber from Germany. The biker knew his way around bad places and told vicious stories of being a teenage bank robber and his nine years in prison.

“They kill people in German jails. They are not a hotel.”

The Bader-Meinhof Gang can attest to that testimony from the grave.

Klaus was usually a happy-go-lucky guy. His preference was for fat dark-skinned girls. Plenty of that type can be found on Soi 6, Pattaya’s short time Strasse. I’ve rarely seen him in go-gos.

Klaus was a married man.

10 years to the same woman, but that week his wife deserted him after he said she was drinking too much.

Left with no address or phone.

Gone with the wind.

Freed of this entrapment, Klaus told me over the phone. “I can do what I want when I want and don’t have to tell anyone anything.”

“Sounds good. You wan to join me?”

"Love too, but I am a prisoner to my son's sleeping hours."

My liberties were measured in minutes, not hours, and Fenway's mom said, “You want join him. I leave you. You can be free too.”

I didn’t want freedom and I vowed not to go out at night.

Not easy for someone who spend most of his life in bars and discos and restaurants, but my loving son was tons of fun, plus I don’t mind drinking at home, especially since most of the bars are packed with British lager louts looking for a drunken brawl about a football team.

The next morning I drove to Pattaya Klang via Walking Street. The pedestrian way had re-opened to motor traffic and bars were hauling out their empties from a busy Saturday night. Not everyone was Thai, for I spotted Klaus staggering in the road. I stopped my bike and pulled him to the sidewalk.

“Was ist los?”

“Bad Story.” His eyes were pinned like he had shot China White.

My old habits rose like smoke from a napalm explosion.

“You have anything?”

“No, it’s not like that.” He leaned heavily against a shop window and several passing locals laughed at Klaus. They loved seeing farangs in trouble. “I was at the JP Bar.”

“Yeah.” I could hear the music from the bar.

“Last night I went home with a girl and had a drink. I don’t remember anything else, but when I woke, my money, 100,000 baht, and computer are gone. First my wife leaves me and now this.”

He wasn’t teary, but angry at himself.

Obviously the girl had dosed him with a sleeping powder.

An old trick taught to the young girls at JP Bar by the veteran ka-toeys. Mark from Oz said most of these slut-thieves wake at 5am to prey on unsuspecting partygoers. The money goes to fueling bizarre sex parties with Ja-bah and Viagra. I didn’t tell this to Klaus.

“So what do you want to do?” I hoped he wasn’t going back to the bar to seek revenge. Ka-toeys and drugged Thai girls were much tougher than they look and Klaus was in no condition to take a senseless beating from a crow-voiced shim.

“Can you take me home?”

“Warum nichts?” I could get my newspaper later.

His house wasn’t far and I put him to bed after he sent his son to school with the maid.

He was lucky that he hadn’t been given a bigger dose.

When I arrived back to our Jomtien apartment I told Mam about Klaus’ loss.

She shook her head.

“Why he not go to a hotel?”

It was a good question and I said, "Klaus probably wanted to rid the house of his wife’s ghost."

His mission had been accomplished, but for the rest of you be warned of JP bar.

Sometimes it’s best to end your fun before someone else’s can begin or else Sunday morning could be spent coming down harder than a Kris Kristofferson suggests in SUNDAY MORNING COMING DOWN.

"Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt."

And I know that feeling all too well.


Rolf’s one-night stand also clipped his bankbook and drained his account for another 140,000 baht.

Greedy, because she transferred the money to her own account. The police were immediately interested and said, “We will get the money for you. No problem. And we find her, you get one hour to do what you want. We get 30%.”

The girl has yet to show her face again in Pattaya, but she will, since bad girls have one place to go and it’s rarely up.


I'm back in New York. Mam and Fenway were in Jomtien.

Klaus called the other day with good news. The police had tracked down the thief to Surin. They recovered his passport, computer, camera, telephone and 100,000 of the 140,000 stolen from his ATM. The rest was used for expenses by the diligent police. They even brought Klaus to the Chonburi prison to gloat over his one-night stand.

“Was she sexy?”

“She was okay, but no one is sexy in jail.”

Having spent 9 years in German prison, Klaus knew how sexy gray walls can make a person.

Not at all.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

Square S&M / The Castle - Pattaya

Several years back the Castle opened for business across from the Buffalo Bar on Pattaya's 3rd Road. The dress code was black. I was more interested in drinking beer and sat at the bar, but the Buffalo's bar girls watched young women exit from the S&M bar at the end of the night to mount new motor-scooters driven by their Thai boyfriends. None of them girls looked none the worse for an evening of hard work.

"2000 baht for 30 minutes." Tuk told me, ten dded. "No sex. Only beat man."

Later that week Nick was sitting with Tuk and he asked me, "What you think happens in there?"

"The usual. Whips, chains, handcuffs, fetish stuff." I had read on that the Castle was quite a nice place. "Do you want to share them with mates?"

"I don't see why not?"

Because you don't want to know what you like." Pattaya was where place where you indulged your innermost fantasies. Do you want to share those with your mates?"

"If you went there, what would you do?" Nick pointed to a man leaving the Castle, as if he had a plug up his ass.

"I don't know."

"You must have some hidden desire?" The Tottenham Spurs fan wasn't letting me off easy.

"None that I can think of." It was the truth. My only fantasy was lying in bed with Mam.

"Whipping a nurse?"


"Getting whipped by a nurse?"

"No." I lifted my finger to stop him, then wracked my brain for an answer. "I'm stumped."

"No sadistic menage a trois fantasies or masochistic domination wishes?

"No." My mind was a sexual wasteland.

"That can't be possible."

"Sad, but true, I'm a square." I was shocked by this admission and drove home to Mam in Jomtien. We made love and I felt her belly. We had a baby growing inside her.

I fell asleep in her arms, but two hours I woke with a scream.

"What wrong?" Mam was used to my snores.

Not screams.

"Nothing." I couldn't tell her about a dream of S&M Thai girls chasing me around the Castle.

Thai women are very jealous.

even of ghosts in your dreams.

There was only one way to exorcise this monster and a week later I departed the Jomtien apartment in a black shirt and black jeans.

"Who die?" Mam was suspicious.

"No one. I just want to wear black."

"You look like mafia."

"Thanks." I kissed her. "I'll be back early."

"I wait you." Mam knew once I had two beers, that I wasn't going to fool around and I had already finished two Leo..

I rode my Vespa over to 3rd Road, parking two hundred years from the Castle. I didn't want anyone from the Buffalo Bar seeing me enter the S&M establishment.

Stickman had warned that the Castle wasn't cheap.

Anything went there as long as there was no blood, so 1000 baht an hour ff was a bargain, especially since back in the USA a good dominatrix could charge a $1000/HR.

Darkness was my friend and I touched my wallet. I had 5000 baht on me, however the security guards from the Buffalo spotted me. "Pai ngai?"

I pointed inside and they shouted out 'good luck'.

I opened the door. The bar was dimly lit with receding settees. The girls lounged at the bar. One set were vinyl dominatrixes, another slave girls in school uniforms, and lingerie-clad submissives.

On stage a stocky dyke in black vinyl dripped hot wax onto her farang victim. His screams of pain sounded real.

The matronly mama-san came to my table and explained the rates as well as the options.

"Drink with lady 250 baht. One hour with lady 3000 baht. Extra cost more. Up to you."

"If you want longer, girl can take it." The mama-san was proud of her girls. "Most farang come here English, German, Kohn Nippon. Khon Nippon like tie up girl and then whip her. German like sick thing and England man like spanking. What America like?" 

I had the money and the time, yet no idea what I wanted from a woman who would do anything. "I don't know."

"You not know? Ask what you want."

I was about to repeat my previous answer, when a big-breasted dominatrix in black leather emerged from the back room leading a fat German by a chain. Her hair was cut like Betty Page and she was no stranger, for I had been admiring Cochise for the past three years.

She had a vicious Fnch boyfriend.

Yves was a pimp from Marseilles.

He had recently been recently deported from Thailand for selling phony credit cards.

"You like Cochise?"

"Maybe." I wasn't willing to admit yes.

I"I get her for you." The madam gestured to the hardened pro.

Cochise freed the German and then kneeled before the mama-san to kiss her boots. She looked up at me and I whispered my request to the mama-san.

"She never slave."

"I don't want her to be a taa-see.If she says no, then it's no, but ask her." I gave her a purple bill.

500 baht got the mama-san to tell Cochise my request. 

Cochise nodded yes and sat by my side.

Her skin smelled of unwanted sex.

"I see you before. At Welkom Inn." She leaned over to touch my thigh

"I saw you there too."

A lady drink arrived at the table and Cochise sighed five seconds, "I not slave."

"Me too." I wasn't so sure that Cochise was telling the truth, since I had seen her sporting black eyes from her Froggie boyfiend, then again that was love and this was commerce.

"So what you want to do?"

"Chain you and have sex." The couple on stage had moved onto a paddling. The smacks ringed in my ears. I didn't want to hurt anyone.

"No whips."

Cochise nodded her agreement.

"Only one hour. 3000 baht. Have customer come later. He slave. Easy work. You maybe not easy. Maybe you do before." Cochise signaled to the mama-san she was heading out back.

"Maybe you want other girl."

"Want you only."

"Barg wan." She walked down a small corridor into a white room. Chains hung on the wall. The cuffs were leather.

"No sweet talking. The truth." I wanted her but only really like this.

She stripped off her leather. Her breasts and small nipples. She was also not really a woman, but a ladyboy. She kept hiding the truth.

"You can be master now." Cochise kneeled on the floor. Her hair hung over her face. Her pose and the darkness of the room transported us back 100 years when most Thais were slaves. Royalty could do with kee kao or slaves as they likedFor an hour or two I could do the same and that's the beauty of the Castle, except I wasn't into it.

"What wrong?"

"I can't do it." Mam was in my mind.

"You love your lady." Her laugh was a whip.

"Chai." I gave Cochise her money. She waii-ed respectfully and said, "Maybe lucky can be your slave again or mistress."

She slapped my ass with a strength born of a rebel.

Two minutes later I left the castle and walked over to the Buffalo.

All the girls wanted to know. "Khun penh taat reu naii?"

Master or slave?

Tuk most of all.

"Kwam lap." No one needed to know my secret.

"Khun penh ajaan sadeet." A bargirl accused me of being a sadistic teacher.

"Not even close." I had realized her fantasy. Then again Tuk played a lot of roles for farangs.

I bought her a drink and a gin-tonic for me.

After three Cochise was out of my mind, but not 100% gone until I got back to Mam.

I was her slave and she was the mother of my baby, which meant I really was a square, but if you're looking for something a little different, visit the Castle. It ain't cheap, so bring cash since they don't accept Visa.


1-year membership for 15,000 baht


900 baht entrance fee includes one drink.

Next drinks 300 baht

Bottle 7000 baht includes mixers

MEMBERS get 50% off

Lady Drinks - 250 baht

Dress code - black shirt required.

Hours 5:30 till closing.



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