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 and 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, then added. "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 Stickman.com 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?"

"No."

"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 and 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 Leos.

I rode my Vespa over to 3rd Road and parked two hundred years from the Castle. I didn't want anyone from the Buffalo Bar seeing me enter the S and 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?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 French 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'll 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 liked. For 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. I had never cheated on her

"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.

RATES

1-year membership for 15,000 baht

Non-members

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.

Website http://www.the-castle-pattaya.com

THE CASTLE THIRD ROAD PATTAYA

visit their website

http://www.the-castle-pattaya.com/site.html

Objects Are bigger than they appear

Back in 2007 a British wanker in a pickup sped down my street in Pattaya.

Nearly ran down my daughter Angie. I chased him on my scooter and at Soi Buakow banged on his passenger window.

My bike fell over and as I struggled to right it, the driver got out of his truck and I thought, "Damn, he's big."

I covered up my head.

Whack whack whack.

I'm on the pavement. Him over me. He gets up.

"You had enough?" I've heard the question before in similar situations and replied the same way as always, "Yeah, but but you still are a wanker."

I don't learn easy.

WHAT IS AMERICA 1980 - JOURNAL ENTRY

[caption id="attachment_29375" align="aligncenter" width="300"] Boy Scout Shota[/caption]

WHAT IS AMERICA

What is America?

It isn't an easy answer

As it was with the Pledge of Allegiance

Said with a hand over my heart

In a two-room schoolhouse in Maine

Said in unison with other white students

We had learned in a young heart

Within a week

Without out any explanation

1958

America

It was a flag.

The State of Maine was one of the States

On the northern border of America

1960 my family moved to the South Shore of Boston.

Deeper into America

I attended a Catholic School

Sister Mary Magdalene taught us geography.

I memorized the states and the capitols.

Sister Mary Magdalene awarded me a gold star.

I learned more about America.

My uncles had fought wars.

Against the Nazis

Against the Japs

Against the North Koreans and Commie Chinese Reds

American stood for freedom

Superman stood for truth, justice and the American Way.

Talking in class was not allowed in parochial school Not by the students.

Opening your mouth earned a trip to Mother Superior's office

A wooden ruler on the palm

Ten times on the knuckles for bad boys.

Freedom was a word taught by the nuns

Under the Blue Hills

Boy Scouts

Memorial Day parades

Veterans of the wars.

America was in South Vietnam.

Older teens fought the Viet Cong.

For freedom.

At school

History

Geography

It was the Sixties

Some things did not make sense

A war in Asia. Siccing dogs on blacks. God. None of what they taught in school.and the men from our neighborhood Only math seemed the truth.and the men from our neighborhood I was a youth on a rampage,

Rock and roll, Louie Louie, Janet Stetson, The Velvet Underground, gas 35 cents a gallon.

July 4, 1968

The Quincy Quarries

Brewster's

A 110-foot granite cliff

Jimmie Lianetti dives off the Rail He is the coolest of the cool

Something goes wrong.

Our idol breaks his back

His friends drag him from the water

Not dead but never again him

I finish high school.

My draft number is 91

Soldiers and civilians die in Vietnam.

If I don't go to college

I could be one of them.

I want to leave my town

Boston

America I'm a fighter

Not a baby killer.

I go back to school

To learn more about America

Math major

That summer

Linda Imhoff.

An elegant junior exec at my father's office

Long legs, aristocratic accent, clean shaven body,

We fuck at the Hatchshell by the Charles River

Emerson Lake and Palmer onstage

We were in the bushes.

Gas 38 cents a gallon

The 1970s were not kind to America

The city closed the Quincy Quarries

In the 90s

Boston buried them in the rubble from the Big Dig

All to save suburban commuters fifteen minutes

The tunnel saved them nothing

It wasn't all gone

The concerts, the fights after school, the racism, the bullying, the murders, guns, the them against the other them.

I was a hippie,

I am a punk

I am a father

I am a grandfather.

I am nothing

I am everything.

I am an American

I know what it means to me

Life Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

And that's it.

May 12, 1990 - Langtang Trek, Nepal - 1990 - Journal Entry

The passing clouds obscure the 6000-meter snow-tipped peaks towering over the Langtang Valley, but the 5000-meter ragged summits cut through the mist with each parting of the clouds.

The tea house serves a good cup of yak butter tea. I'm not liking the salty brew, but it does provide warmth and nourishment. Dorzee our guide is inside the teahouse speaking with a female Sherpa guide and an Austrian woman fluent in Tuchin in Tibetan. I can only speak English, French, and German. I learned a little Bahasa Indonesian in Biak, Bali, and Sumatra. No Thai, Sherpa or Nepali.

Dorzee has been kind enough to translate for us.

He emerges from the tea house and bids good-bye, "Chag-po nang."

We proceed up the steep trail passing head-high prayer walls.

Garz-bo is steep in Tibetan.

I'm sure like the Eskimos they have other words for steep.

I have three.

Steep, very steep, and very fucking steep.

English is my only usable language in this valley other than hand signals, which I use whenever I treat people for cuts, festering wounds, and encrusted eyes. My thermometer amazing them, since I have to put in in their mouth. I usually stick out my tongue to show that I am not a demon. The last of my patients at this rest stop are watching me wash my sox. All these young boys and girls are all barefoot.

They waved good-bye, as we like every foreigner passing their village head higher to Kyangjin at the head of the valley.

We pass head-high prayer walls erected by faithful Buddhists. The porters mutter prayers and Dorzee says, "They not say these prayers. No one read Tibetan. Not read English. Only lamas read walls. No one here read. No one go school. Not have schools. Before we have many walls. Now not many. Everything not same. No grass, no yaks, no money, no carving."

Something was not right in the mountains. The monsoons came at a different time and the snows were always late. For some reason every year was warmer.

A platoon of Nepali soldiers pass us on the trail. The sergeant talks with Dorzee, while the patrol hikes forward. After the sergeant's departure, he says, "Still have trouble in Kathmandu> Most time never see soldiers up here. Government want to tell Sherpas they are in charge. They come and they go. They never stay."

The villagers are Sherpa, Tibetan or Gurkha. They live on the other side of time. Far from the world below. Once the monsoons come the trekking season will be over and the porters will return the shoes and warm clothing to the Kathmandu agencies, then return to up mountain. The villages will retreat into the security of a past lost to the now.

The poverty increases every step forward. Life goes on as it has for millenia. Everyone is uneducated, illiterate, unwashed, malnourished, sick, wear rags, but they always have a smile for us. especially when I give a pen and paper or a postcard of Bali or Thailand to the children. So little will make them happy. I also have sweets. Several Lonely Planet backpackers have ventured reproached me for distributing these candies to the locals. They give no one nothing. Lance tells me to ignore them.

After the next tea stop the porters light cigarettes, swing the packs onto their backs. The loads are getting less and their pace is twice ours. All for $5/day.

Thankfully they are getting all that money, unless they lose it in cards.

The sun is setting over the high rim of Himalayas. It is a little colder than before and Lance and I have decide to sleep in the tea house. Still cold, but it's out of the wind. We have run out of whiskey. Dice and I have switched to the milky millet beer. Tongba, which we drink around a blazing fire. Three cups and I'm feeling okay, glad to not humping on the trail and breathing easier at this altitude.

The porters are playing 'Jhyap', a take and discard card game whose which you play from the three best hands. Money is being waged by everyone. I have no interest n losing money and retire to my room. I am out cold at 8pm.

LATER

Dorge won 70 RPs. Labarai won even more from the porters and villagers. 200 Rupees. About three days of trekking wages and the losers have been losers all the way up the trail. None of them have the sneakers I bought them, but they still have cigarettes

I've worked hard, but not like the porters.

Working at the diamond exchange I never break a sweat. The heaviest thing I lift is a pencil or paper. I don't want to work. I want to travel all the time, but I need money.

I wish I could sell my noVel NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD. Maybe I'll be lucky in Paris, London, and New York. Maybe I'll be able to sherry it to Monty. It really doesn't matter. I'm four days away from civilization.

May 13, 1990 - Langtang Trek, Nepal - 1990 - Journal Entry

The passing clouds obscure the 6000-meter snow-tipped peaks towering over the Langtang Valley, but the 500-meter ragged summits cut through the mist. The tea house serves a good cup of yak butter tea. I'm not liking the salty brew, but it does provide warmth and nourishment. Dorzee our guide is inside the teahouse speaking with a female Sherpa guide and an Austrian woman fluent in Tuchin in Tibetan. I can only speak English, French, and German. I learned a little Bahasa Indonesian in Biak, Bali, and Sumatra. No Thai, Sherpa or Nepali.

Dorzee has been kind enough to translate for us.

He emerges from the tea house and bids good-bye, "Chag-po nang."

We proceed up the steep trail passing head-high prayer walls.

Garz-bo is steep in Tibetan.

I'm sure like the Eskimos they have other words for steep.

I have three.

Steep, very steep, and very fucking steep.

A Long Walk Into Year 66

Last year Chef Dave from 169 cooked a Memorial Day BBQ on his roof deck in Bushwick.

I brought a bottle of Chardonnay.

I ate hamburgers, hot dogs, and drank wine, Jagermeister, and tequila.

Someone gave me a magic mushroom.

It had a red cap.

Another handed me a marijuana gummie.

I did them all and left the soiree at 1pm.

It was the first hour of my 66th birthday.

I saw in my 64th birthday at the Little Neck along the Gowanus.

Paige and Steve were with me.

Fried clams and 'gansetts.

They're in Uganda now.

I do miss them, but Africa was 7000 miles from Bushwick.

High.

I caught a bus up Gates Avenue and got off thinking I was close to Clinton Hill.

I discovered my error on the street.

I was nowhere near Clinton Hill.

I shouted for the bus to stop.

It disappeared into the darkness.

Bushwick burned during the 1977 Blackout.

Crack and a 9mm were royalty in the 1980s.

Then the shit stopped and life returned to Bushwick.

But not tonight.

No one was on the streets.

No cars.

No taxis.

I didn't have enough money in my account for an Uber and calculated that my crash pad was an hour's walk away.

I hadn't included getting off on the mushrooms in my thought process and slammed against a chainlink fence. A dog barked from a nearby yard. I wished the pit bull could have walked me home. I was in need of help.

The streetlights were bright.

Too bright.

Only the trees offered protection from their glare and I stumbled along the sidewalk.

Not knowing where was the where I was was.

I listened to Sly and the Family Stone.

Getting ever higher.

A ghost bike haunted a corner.

Someone had died here.

I prayed for their soul and the phantom remained asleep.

I was so jealous.

My feet went left.

My feet went right.

I had lost control again.

The darkness was all powerful this late at night.

Another chainlink fence saved me from collapsing like the World Trade Towers.

My fingers clung to it.

Concrete consciousness was poured into my spine. My legs regained movement and I resumed my trek.

I checked the bus schedule.

They ran once an hour.

I was fucked and only my feet could unfuck me from sleeping on the street.

Even as much as I wanted to crawl into the bushes.

West.

There was too much light.

I sang along to Blue Cheer and tried to dance.

I swirl into a twirling tornado.

My body faceplanted horizontally into a bush sprouting the leaves of summer.

I was getting off again.

Lights shifting colors. Music orbiting celestial.

"Where am I."

I wished I lived here.

I didn't and continued west without any familiar landmark in sight.

Bushes whispered my name.

"Sleep."

"No." I didn't dare look at the time on my cellphone.

It was playing CHELSEA by the Stiffs INC

I pogoed and almost tumbled into the vegetation for the hundredth time.

My arms stretched out like a highwire artist and I regained my balance.

The Great 66.

My birthday and Route 66.

I had hitchhiked the Mother Road in 1972.

At night it was darker than here.

On a nameless street I took off my glasses.

I didn't need them to see shadows reaching for my soul.

I leaned against a fence.

More leaves touched my face.

I thought they were the same from before.

I was wrong.

But right too.

A flower called my name.

A rose.

A fragrance.

I walked again.

West.

The ebony outline of a church tower.

The world bleeding into a blur.

Then again the rose.

More powerful than before and I sang the Jaynettes SALLY DANCES AROUND THE ROSES.

I knew where I was.

Not far from my bed.

Same as the flowers of a Bushwick night.

Resting in peace.

Like the living asleep for my 66th birthday.

I smiled recollecting my 40th in Bangkok.

With cousin Ty Spaulding.

I had made a fool of myself at a comedy club.

Ty said, "Everyone laughed at your escaping the hook."

I was a million laughs back in the last century.

I turned the key in the lock.

The door opened and I was back in 1992.

It was easy to travel time on mushrooms.

46 years from a hop skip and a jump from now.

And then I tripped on a shadow.

I hit the bed like a vampire reaching the grave just before the dawn.

TKO.

Only I was not home.

Just at the 169 and Chef Dave shook his head.

"Old people."

Just like vampires old people hear voices in their sleep and I heard Chef Dave.

I would show him how old I was tomorrow, because then I would be 66 and one day.

I was much younger than that yesterday.