Bunny from Bugis Street, Singapore.
None of those girls are around anymore, thus neither am I.
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Much more to come.
Back in 2010 my friend and fellow farang Richard was on holiday from the Gulf, where he taught school in Saudi Arabia. He says it sucks, but he's coining good money. He asked, if I want to join him.
If all else fails, "Why not?"
Saudi Arabia is closer to Thailand than New York.
He sent an old joke yesterday.
A man is in bed with his Thai girlfriend.
After great sex, she spends the next hour just stroking his dangly bit, something she had lovingly done on many other post-coital occasions.
Rather enjoying it, he turns and asks her: 'Why do you love doing that ?'
She replies: 'Because I really miss mine...'
Erk!
Ladyboy slipped under the radar.
It's so easy to be fooled especially when your lust blinds the shrouds of deception.
Years ago, 1986 to be exact, I worked at a bar in New York. The name was the Milk Bar. The decor was an imitation of the Malchek Milk Bar from Stanley Kubrick's 1971 comedy CLOCKWORK ORANGE. White Lucite and gelled light red white and the softest blue. The crowd cut across the layers of New York. The good, the bad, and the in-between. One of the customers was a narcotic detective. Rob led raids on the coke house in the Red Hook proejects in Brooklyn. Whenever he walked into the bar, people walked out.
"Friends and colleagues." Rob would shrug off their departures. "I'm not here for work. I'm here to have a good time."
He was only 24.
Good times at the Milk Bar meant something else other than Disney rides and one night I see Rob drinking with Dove, a lanky ex-lover in a slinky Azzadine sheath. An hour later they're holding hands and shortly thereafter both of them are kissing with an audience. I knew Dove was trans. That didn't matter tonme. I was a sexual adventurer and Dove resembled Janice Dickenson, one of the most beautiful models at the time.
Dove fooled most of her prey. She liked her men straight. When Dove visited the ladies room to powder her nose, I sidled next to the detective.
"So what you think?" His face shined with an eager redness. Few women exuded lust as much as Dove. "I thought she was Janice Dickerson"
Normally I would have let Rob discover for himself about Dove's gender, but he had become more a friend and my job as a doorman necessitated a little violence from time to time. Having a cop in your pocket was a good card to hold.
"Dove's great, if you like guys."
"Guy?" Rob choked on his beer.
"Dove's been a girl for a couple of years. Beautiful and sexy, but a guy no less." I was worried about Dove's reaction to my snitching her out. She could be very mean.
"A guy?"
"Not anymore."
"Have you?" Rob looked around the bar, as if he were trying to spot a familiar face. The crowd consisted of perps, dealers, politicians, models, musicians, diplomats, actors, and starlets. None of them were saints. He swigged his beer.
"She's a friend."
"I can deal with that."
"You can?" I thought my warning would steer him to clearer water.
"Dove's the best looking woman I've seen in years. Man or woman. And she wants me."
"Then you have my blessing."
The two of them left within the hour. No one noticed their departure. Dove showed up the next day with a smile and Rob's watch.
"He gave it to me."
"Really?" I almost believed her. It was a cheap watch. I said not
"Really." Dove waited that night for Rob to show up. He never did. Dove and I went to my place. In the dark she looked like Janice, but I preferred Dove. He was twice the woman I will ever be. always.
Yesterday I was at the Tuesday Wat Chai market looking for bootleg Bugs Bunny DVDs for my son. There were none and I left the open-air square, heading for my tailor. Pinky was making a new jacket for me. Cut to size.
Walking down Pattaya Tai a woman called my name. The pseudonym. It was Ort, Jamie Parker's ex. The go-go vixen was alone. My friend had fired her after discovering she was seeing a British body builder. He was better off solo and I said, "I have no idea where Jamie is."
"Not look for Jamie. We friend. Not more." Ort was wearing a sleek hot pants set. She was as seductive as the first day that Jamie and I spotted her at the Paris a Go-Go. The years 2006. She said that she was 20 then. Jamie found out later the truth was 18.
"Where's your boyfriend?" The Brit construction worker had retired her from the bikini squad, bought a house in Prichit, given her a brand new car and 10 baht of gold. "I thought you were going to England."
I glanced around the market for familiar faces. Mem was up in Sriracha, but she has spies or jah-rah-chon everywhere. Sometimes I suspected that she had planted a GPS bug under my skin.
No, my boyfriend leave me for a ka-toey." Ort wasn"t wearing any gold. The odds were that she had hocked them to the jum-jam or pawnshop.
Sure it wasn't for seeing other men?" A year ago i had last seen Ort entering the Marine disco. Her date wasn’t her muscle-building boyfriend.
"No, no, he leave me for lady-boy." She seemed on the verge of tears and I led her into a t-shirt stall. I didn’t want people getting the wrong impression. "I not understand. I stop pretty." Ort was never really pretty. But she was sexy with a sleek baby seal body.
"No, you're still beautiful."
"Then why he leave me?"
"Your boyfriend goes to the gym?" I didn’t have the answer, but could with the right information.
"Yes."
"He use a needle?" I had seen him twice. Muscles like his didn't come naturally in Pattaya. Ort nodded to admit he was a steroid juice junkie.
"He likes to have sex?" I felt like a palm reader divining the truth. "Many times."
"And ate Viagra?" Most steroid muscle-builders can't get it up without it, but also use ketamine to get a buzz. All too chemically ugly for an old stoner like me.
"Yes, and he want sex too much. He hurt me too much."
"And that's why he left you for a ka-toey." Thailand unlike the States didn’t have a real hang-up about transvestites.
The Miss Tiffany World Show is televised live and the presenter is usually Miss World Thailand. The greeter at the biggest hospital in Pattaya is a ka-toey and the most beautiful women on Walking Street are the lady-boys hanging out at the Jennie Star Bar.
"I not understand." She wouldn't because she's a woman.
"Your boyfriend is a sex maniac. He wants sex all the time. But a woman can only have sex 3-5 times a week. Not so a ka-toey. A lady-boy can have sex all day long, because she’s a man and has man's muscles and wants sex like a man."
"How you know this?" All women are distrustful of a man wanting to tell them what he thinks of as the truth.
"Because I'm a man too." Ka-toys have a tough life. Men thinks them sissies and women view them as a threat. The only good defense is a better offense and Ka-toeys were twice the man most men were and three times the woman women were. Even that edge couldn’t save them from abuse.
"And you've been with a ka-toey?"
"No. I've drank with ka-toys." The cul-de-scas of my sex life were my secret, but back in 1978 I had been at a Halloween party for Paloma Picasso. Black-tie. I was ordering a drink when a gay boy bumped into me. He was being bullied by a jerk from Jersey. Bigger than the fag and bigger than me. I said, "You mind not pushing him around, while I'm trying to get a drink."
The Jersey boy turned his attention to me. "What are you going to do if I don't?"
The little queer took this as his cue to stage exit in any direction. The jersey boy clenched his fists. I wasn't going to talk about this and popped him in the face. Blood spurt from his lip. It has been my best shot but hadn’t stopped him. I weaved through his punches and counter-jabbed without success. Luckily the bouncers broke up the fight and threw him out.
Two ballerinas toasted my victory and invited me to a party uptown. I escorted them outside and hailed a taxi.
I never saw the Jersey Boy's sucker punch to the back on my head. I dropped into the gutter KO. He beat me senseless as I lay on the street like a discarded rag doll. A gay photographer stopped the thug's from inflicting serious injury, although the chain worn around his fist bloodied my face.
The ballerinas had pirouetted out of sight and I weaved down the street near like a Bowery bum.
A beautiful woman in a satin gown and spectacular high heels washed my face with her scarf. Her TLC ministrations stung, because she had wet the scarf with vodka. Once the angel spoke, I realized she was no woman, though she called herself Dove.
We became friends after that night and she was always asking me to go home with her. "Other men aren't so picky."
"I don’t want to ruin our relationship."
"It’s only sex and no one has to know." I wasn't too sure about that and remembered the old line about riding a Vespa.
"They're a lot of fun until one of your friends sees you riding one." It was equally applicable to TVs.
Yesterday I was at the Tuesday Wat Chai market looking for bootleg Bugs Bunny DVDs for my son. There were none and I left the open-air square, heading for my tailor. Pinky was making a new jacket for me. Cut to size.
Walking down Pattaya Tai a woman called my name. The pseudonym. It was Ort, Jamie Parker's ex. The go-go vixen was alone. My friend had fired her after discovering she was seeing a British body builder. He was better off solo and I said, "I have no idea where Jamie is."
"Not look for Jamie. We friend. Not more.” Ort was wearing a sleek hot pants set. She was as seductive as the first day that Jamie and I spotted her at the Paris a Go-Go. The years 2006. She said that she was 20 then. Jamie found out later the truth was 18.
"Where’s your boyfriend?" The Brit construction worker had retired her from the bikini squad, bought a house in Prichit, given her a brand new car and 10 baht of gold. "I thought you were going to England."
I glanced around the market for familiar faces. Mem was up in Sriracha, but she has spies or jah-rah-chon everywhere. Sometimes I suspected that she had planted a GPS bug under my skin.
No, my boyfriend leave me for a ka-toey." Ort wasn"t wearing any gold. The odds were that she had hocked them to the jum-jam or pawnshop.
Sure it wasn't for seeing other men?" A year ago i had last seen Ort entering the Marine disco. Her date wasn’t her muscle-building boyfriend.
"No, no, he leave me for lady-boy." She seemed on the verge of tears and I led her into a t-shirt stall. I didn’t want people getting the wrong impression. "I not understand. I stop pretty." Ort was never really pretty. But she was sexy with a sleek baby seal body.
"No, you’re still beautiful."
"Then why he leave me?"
"Your boyfriend goes to the gym?" I didn’t have the answer, but could with the right information.
"Yes."
"He use a needle?" I had seen him twice. Muscles like his didn't come naturally in Pattaya. Ort nodded to admit he was a steroid juice junkie.
"He likes to have sex?” I felt like a palm reader divining the truth. "Many times."
"And ate Viagra?" Most steroid muscle-builders can't get it up without it, but also use ketamine to get a buzz. All too chemically ugly for an old stoner like me.
"Yes, and he want sex too much. He hurt me too much."
"And that’s why he left you for a ka-toey." Thailand unlike the States didn’t have a real hang-up about transvestites.
The Miss Tiffany World Show is televised live and the presenter is usually Miss World Thailand. The greeter at the biggest hospital in Pattaya is a ka-toey and the most beautiful women on Walking Street are the lady-boys hanging out at the Jennie Star Bar.
"I not understand.” She wouldn't because she's a woman.
"Your boyfriend is a sex maniac. He wants sex all the time. But a woman can only have sex 3-5 times a week. Not so a ka-toey. A lady-boy can have sex all day long, because she’s a man and has man's muscles and wants sex like a man."
"How you know this?" All women are distrustful of a man wanting to tell them what he thinks of as the truth.
"Because I'm a man too." Ka-toys have a tough life. Men thinks them sissies and women view them as a threat. The only good defense is a better offense and Ka-toeys were twice the man most men were and three times the woman women were. Even that edge couldn’t save them from abuse.
"And you’ve been with a ka-toey?"
"No. I've drank with ka-toys." The cul-de-scas of my sex life were my secret, but back in 1978 I had been at a Halloween party for Paloma Picasso. Black-tie. I was ordering a drink when a gay boy bumped into me. He was being bullied by a jerk from Jersey. Bigger than the fag and bigger than me. I said, "You mind not pushing him around, while I'm trying to get a drink."
The Jersey boy turned his attention to me. "What are you going to do if I don't?"
The little queer took this as his cue to stage exit in any direction. The jersey boy clenched his fists. I wasn’t going to talk about this and popped him in the face. Blood spurt from his lip. It has been my best shot but hadn’t stopped him. I weaved through his punches and counter-jabbed without success. Luckily the bouncers broke up the fight and threw him out.
Two ballerinas toasted my victory and invited me to a party uptown. I escorted them outside and hailed a taxi.
I never saw the Jersey Boy's sucker punch to the back on my head. I dropped into the gutter KO. He beat me senseless as I lay on the street like a discarded rag doll. A gay photographer stopped the thug’s from inflicting serious injury, although the chain worn around his fist bloodied my face.
The ballerinas had pirouetted out of sight and I weaved down the street near like a Bowery bum.
A beautiful woman in a satin gown and spectacular high heels washed my face with her scarf. Her TLC ministrations stung, because she had wet the scarf with vodka. Once the angel spoke, I realized she was no woman, though she called herself Dove.
We became friends after that night and she was always asking me to go home with her. "Other men aren't so picky."
"I don’t want to ruin our relationship."
"It’s only sex and no one has to know." I wasn't too sure about that and remembered the old line about riding a Vespa.
"They're a lot of fun until one of your friends sees you riding one." It was equally applicable to TVs. On New Year’s Eve I attended the opening of a transsexual circus club outside Times Square. The main act was TVs on the trapeze. Dove was dressed in haute couture. She was every man’s #1 pick, but she was determined to seduce me with a jar of cocaine. I remained strong until seeing the Jersey Boy with two gay boys.
One was the boy he had been pushing against the bar on Halloween. They looked like lovers. My heart pumped out a tattoo of vengeance and I grabbed a beer bottle to break and slash his face.
"Don't." Dove stopped me. "I'll take care of this."
She lit a cigarette and walked up to the Jersey Boy, bumping into him clumsily. He turned to face her, ready for a fight, but not the cigarette she stubbed in his eye. No one had seen a thing and she came back to me and said, "That about evens the score. Now what about taking me home?"
I couldn't rightly say no, but short-time hotels were safer than your own bed.
Nothing happened. I was too loaded to have sex. Saved by my drive for excess.
So I’ve never really had a problem with TVs. I understand the medicines they take make them crazy. The psychological shift from man to woman isn’t easy either and I told Ort, “I wouldn’t trust one though. Not with money or your life, because they are between sexes and work with a different set of rules involving survival, but they tell me they can have sex all day long. Just what your boyfriend wants."
"I hate ka-toys." Ort's eyes narrowed to daggers. She was unforgiving tothe competition.
"You shouldn’t be too unhappy. You got a house, car, gold and let's face you didn't love him, right?" She was beyond listening to reason or excuses. “Love him for what? He stupid farang.” Thai girls say that about a lot of men. "I go back go-go. Meet new farang. Not love no one. Only my baby. You want mia noi?"
Ort was 22. Her body was a solace for a middle-aged man search for youth. A fool I am, but not enough to fall for a girl thinking all men stupid. I wished her luck. Whatever man fell for her next would need it. On New Year's Eve I attended the opening of a transsexual circus club outside Times Square. The main act was TVs on the trapeze. Dove was dressed in haute couture. She was every man’s #1 pick, but she was determined to seduce me with a jar of cocaine. I remained strong until seeing the Jersey Boy with two gay boys.
One was the boy he had been pushing against the bar on Halloween. They looked like lovers. My heart pumped out a tattoo of vengeance and I grabbed a beer bottle to break and slash his face.
"Don't." Dove stopped me. "I'll take care of this."
She lit a cigarette and walked up to the Jersey Boy, bumping into him clumsily. He turned to face her, ready for a fight, but not the cigarette she stubbed in his eye. No one had seen a thing and she came back to me and said, "That about evens the score. Now what about taking me home?"
I couldn't rightly say no, but short-time hotels were safer than your own bed.
Nothing happened. I was too loaded to have sex. Saved by my drive for excess.
So I've never really had a problem with TVs. I understand the medicines they take make them crazy. The psychological shift from man to woman isn’t easy either and I told Ort, "I wouldn't trust one with money or your life, because they are between sexes and live under a different set of rules involving survival, but they tell me they can have sex all day long. Just what your boyfriend wants."
"I hate ka-toys." Ort's eyes narrowed to daggers. She was unforgiving tothe competition.
"You shouldn't be too unhappy. You got a house, car, gold and let's face you didn't love him, right?" She was beyond listening to reason or excuses.
Yesterday I was at the Tuesday Wat Chai market looking for bootleg Bugs Bunny DVDs for my son. There were none and I left the open-air square, heading for my tailor. Pinky was making a new jacket for me. Cut to size.
Walking down Pattaya Tai a woman called my name. The pseudonym. It was Ort, Jamie Parker's ex. The go-go vixen was alone. My friend had fired her after discovering she was seeing a British body builder. He was better off solo and I said, "I have no idea where Jamie is."
"Not look for Jamie. We friend. Not more.” Ort was wearing a sleek hot pants set. She was as seductive as the first day that Jamie and I spotted her at the Paris a Go-Go. The years 2006. She said that she was 20 then. Jamie found out later the truth was 18.
"Where’s your boyfriend?" The Brit construction worker had retired her from the bikini squad, bought a house in Prichit, given her a brand new car and 10 baht of gold. "I thought you were going to England."
I glanced around the market for familiar faces. Mem was up in Sriracha, but she has spies or jah-rah-chon everywhere. Sometimes I suspected that she had planted a GPS bug under my skin.
No, my boyfriend leave me for a ka-toey." Ort wasn"t wearing any gold. The odds were that she had hocked them to the jum-jam or pawnshop.
Sure it wasn't for seeing other men?" A year ago i had last seen Ort entering the Marine disco. Her date wasn’t her muscle-building boyfriend.
"No, no, he leave me for lady-boy." She seemed on the verge of tears and I led her into a t-shirt stall. I didn’t want people getting the wrong impression. "I not understand. I stop pretty." Ort was never really pretty. But she was sexy with a sleek baby seal body.
"No, you’re still beautiful."
"Then why he leave me?"
"Your boyfriend goes to the gym?" I didn’t have the answer, but could with the right information.
"Yes."
"He use a needle?" I had seen him twice. Muscles like his didn't come naturally in Pattaya. Ort nodded to admit he was a steroid juice junkie.
"He likes to have sex?” I felt like a palm reader divining the truth. "Many times."
"And ate Viagra?" Most steroid muscle-builders can't get it up without it, but also use ketamine to get a buzz. All too chemically ugly for an old stoner like me.
"Yes, and he want sex too much. He hurt me too much."
"And that’s why he left you for a ka-toey." Thailand unlike the States didn’t have a real hang-up about transvestites.
The Miss Tiffany World Show is televised live and the presenter is usually Miss World Thailand. The greeter at the biggest hospital in Pattaya is a ka-toey and the most beautiful women on Walking Street are the lady-boys hanging out at the Jennie Star Bar.
"I not understand.” She wouldn't because she's a woman.
"Your boyfriend is a sex maniac. He wants sex all the time. But a woman can only have sex 3-5 times a week. Not so a ka-toey. A lady-boy can have sex all day long, because she’s a man and has man's muscles and wants sex like a man."
"How you know this?" All women are distrustful of a man wanting to tell them what he thinks of as the truth.
"Because I'm a man too." Ka-toys have a tough life. Men thinks them sissies and women view them as a threat. The only good defense is a better offense and Ka-toeys were twice the man most men were and three times the woman women were. Even that edge couldn’t save them from abuse.
"And you’ve been with a ka-toey?"
"No. I've drank with ka-toys." The cul-de-scas of my sex life were my secret, but back in 1978 I had been at a Halloween party for Paloma Picasso. Black-tie. I was ordering a drink when a gay boy bumped into me. He was being bullied by a jerk from Jersey. Bigger than the fag and bigger than me. I said, "You mind not pushing him around, while I'm trying to get a drink."
The Jersey boy turned his attention to me. "What are you going to do if I don't?"
The little queer took this as his cue to stage exit in any direction. The jersey boy clenched his fists. I wasn’t going to talk about this and popped him in the face. Blood spurt from his lip. It has been my best shot but hadn’t stopped him. I weaved through his punches and counter-jabbed without success. Luckily the bouncers broke up the fight and threw him out.
Two ballerinas toasted my victory and invited me to a party uptown. I escorted them outside and hailed a taxi.
I never saw the Jersey Boy's sucker punch to the back on my head. I dropped into the gutter KO. He beat me senseless as I lay on the street like a discarded rag doll. A gay photographer stopped the thug’s from inflicting serious injury, although the chain worn around his fist bloodied my face.
The ballerinas had pirouetted out of sight and I weaved down the street near like a Bowery bum.
A beautiful woman in a satin gown and spectacular high heels washed my face with her scarf. Her TLC ministrations stung, because she had wet the scarf with vodka. Once the angel spoke, I realized she was no woman, though she called herself Dove.
We became friends after that night and she was always asking me to go home with her. "Other men aren't so picky."
"I don’t want to ruin our relationship."
"It’s only sex and no one has to know." I wasn't too sure about that and remembered the old line about riding a Vespa.
"They're a lot of fun until one of your friends sees you riding one." It was equally applicable to TVs. On New Year’s Eve I attended the opening of a transsexual circus club outside Times Square. The main act was TVs on the trapeze. Dove was dressed in haute couture. She was every man’s #1 pick, but she was determined to seduce me with a jar of cocaine. I remained strong until seeing the Jersey Boy with two gay boys.
One was the boy he had been pushing against the bar on Halloween. They looked like lovers. My heart pumped out a tattoo of vengeance and I grabbed a beer bottle to break and slash his face.
"Don't." Dove stopped me. "I'll take care of this."
She lit a cigarette and walked up to the Jersey Boy, bumping into him clumsily. He turned to face her, ready for a fight, but not the cigarette she stubbed in his eye. No one had seen a thing and she came back to me and said, "That about evens the score. Now what about taking me home?"
I couldn't rightly say no, but short-time hotels were safer than your own bed.
Nothing happened. I was too loaded to have sex. Saved by my drive for excess.
So I’ve never really had a problem with TVs. I understand the medicines they take make them crazy. The psychological shift from man to woman isn’t easy either and I told Ort, “I wouldn’t trust one though. Not with money or your life, because they are between sexes and work with a different set of rules involving survival, but they tell me they can have sex all day long. Just what your boyfriend wants."
"I hate ka-toys." Ort's eyes narrowed to daggers. She was unforgiving tothe competition.
"You shouldn’t be too unhappy. You got a house, car, gold and let's face you didn't love him, right?" She was beyond listening to reason or excuses. “Love him for what? He stupid farang." Thai girls say that about a lot of men. "I go back go-go. Meet new farang. Not love no one. Only my baby. You want mia noi?"
Ort was 22. Her body was a solace for a middle-aged man search for youth. A fool I am, but not enough to fall for a girl thinking all men stupid. I wished her luck. Whatever man fell for her next would need it. "Love him for what? He stupid farang.” Thai girls say that about a lot of men. "I go back go-go. Meet new farang. Not love no one. Only my baby. You want mia noi?"
Ort was 22. Her body was a solace for a middle-aged man search for youth. A fool I am, but not enough to fall for a girl thinking all men stupid. I wished her luck. Whatever man fell for her next would need it.
No one comes to Pattaya for the water. Not the beaches, maybe the golf, but thousands of men past their prime arrive in the Last Babylon with expectations of fulfilling fantasies previously available only through fast-forward action of a porno DVD.
Girls. Girls Girls.
Pattaya has more girls than you can shake a stick at and almost all of them will say yes, but yes does not mean yes to everything.
CONDOM USE
“Feels like taking a shower with a raincoat.” Many men quote from an anonymous source about condoms.
Wearing a ‘French envelope’ might be not as pleasurable as bare-backing your tattooed and pierced sex kitten in a cheap short-time hotel off the Beach Road, but the casual tourist has to consider the risks of this action, which is not easy after swilling a dozen beers and ingesting 2 Viagra.
In the early 90s Thailand was beset by AIDS. NGOs blamed the pandemic on the sex trade. The real reason was that the DEA had eradicated opium plants and the hill tribes started shooting heroin with swapped needles. The sex trade was also at fault and the government waged a very effective publicity campaign to educate women of the benefits of using a condom.
Condoms are now a fact of life in Pattaya.
While not 100% effective, they cut down on the risks of catching anything you wouldn’t want from a toilet seat.
Many men complain about ‘rubberitis’ i.e. the touch of latex leading to dreaded loss of wood before coitus-a-g-go. I suggest cutting down on your alcohol consumption, having sex before 3am, or take a blue boy to adjust any chemical imbalance. (caution – it is rumored that scores of middle-aged farangs are admitted to the local hospitals after suffering a heart failure as an after-effect of taking a Viagra). While condoms diminish pleasure, you can still achieve ejaculation and that’s all men are really after in sex.
If a woman wants a friend, then she can buy a dog.
Here’s some pointers about Condom Use
Use latex condoms.
Brands such as Lifestyle, Trojans, Kimono, or Durex are usually reliable. Natural skin condoms feel good, but do not prevent diseases. If you or your partners are allergic to latex (it might give you a rash or irritation), try the polyurethane condom called Avanti.
Get the right size. In the USA the condom makers downsized their product one step to make men think they had bigger penises. You might not be the XXL you thought you were, so check the size first. Also some girls will offer you a smaller size if only to cut off the blood from its appointed destination. If the shoe doesn’t fit don’t wear it.
Lubricate!
Most condoms come with some lubrication inside. Whether you believe it not most of the women you bed in Pattaya are not into sex because you look like Brad Pitt. Spit is nice in your videos, but Thai girls think it’s disgusting. And butter despite Marlon Brando using it in LAST TANGO IN PARIS ruins hotel sheets.
For the pleasures of intercourse without discomfort, you will probably want to use additional lubricant on the outside of the condom… use only water-soluble lubricants that do not irritate you or your partner… never use petroleum-based lubricants or other oils or jellies because these will rot latex and cause damage to your condoms.
Use care to roll the condom down the shaft of your penis as soon as you get erect. (If you’re uncircumcised, you’ll probably need to pull your foreskin back before putting the condom on). Pinch the reservoir at the top of the condom so that there’s no air bubble trapped inside the condom (air bubbles can cause breakages). Some girls are orally adept at equipping your member and you’d never know it happened until after the moment of joy.
Beware of jewelry or sharp fingernails as these can cause small rips or tears in a condom (which later lead to breakages). That also goes for larger objects too.
Keep the condom firmly on your penis until you ejaculate. Then, if you are inside your partner withdraw and carefully remove the condom and dispose of it. Use a new condom each time you come inside your partner. Unless you are really cheap.
If you want a kid or a dose of the clap, try some bare-back bronco riding.
Nothing like that first burning sensation or getting a phone call from your teelat.
"We have to talk."
Law ke khun or up to you.
