The crowd was a mix. Hard-core hard-ups. Curious tourists. Married couples. Thais, Japanese, Americans, Italians, Germans, Australians — a horny United Nations. In a corner, people cheered a sexual act that defied both belief and biological realities. Ripley’s, Max thought. Or even Guinness. Two naked women were on their hands and knees, one Asian, one black. They were — Jesus, he couldn’t believe it — shooting bananas across the room with their vaginas. Bananas, for chrissake. A man marked the spot where they landed, measuring the distance traveled like he was working the discus toss at the Olympics. Another man kept loading their vaginas with bananas, as though the two women were human grenade launchers. Banana after banana rocketed across the room to the roar of the crowd.
Max turned away.
He sat at the bar in a seat that spun all the way around. Max liked it and began to twirl himself like a kid at a diner. Nearly two seconds passed before a Thai girl approached him, dressed in Classical American Hooker Drag. Tank top with satin shorts that not only rode up the crotch but actually dug a deeper crevice. The whores varied in age, but this one looked like she had just gotten a hold of Mommy’s makeup case.
“Hi,” she said.
She was no more than fifteen and had smooth, beautiful skin. Her looks were startling fresh and engaging, in the baby-doll mode so many men found attractive.
“Hi.”
Her smile was wide, bright, and somehow cunning. “You buy me drink?”
“Why not? What would you like?”
“What you having?”
“Vodka on the rocks.”
“I have same, please.”
Max signaled the bartender and gave him the order. The bill came to twelve dollars — five dollars for his drink, seven for the girl’s. Before Max could protest, the bartender pointed to the sign. “Beer—$3 Liquor—$5 Hostess Drinks—$7.”
Hostess?
“What your name?” she asked.
“Max.”
“Nice name. You live in America, Max?”
He began to twist his hair around his finger. “Yes.”
“Nice place, no?”
“I like it.”
“How come you always moving, Max?”
“We call it fidgeting.”
“How come you always fidgeting, Max?”
“Don’t know.”
“You in Bangkok on business or pleasure?”
Max tried to smile, tried to get into the role of adventurous womanizer. It wasn’t him. “A little of both, if you get my meaning.” He winked pitifully.
Jesus.
Her tiny hand found its way to his leg. “You like me, Max?” She licked the air as though it were an ice-cream cone and leaned forward. Her eyes burrowed into his until he had to turn away.
“Very much.”
“How much pleasure you want, Max?”
“A hundred dollars’ worth,” he said, “to start.”
She nodded. “What you like?”
Max cleared his throat. “The Kink Room.”
She froze. “You been here before, Max?”
“No. A friend told me about it.”
She nodded again, more professional now. “Kink Room expensive.”
“I can pay.”
Yet another nod. Her hand was about a millimeter away from his groin now. Her very long, red-painted fingernails skimmed the surface of his pants with a feathery stroke. Surprisingly, something close to arousal crept in. Her touch was soothing, relaxing. It felt frighteningly good — sort of strange for a man who usually got excited by male bodybuilders. Not that Max had never been with women. He had. He just preferred men, that’s all.
She moved her hand away. “Pay man over there, Max, and then we go upstairs. We have much fun together. I tear you whole world apart.”
He nodded, wondering if that was better than having his head spin all the way around. Tough choice.
He bit down on a little piece of skin hanging off his fingertip and did as he was instructed. The young pimp looked like a welterweight contender — small, muscular, without an ounce of body fat.
“How kinky you want it?”
“Very.”
“You sure you want Kink Room?” the pimp asked. “Very expensive. Very dangerous.”
“I’m sure. How much?”
“Two hundred dollars for entrance. But if you want to use red wall, extra. Much extra. You let me know, okay?”
The red wall?
After a few moments of negotiating, they settled on a price tag of $175.
Max paid the money. Immediately, the Thai girl appeared at his side and led him up the stairs, whispering the usual whore expressions about what fun they were going to have and what a hunk he was.
“What is your name?” he interrupted her.
“Bambi.”
A traditional Thai name.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“For what?”
Again, the ice-cream-cone lick. “To make you happy.”
“Why do you do this, Bambi?”
“Do what?”
The oppressive heat was even worse here than downstairs. They were in the darkened hallway now, the painting chipped, the lighting nearly nonexistent. Max shuddered as they passed the door in the corner with a “Do Not Enter” sign stapled to it. He managed not to hesitate. “Prostitute yourself.”
She looked at him. “Why?”
“Just asking. You seem like an intelligent—”
For a brief moment the smile disappeared and he could see the naked hatred underneath it. “You going to take me away from all this, Max?” A touch of scorn had slipped into her voice. But then the moment was over. Like a candle that had flickered, the smile came back and seemed to brighten. “Come,” she said. “I will be your fantasy. Then you go home happy, okay?”
She opened the door. The first thing that hit him was the odor. Some sort of cherry room freshener had been sprayed in heavy doses, trying to conceal the still unmistakably foul smell of… of sleaze. Sleaze permeated every part of the room, as if the very acts had nestled into the walls like thousands of tiny cockroaches, rotting the foundations. Max shivered.
Where did his unease come from? he wondered. He had been in bathhouses, even heavy-duty mass orgies, and yet something about this room intimidated him. There was just something so… so blatantly dehumanizing about it.
As far as the physical layout, well, suffice to say that room was aptly named the Kink Room. On one wall hung dildos, lots of them, of shapes and sizes that boggled the imagination. Some were barely phallic. Whips, chains, handcuffs, ropes, straitjackets, leather masks, bondage and submission devices of all sorts covered shelves
