Day Three, Continued
I met with The Baron and On Nutter at Azzuro, where I enjoyed a light bruschetta, followed by a splendid lasagna.
“Are you going to finish that?” asked On Nutter.
“Yes,” said I.
He wept, quietly, into his tiramisu.
We also managed to drink 3 more bottles of wine with dinner again, but I was assured that since we were on holiday, they didn’t count.
After the meal, we moved onto Lollipop – a medium-sized bar with friendly but plain-looking medium-sized girls. The Baron lightened the mood by buying a bucket of ping pong balls. Which he threw at the ceiling, predictably causing mayhem.
I don’t think you’re supposed to throw the actual tin bucket. Nobody seemed to mind, though.
Next up was Champagne, I think. There was precisely one hot girl, but on further inspection she had a tattoo on her left tit, and a thin scar on her chin. I’d have left her on the stage in a Bangkok gogo for either of those grotesque deformities, but things were getting desperate. She didn’t seem remotely interested though, avoiding my gaze, and even I can recognise the futility in that situation.
We left The Baron in Champagne, and On Nutter and I tried Crystal Palace, where, bizarrely enough The Thai Penthouse Girls (“Direct from Bangkok!”) were the star attraction. Hilarious. I spoke to one in Thai, she boggled. There was a queue to have your photo taken with them, which amused us no end.
From there to Tropix, which was just awful. One girl had the worst stretch-marks I have ever seen in my life. Cartoon tombstones adorned the back wall behind the stage, in Halloween style. They should bury the bar instead. The lineup was just beyond grim, and although this was the first bar in which we’d seen topless girls (with painted-on tops), it just was not in the slightest bit alluring. Any of these girls would look infinitely more attractive in a burqa. Enough…
From there to Las Vegas, where – again – a couple of decent-looking girls did their very best to avoid my gaze. Had I somehow contracted leprosy without realising it? Looking around any of these bars, all I could see in terms of alternatives were grizzled be-mulleted Americans, or that saddest of sights – bald men with ponytails.
Very few were under 40, or even 50. Without disappearing completely up my own arse, I’m not the most hideous of creatures. Whilst the fact that I could still lose a few pounds is well documented, I do still require a sturdy belt to hold up my 34″ waist jeans. I’m not Meat Loaf. The “Brad Pitt effect” is well-documented, but in most Angeles gogos I felt more like Brad Dourif…
We were going to walk straight past the gaudily-lit Eager Beavers, until I heard the words “blow” and “job” coming from the mouth of one of the door girls, in that order, and aimed in my direction. In we went – words were had, and a (sadly less than stellar-looking) girl was beckoned. She was soon under my table, pumping away as I watched the lineup – this wasn’t a hole-in-the-wall short-time bar, this was just another regular gogo. With extras.
Of course I had to buy her a drink. But the door girl wanted one too. “Buy me drink because I tell you about blow job, I not lie”, she said.
The mamasan informed me she would also appreciate one, because “my daughter suck your dick, you buy me drink”.
I don’t know whether she was really the mamasan’s daughter. I hope not. That would be weird.
Prices are so cheap in Angeles that I think I bought the round anyway.
She was pretty good, to be fair, and was at one point slurping with such gusto that I began to worry that On Nutter might ask her whether she was going to finish it…
Still, sterling as the work was, I wasn’t about to blow my load in the middle of a gogo bar, and had no intention of taking the girl under the table home with me.
Once again, I became frustrated that none of the few decent-looking girls in the club would even make eye contact. Looking back, this is probably due to the fact that there was a fat waitress under the table sucking my cock, but this angle somehow escaped me at the time.
I ended up, I’m ashamed to admit, drunkenly grumbling to the mamasan that surely I was the best-looking prospect in the bar, and that the girls were idiots for avoiding me.
I left On Nutter to his own devices, and sullenly stomped down Fields Avenue in the direction of our hotel. Where, outside one of the gogos, the most beautiful girl I’d seen all week took my arm, and beckoned me inside. I accepted, but told her she’d have to join me for a drink. She looked thrilled.
Within moments, we were gazing stupidly into each others eyes, and she said “yes” before I even finished asking her to come back to the hotel with me.
Anyway, she needs a name, and so I shall call her Martha. Partly because that’s the kind of corny, old-fashioned name that most Filipina girls seem to have, and partly as a tribute to the classic 19th episode of the third (1966-67) season of a certain antiquated aquatic TV show.
Did you see what I did there?
Yes. I am funny.
Day Four – Paradise Regained
After a morning round which proved even more enjoyable than the night before’s drunken victorious pillaging of the most shaggable girl I’d seen in days, we moved onto the afternoon rounds, and eventually made it to the pool for breakfast with On Nutter at 4.50pm.
“Is he your Dad?” asked Martha.
“No”, I said.
I went for the bacon and eggs breakfast – black pudding and fried mushrooms were both conspicious by their absence from Angeles City’s breakfast menus. Something must be done. “Breakfast” arrived a little after 5pm. I have no shame.
Martha had ordered the chop suey, which looked pretty good. On Nutter thought so too.
“Are you going to finish that?” he asked, at an appropriate lull.
She shyly shook her head, and pushed the plate over to him.
We spent an hour or so watching the other sex tourists frolicking in the pool with their hookers. Some of them looked capable even of lowering the tone at a Khao San Road street stall.
Martha was gazing dreamily at me.
“You look like Shane. From Westlife.” she said.
We finally left the pool a little after 6pm, as the sun was setting. Martha had to work, but there was no way I was going to resort to the lottery of Angeles gogo bars again. I’d seen the odds. I slipped 1,500 pesos into her hand, told her to pay her own barfine, and that I’d see her later.
Just time to return to the room, catch up on a few websites, watch some Wile E. Coyote cartoons on the iPod, and generally chill ahead of dinner.
On Nutter and I had decided to dine at a Swiss restaurant, where we both took the day’s special – weiner schnitzel. Nice, but a little overwhelming, particularly as I’d had an obscenely late breakfast.
“Are you going to finish that?” asked On Nutter.
“All yours”, I said, totally stuffed.
It was time to hit the bars – this time round, a markedly different experience, since I already knew I’d be taking Martha home again. I was partly able to relax and enjoy it more, knowing that there was no pressure to find anyone beddable. But also partly on edge, in case I saw anyone more attractive than her…
I shouldn’t have worried. We started at Genesis, where we’d been the night before, but got very little attention on this visit. On the previous night, On Nutter had been performing his fortune-telling routine. He professes to be able to read palms. He can’t really, of course, but this doesn’t stop him from studying the proffered palms of bargirls, furrowing his brow, and announcing that they will marry a rich man from England, or Korea, or Germany, or Iraq, or Ethiopia, depending on whether he likes the girl or not.
On our first visit to Genesis, he’d done “readings” for about ten girls. He had told me that on his first trip to Angeles, four years previously, he’d actually had a queue of girls stretching out of the door of one bar. If you thought the Thais were superstitious, the Filipinos are something else altogether.
We moved on, anyway, to Cambodia Club. Decorated like an old Khmer temple, this was an attractive bar, entirely spoilt for our visit by a gang of marauding American squaddies prancing around with their shirts off and generally spoiling the view. The girls actually danced topless here, with no body paint in sight. Which was a very nice surprise, but unfortunately the presence of GI Joe and pals ensured that we left after one beer.
Next up was Club Asia, probably the biggest bar we visited. Two rooms with huge stages contained some of the hottest girls I’d seen in Angeles. This bar was definitely targetting the Asian market – Japanese and Koreans, mostly, and white customers were scarce.
We didn’t hang around for long – Martha had sent me an SMS asking when I was going to pick her up, and I didn’t want to keep her hanging around – but I was more impressed by this bar than any others on the trip so far.
We headed back up Fields Avenue to collect Martha from her bar, and moved on to Voodoo – a 24hr gogo bar. The dancers work shifts, so there’s always a team on the go at any hour of day or night. The lineup was pretty poor when we hit it though, so one and out.
We looked into Vortex, right at the end of the street, but it was completely empty. And so back to Club Asia, for another gawp at the finest lineup in town. Some taller, pale girls here, some of whom wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Bangkok G-Club. I pointed one out to On Nutter, who shook his head. “I like short, brown girls”, he said. No accounting for taste.
Finally, we had a couple of beers in the Dirty Duck – On Nutter “read” a few more palms, Martha and I had a few more San Miguel Lights, and eventually moved on, leaving On Nutter behind with a queue of superstitious bargirls, eager to discover what nationality their future husbands would be.
Some chicken fingers and loaded potato skins from Kokomo’s rounded off the night for Martha and I, and it was time to head back to the hotel for some rumpy pumpy, and some sleep.
Angeles isn’t all that bad, really…