Bangkok'ed - Prelude

I’ve come to realize that I have serious issues when it comes to having a smooth departure from an airport. Largely because 20 plus flight experiences wedged between my mental cavity of logic and absolute disregard for timing, I still keep flirting with the possibility of ‘almost’ missing my flight.

The flight was at 6.10pm. My understanding of check-in procedures is that we have to check in 2 hours in advance. Yet my comprehension of such a matter does not correlate to my desire to abide by such triviality.

3.45pm: I leave the office to head home to pack my bags. Yes, procrastination is a staple diet for my travel itinerary. Bags don’t deserve to be packed till you need to rush to the airport.

4.00pm: I reach home and contemplate over how many condoms would be an appropriate number to bring. I decide to go with 6.

4.15pm: I walk out of my estate to hail a cab.

4.50pm: I reach the terminal with an excess of an hour to spare. I am setting new records already.

5.05pm: I decide to head to the boarding gate.

5.07pm: I get distracted by the duty free store and contemplate over which fags to buy. I have not had to use my brain this much since the condom quandary.

5.15pm: I decide to try out my new cigarettes. Apparently green does not always symbolize menthol. I hate my latest purchase and I hate the colour green.

5.20pm: 50mins is a long time to wait. I start utilizing the free internet services.

5.45pm: The Internet connection is slow and I log on to my blog to see tons of complains on the tag board. I decide to ignore it and find porn. Porn is apparently banned by the proxy servers. Free Internet blows. Walking to the gate is now the next best option.

5.50pm: My gate is empty and I go from casual swagger to slight panic jog. The gate is EMPTY and there is a sign that reads, “Gate Close”.

5.51pm: I am now beyond 'slight panic jog' and well into ‘will shit my pants scared of missing the flight'.

I can't understand why my gate is closed when my flight states 6.10pm. Why would everyone be on the plane when the flight is at 6.10pm? Why would budget airlines fuck me up this badly when my flight is only at 6.10pm?

Then it hit me.

6.10pm isn’t the time for boarding the plane. It’s the time the plane takes off.

5.55pm: The attendant at the gate tells me to ‘run to the plane’. Seriously, hands up if you’ve ever heard any staff at the airport encouraging you to run out the tarmac to the plane. I believe that if I keep this up, I will get to chase after the plane on the runway very soon.

6.00pm: EVERYONE is seated. No one is storing luggage and no one is looking for seats. EVERYONE is ceremoniously seated. I am now the most hated person on the plane. I am now known as ‘the guy that delayed the take-off’.

And that was the final hour before I made my long awaited return to Bangkok. The city that started it all and co-incidentally, this was how I started this whole blog business, but that is another story for another day.

My return to Bangkok was conceived largely out of an impetus for a quick promise I made to one particular individual. The basis of my actions is still beyond the recall of rationality, given that I only just got back from Phuket barely a month ago and I was traveling to Bangkok alone without the intention of misbehaving.

Yes, we all make bad decisions in life. The only prevention from this imploding into a potential social suicidal holiday, was Niner and Scooby’s last minute decision to visit Bangkok. This as I believe, is largely due to the way I tickled them silly with tales of moral decadence, pretty faces and easy pickings. Trust me, I can sell you any travel destination if I really wanted to.

Alcohol, posh clubs and cheap drinks, it’s even easier for you to sell me a holiday. And so, the foray into debauchery was back in motion….

When Men Become Pussies

Everyone has THAT friend.

The one that brags about wearing the pants, about how he lives his life without surrendering to anyone and who continuously reminds you that his penis is the re-incarnation of some unknown Greek God – Enormoustheus.

I have a friend and his name is Blaque. If you’ve been religiously following the blog, you’d be familiar with him. In the instance where you might need a refresher, he was the one that took me on the 2 hour car ride and the one that had a problem staying sober for his birthday celebrations.

It’s always funny how men, well the grave majority of them, are denominated so depreciatively whenever they are in a relationship. They giggle like school girls having their first condom fitting class, they baby talk as if they lost a tongue and suddenly every word has to be repeated twice over.

“Dear dear, I miss miss you.”

If I hear this from you, you will be laughed at. In addition, I will threaten to cut off your testicles and sell them to Vietnamese soup restaurants or I’ll donate it to the handicap children for them to play fooseball with.

Now, the age-old question remains. When does a man lose his soul?

1. When he orders a nuclear strike on an innocent village.
2. When he kicks handicap children for leisure.
3. When he obeys everything his girlfriend says.

If you picked option 3, you are a genius and you should run for Presidency. You might also be Osama, but the important thing is getting the answer right.

For the ill-informed or those fortunate enough NOT to be personally acquainted with him, a brief run down is just what the doctor ordered.

To begin with, Blaque’s girlfriend never really got along with us well. She was the kind of girl that never made an effort to ‘blend’ in with the boys and always made it clear to Blaque that his priority list should be written by her. The world she dictates for him is ruled by dichotomy (She’s right, everyone else is wrong) and despotic authority. If you need to kill a fascist, you are allowed to throw stones at her.

Her lack of initiative, manners and over-riding list of flaws is however, met with cordial receptions on my end. I don’t hate her, but this girl doesn’t even have redeeming qualities like ‘looks’, ‘boobs’ or ‘hot ass’ to save her from my wrath. The only thing she has between me and my master hand throwing an uppercut at her, is Blaque.

It always pains me to see my friends erode all sense of integrity and self-value and submit (coerced or voluntarily) to every whim and fancy of their girlfriends. Piss them off and suddenly, you’re no longer her ‘Daddy Kitten’ and you’re back to being addressed on full name basis. You only need to recite your IC number at this roll call and I swear this would qualify as a detention barrack.

You see, you can subscribe to baby talking and bitch giggling and I won’t have any less respect for you as a man. Sure, I’ll laugh and tease, but you generally will not find me spitting at you intentionally.

The day you start losing the ability to make decisions for yourself, you have successfully completed the pussy transformation and all this without even surgical procedures. Welcome to Changi Village. I hope you enjoy your stay. Now, please bend over.

This is when men become pussies.

Every once in awhile you need to learn to say ‘no’. Tighten your Ho’ hand and swing it across their face (do remember to flick your wrist on impact), if they threaten to sulk or insist that you comply. The neutralist in me is emphasizing that this retaliation is trans-gendered.

I’m more forgiving if you have issues saying ‘no’ if you are a girl and you tend to submit to your man’s demands. That’s cos you are a girl and when you start brawling, you are going to end up on the losing end. Unless of course you happen to be conveniently carrying around nunchuckus or brass knuckles, then by all means, say ‘no’ all you want, even if they offer to pay for the meal.

I however, have no interest to address the cries of miserable women trapped in hellish relationships. The feminist in me is dormant today, so you are better off watching Oprah. I am today the harbinger of scorn for men who have lost their ability to make decisions on their own.

Firstly, any girl who stops you from meeting your friends whom you’ve not met up for in ages, is a witch. If I had my way and the McCarthy era still prevailed, I’ll suggest you burn her on a stake.

What fuck of a girlfriend would ever deny you time with friends? Raise your hand if you said, “a witch”. You get a point for that. If you mispronounced and shouted “Bitch”, you get two.

I was disgusted with Blaque for succumbing to his girl’s demand that he was not allowed to celebrate my birthday with me. He even had me speak to her on video call and she actually demanded, verbatim,

She: “NO, HE CANNOT GO! HE MUST COME HOME NOW!”

When I saw how Blaque tried to pacify her, I knew he had auction off his testicles. When he actually told me he couldn’t go because she didn’t want him to, I knew it went for $0.75 and it’s currently being used as bait for piranha fishing. Blaque had sold his soul and his life to some skanky anorexic buck toothed scarecrow.

I’m serious. If you put her in front of the Roman cathedral, you won’t even have to worry about pigeon droppings. If she stood at the vegetables section long enough, you’d wonder if the supermarket was having crow problems, that they needed to arrest the problem with a scarecrow.

I hope she reads this.

Secondly, if you give up your friends for your girlfriend, don’t expect us to be entirely thrilled when you have a relationship crisis and need your friends to pull you through. Sure, we’ll be there. Only just so that we can talk trash about your girl at the only time that you'll be in parallel acquiesce with me in referring to her as ‘That bitch’.

Lastly, since when did being in a relationship mean surrendering your rights to make decisions. Relationships thin the emotional fabric of people. You become so dependent that you sometimes naturalize yourself into believing it is ok to sacrifice friends. To exacerbate this disillusion, you submit even when you really don’t want to.

I was pissed at Blaque because as much as he really wanted to join us, he chose to go home to get his dick sucked by some Bugs Bunny reject. Or maybe he went back to suck her dick.

And he has even proposed to her. Reznor and I are thrilled because if they ever make it to the altar, I get to give him a carrot for a wedding gift and Reznor will probably be getting her the straw hat since it can get pretty hot while standing out in the fields all day.

When men surrender their sovereignty of choice, they lose the very axiom of being a man. If you constantly submit to your partner even against your will or interest, you will be laughed at. Maybe your friends are already laughing, but I will join in. Go wear a skirt, cut off your balls and prepare to suck dick for a living. You’d probably find more redemption this way.

The Phuket Return pt 5 The Airport Debacle

When it comes to traveling with LB, it seems that boarding time is but an empty bracket stated on the boarding pass to make up for our lack of insanely long surnames and absence of chic French middle names. It must be, because we never really seem to give a fuck about it.

If we thought the last trip with Huixx had taught us a lesson about punctuality, then we were definitely gravely mistaken in thinking that we had matured in that last 6 months. We nearly missed the plane then, and we sure as hell would have had this time round, had the flight not been characteristically delayed. Well, from what I hear, Budget Airs have problems keeping to schedules too. I sense a budding relationship already. Maybe frequent flyer miles would be good.

In truth, we were actually punctual for our check in. It was our decision to take the free shuttle service to T2 for Macs that left us stranded and faced with another sprint for the departure gate. Yes, we might very well be one of those idiots that hold up flight departures. I hate us too.

In retrospect, this was nothing and I am about to emphasize, NOTHING compared to the debacle on Sunday night when we had to take the flight back. Phuket has been uniformly successful in dramatizing our departures. I’ll have to credit it this much.

On the last trip, Huixx and Nikki boarded the wrong ferry back from Phi Phi and we nearly missed the flight back after having to tussle with the perpetual rush hour traffic at Phuket town.

This time, a little more matured, a lot more burnt but equally broke, we arranged for the airport transfer to pick us up earlier so that we wouldn’t have to always remember Phuket airport as running though customs.

I didn’t want to leave. I never do when I’m on holidays, so biding our goodbyes and throwing cheeky promises to be back again in two months only served to prolong my reluctance to return to reality. In addition, we also distributed the remainder of our duty free cigarettes to the reception ladies for being such darlings for just short of kicking the door down for morning calls. Personal services, don’t you just love it?

When we finally got to the airport, the check-in counter already had a line and it was moving faster than 100 year old grannies in clutches. The queue served up the familiar faces, most of which we vaguely remembered to be on the same flight over with us. Well logically so, since most holiday-makers out for a quick getaway would scribble a flight itinerary somewhat similar to ours; Thursday night departure, Sunday night return.

The other thing about dual party traveling is that it always helps that one person is more responsible than the other. In our case, I assume that role. The person who sets the alarm, the person who holds the passport, the person who keeps the money etc, except when I start drinking, then of course I have the mind of a 3 year old and LB can no longer trust me to even pee in the right cubicle.

Me: “Fuck man, you gotta learn to be more responsible..”
LB: “What the fuck are you talking about? I planned this trip!”
Me: “Babe, you ONLY bought the tickets. I booked the hotel and arranged for the transfers!”
LB: “BOOKING THE TICKETS IS PLANNING THE ENTIRE TRIP!”

The argument went on until it was our turn to check in, which took forever. Then something felt amiss.. it was taking too long.

We stuck our necks over the counter to see the lady running through a name list of the passengers scheduled for the flight.

She: “I can’t find your name…”
Me: “Try looking under ‘W’..”
She: “No sir, your name isn’t on it..”

She called the supervisor over for assistance and he promptly requested for our flight itinerary print out, of which I have NEVER read prior to this save for a quick glance when LB passed it to me for safe-keeping before we left Sinagpore.

Now surely there can’t be a problem. Surely LB could accomplish the menial task of booking the tickets. Surely he can’t be that stupid….

Supervisor: “Sorry sir, your ticket is for yesterday.”

There was no mistake about it. It was clear, even through his thick Thai accented excuse of an English language. The distinction of it was promptly met with mild protest and denial on my part. My reluctance to believe that I had been victimised by an act of idiocy and my eschewal to face the reality of being stranded at an airport, all crumbled at the explicit prints that were scorning me across the paper,

Departure: Saturday 2 September

Me: “YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME! HOW THE HELL DID YOU BOOK THE WRONG DATE?!”

The reality sank in faster than a porn starlet swallowing a load of cum. We had entirely missed our flight and it was now up to me salvage the situation. We quickly ran to the internet café across the counter, begged the bitch of an attendant to allow us to use the internet for 10mins on account that we had already missed our flight.

Me: “Seriously, you only had one task. And you fucked it up?!”
LB: “How come I book wrongly ah?”
Me: “Maybe cos you are a moron?!”

Well apparently, stupidity IS an airborne disease that will hit you out of nowhere, like chocolate cravings, horniness and necrophilia. LB, on the other was throwing out words like, “fate” and “final destination” as defense for this potential “Screw-Up of the Year”.

I glanced at my watch.

Me: “If we make it back now, we can still hit the clubs.”
LB: “Let’s go!”

I was pissed at having to spend an additional SGD160.00 as compensation for stupidity, but if you know me, you’ll know that I take money very lightly and I can never stay angry at LB. Positively speaking, I was buying an additional night of debauchery and you can’t place a price tag on such nights.

LB: “Fated one lei…”

And perhaps LB was right. I wasn’t prepared to leave. Not when there were things left undone at this paradise we’ve fondly come to embrace as the City of Vice.

Me: “We are going back to the hotel, deny everything that has happened, hit the clubs and get sloshed.”

LB giggled in approval. The last night was going to be wild. And like when we came, the night was going to be engaged upon with the same voracity for madness. We left our continence back at the hotel, surrendered our rationality to alcohol and re-indulged in the sport we love so much,

Dynamite Fishing.

The Phuket Return - The Oil Massage Debacle

There are several events in life that are calendar marked for mental scarring, like having your nose kicked, buffet lunches with Whales and saying your wedding vows. Given the theatrical vividity of the last oil massage, I’m safely adding that to the list.

When we decided on having a massage with Seiko and Michie, we failed to anticipate several important considerations. Being,

1. LB and I were very badly burnt as a consequence of a day by the beach without the pharmaceutical prescription of sun-block. ‘Skin cancer’ might be a myth like dengue fever and Eskimos, despite what Discovery Channel says, but sun burnt is VERY real.

2. Oil massage attire.

3. Quality of masseuse. By that I’m strictly judging on ample figure, decent looks and fingers so amazingly strong, they could massage a Peugeot into a Maserati.

LB and I finally opted for an oil massage. It was the only logical option since it was humanely impossible to tolerate a rub without lubrication, especially when our backs threatened to bleed and break out in blisters. Paying for the laundry charges is not an option.

The lady led us to the beds, drew the curtains and instructed us to change out of our clothes. We stripped to our boxers only to be corrected again that we needed to be naked. If I ever did frown when I discovered I had to strip completely, I might have cried when I discovered my masseuse was the same auntie that made my bed. If this was Singapore, her day job could have been counter duties at Macdonald’s.

The only thing that consoled me was LB’s masseuse, which turned out to be a man. The thought of having another man run his fingers down my back and round my groin was inconceivably preposterous. The only other option for this is suicide. I’m not homophobic, but my body is a sacred temple, which I will only allow alcohol and women to pillage.

When my masseuse worked the lower thigh, I swore I felt her fingers periodically brush against my nuts. Her fingers were continuously pulling off near my ass-crack and she had the tendency to work tirelessly on my inner thighs.

While this wasn’t a solicitation for sex (I know for sure. I had an offer from some girl for a free massage in exchange for fucking her the following day. True story.), the only thing that was keeping the erotic value of this from escalating, was that I was giggling from watching the guy do the same to LB.

It was hilarious because I knew how homophobic LB gets and I was amazed that he hadn’t once jumped out of bed or yelled incomprehensible profanities at the guy. If my masseuse massaged my ass, the guy would massage LB’s ass 30 seconds later, so if my lady cupped my nuts, I knew I only needed 30 seconds before LB was going to throw a punch.

Suddenly, I was relieved and almost guilty of elation that was laced with so much sadism, that I almost felt bad for laughing at LB’s plight. For the first time, I was so happy to have my masseuse that I was prepared to let her blow me for free. Eyes closed, lights out and a paper bag over her head of course.

Seiko and Michie were giggling so loudly from the opposite beds that I wondered if their cubicles came with complimentary dildos. I was still grinning at LB and he was still pretending to be sleeping. This was going to be his longest hour ever,

When it finally ended and the two masseuse left the cubicle, LB rose with so much contempt on his face, I knew the barrage of profanities would punctuate every sentence he unleashed.

LB: “Na bei chee bye. WHERE THE FUCK DID THE GUY COME FROM?!?! WHY WAS THERE A FUCKNG GUY MASSAGING ME?!”

Me: “HHAHAHAHA..did you…Did you get an erection? HAHAHA”

LB: “FUCK YOU UNDERSTAND!”

The Phuket Return - The Dating

The second day was the kind of day that confused me about the direction we were taking the holiday to. The initial draft had the words, ‘unbridled fun’ and ‘leave your conscience at home’, scribbled somewhere along the mission statement and yet now it seemed almost as if we had enrolled in some social dating event.

The Korean Sisters

It was like almost a reminiscence of the first Korean sister encounter we had years back only that this was set in Phuket, they were far less intoxicated and they dragged around a lot more innocence than the last two we met.

I took one glance and caught LB making conversation with one of them from the corner of my eye. I would have given him the, “Damn! You got game grin” but I was in a nice shirt, battling fatigue and the adopted persona I had was, Mr Just-had-Botex-so-can’t-smile.

Meet So Myung and Cheong Hee. – sacrificial lambs to be perhaps, but none of us was pushing this anymore than setting it up to be some Laissez faire luncheon. To be impartially objective, the girls were decently pretty and engaging enough for me not to be upset over the lack of cleavages. They were the very mold you’d find at your Korean neighbourhood mini-mart; the kind you knew had kimchi listed as a staple diet from a mile away.

It was the sort of cordial meeting that slowly grew into ease and induced familiarity. The body language was now the malleable sub-set that was blossoming from firm introductory handshake to playful punches one another’s stomach. Given enough alcohol, I would have sworn we would be competing on blowing the biggest condom-balloon.

That was not to be. Not when time was against us and sobriety still ruled people with trivial inhibitions. When they did leave however, we were almost inconsolable for the following half a min. We bade farewell in solemn silence, then decided to find other native lives to ruin.

The Japanese Girls

I almost died once in Phuket. That was when we were innocently sipping coffee by the café and in came two Japanese ladies. My heart stopped. I gawked. Paused. Then decided I want to spend the rest of my life tying shoelaces for her.

Meet Michie (pronounced, Mi-Chee-aye) and Seiko (pronounced as Butterfly-buckles-at-the-knees-everytime-she-smiles).

LB shoots me a grin,

LB: “Fuck dude. You are so fucked.”

LB knew the look on my face. It was the very kind that would steer the conversation to some point where I would throw in vulgarities like, “I’m in love”. He knew I was sold, and that his new purpose now was to wing for me, even though her friend wasn’t even remotely attractive enough for him to unbuckle his belt for.

Me: “Babe, she’s damn cute.”

I was smiling so widely, all I needed was a tail and a stripped t-shirt and I could have qualified as the Cheshire cat.

Eons later, after a bombardment of egging from LB and the assistance of a waitress, I finally made my way over to engage in a conversation that I already knew was going to be laboured and very elementary.

It was the usual affair of how long we were staying for, where we came from and what we were going to do. We lied about a vast majority of those. No one really bothers too much about details when you are on holiday.

They left for Phi Phi Island the next morning, but fate finally got its act together this time and re-arranged a rather fateful reunion for us. It came 10 mins following the departure of the Korean Sisters and I took this as a cue to marry Seiko and subject the remaining of my life to eating raw seafood.

Seiko was the kind I could observe all day. A plethora of sunshine and animated expression. The very kind that randomly threw up movie catchphrases and laughed candidly at our attempts on speaking Japanese. The very kind I would lose practicality and rationality with.

Michie was the kind that, would get free meals because she has a hot friend. In Butterfly’s clubbing terminology, she would register under, ‘Stock Clearing’.

The chemistry over dinner was great. It was almost as if we were the best of friends, except that we spoke different languages, had problems with interpretation and we laughed at half of the things we had no idea on what was being said. Half of the time I was laughing because they were laughing and I’m usually the fastest at catching jokes. I guess in Japan, they laugh before comprehension.

One very interesting fact that Seiko brought up over the issue of having tattoos in Japan was that, if you have a tattoo, you are banned from the public swimming pools and hot springs.

Seiko: “Promise you won’t do any more tattoos.”

She stuck her pinkie out at me, waiting for me to hook it for a promise. LB shot me the, “let’s see you get out of this shit” look. He knew very well my desire for a fourth and how I’d allowed myself to be tied by promises.

Me: “You come Singapore in December. And I won’t put another tattoo.”

She laughed, then retracted her finger.

Dinner was however, only the appetizer for the now infamous Oil Massage debacle. Everything was going to be a nugatory comparisson against this for the night...

Chong Hee. L'il sis, wild child, Butterfly's best winging experience.

So Myung. Older sis. LB's only reason to give up hook up proposals.

The Phuket Return Pt 2 - The 'God Theory'

For the way we engaged the first night, the sustenance and emulation of it were already facing heavy contention from fatigue and the impending risk of out stripping our monetary resources.

The second day itself almost fully assimilated us into being genuine holidaymakers. The absence of the pumping bass, the distraction of girls in tight skirts, and suddenly we are subverted in normalcy. The routine beach trips (even if it was an excuse to bikini watch), the occasional plunge into the sea (even if it was to relieve ourselves) and the desire for a bronze tan. Maybe life isn’t entirely about alcohol after all.

It came to a point where we almost swore there was a diabolical scheme hedged to preclude us from a second venereal trail. In defense, we weren’t deliberately looking for an adventure, but we’ve been around long ago to know that veneries cannot be sought. They come to you.

But was there a divine intervention that would keep the trip from mellowing? Where are all the promised debauchery we signed up for?

And we came out with the ‘God Theory’

LB: “God must be saying ‘HAHAHAHA LOOK AT THOSE FOOLS’”
Me: “Ya and he probably said, ‘Let’s give them a wild night and bait those idiots’. And we took it.."

God must probably have went,

“Hmm, let’s give these two boys two women and see what they do with it. Oh, and we’ll make LB interested in one of them. And maybe we’ll just give Butterfly some alcohol. With alcohol, that idiot thinks everything is a good idea.”

It wasn’t that we weren’t enjoying any less, but if we had to continue the remain trip without a refreshed dose of carnal incontinence, I swear LB and I were going to give each other sympathy handjobs over meals. Suddenly, Phuket sucks.

And then it all got better..

The great thing about LB and me is that we compliment each other almost perfectly. On nights where I have a bad game, he steps up almost immediately to arrest the slide. Which is where the wingman comes in. The wingman’s importance cannot be undermined, nor can it be unduly discounted.

The wingman shadows the fisher (the one with more game) with the collective purposes of,

1. Prevent the not so hot friend from cock blocking, by keeping her occupied.
2. Provide the extra cock if needed.
3. Make sure the fisher closes*.

*Close: [def:/] : To stop wasting money and time on drinks and trivial pleasantries and proceed back to the room.

When we plucked two home the night before, we thought we played the A-game, but having two foreigners to go club hopping with us, LB was quickly becoming my favourite person.

Meet the Korean Sisters.... Phuket is back to being a great place.

The Phuket Return - Pt 1

There are certain paradises on earth that are spared the backlashes of time. Phuket is one such utopic sanctuary. There is no consequence of an ending weekend, the notion of 'Monday blues' is a myth the natives sing songs about and everyday here is known only as, Phuketday.

It's been quite a while since I've had anticipation for anything as much as I did for this trip. Not since religiously waiting every Monday for Entourage. The Phuket return symbolised so much for LB and me. While we disguised it as an excuse to celebrate our birthdays away from Singapore, truth be that the only reason we were heading there was to indulge skull deep in tribal hedonism.

Phuket was the perfect foil. Decently nice beach (with occassional nice boobs), cheap food, streets lined with neon lights that commercialized (and commodify) sex, clubs with such imbalance of female to male ratio unprecedented since the great Feminist Walk and the list runs on.

The only thing that stopped us from shouting, "LET'S GO GET LAID!" was the stern immigration guard that eyed us with enough contempt to accuse eunuchs of impregnation. Yes, we are getting laid, stealing hearts and knocking back tequila without a conscience. Mother's should keep your daughters home while we are here. We are daring consequence to catch up to us.

With a delayed flight that set us back by half an hour, the immediate plan was now to check in, save on the shower and make our way straight to the club. This was a routine LB and I have been reasonably seasoned with and it helped that we already knew the places to go, so we were going to leave the reconnaissance for tomorrow.

Banana - (voted best club in Phuket by me two times over), was the designated site for operation 'Dynamite Fishing'. It's so easy to hook up in the clubs there that I almost feel guilty for lying about myself.

On a regular night, we can adopt up to 3 identities. I have been a children's book writer, an artist and a photographer. LB's been a pilot, a teacher and a policeman. We love how everyone buys our bullshit.

One moment we are knocking back shots with one group of girls at the bar and the next hour, we are chatting up 3 girls at the dance floor. LB nudged me the same way he does when he spots a fuck worthy target. My immediate response to this is usually to scan her friend(s) for a reason to keep my pants down. Substantially tanked and intoxicated by the smell of sex, I decided that my birthday is best spent winging for LB and close the night with the elusive 'foursome'.

LB's girl looked absolutely hot under club lights, but we were awfully familiar with post-club appearances so we started finding contingency attributes like 'perky butt' and 'huge boobs'. Her friend had a sharp nose, which was practically the only thing I was concerned with at the moment since her face was her only hugely plus point for me.

Dynamite Fishing : [def:] The process of multiple introductions, flirting and speed smiling. There is no existence of singularity or exclusivity. The best of the litter will eventaully be picked.

The thing about dynamite fishing is that you eventually leave yourself vulnerable for previous pickups to breath down your necks and attempt a cock-block. However, the great thing is that when a girl really wants to get into your pants, they are usually deaf. Just like how people in love are stupidly blind.

Their names were Lek and Lu, the sacrificial lambs to initiate us back into Phuketism - the art of absolute debauchery.

The only problem now was to maneuver this from the vanilla one on one action to the two on two bedlam fest that has eluded us once over. Getting a chick to head back to your hotel is akin to bargaining for that Redbull T-shirt. But getting your chick to consent to slugging it out while her friend and your friend is banging within breaths from you? Now that would be asking for a free t-shirt.

When we finally got back to the room, the familiar awkardness loomed. Maybe it was the dissipation of alcohol or the brightly litted room, or the fact that none of us were adequately well educated in the etiquettes of foursome demeanour. Nonetheless, there was this resolute cause to wrestle the awkwardness into submission.

LB smiled and pulled the sheets off. Lu moaned away almost as if to lullaby the others. Lek tried to play coy which was met with gross disapproval and Butterfly was happy for this accidental birthday present.

Day one accomplished, but there was still much of Phuket that needed to be conquered.