Tag Archives: travel story

Tales From The Wise Sloth: The Very Gay Cabaret

In 2006 I was stationed in Hawaii in the U.S. Air Force. The first day I arrived on Oahu, I met the woman who would become my first and only ex wife. About a year and a half later, one evening, I was extremely drunk in that overly emotional kind of way where you hang onto your friend’s shoulder shouting, “I love you, bro.” In that state of mind, I slurred to her, “Baby, I’lllll take youze anywhere in the worlddd you wanna go. Just name the place, and I’ll fly you there.”

Lucidly, she snapped back, “Okay. I want to go to Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand.”

Wait. What?

“Fuck,” I thought. “That’s not exactly what I meant…. But, oh well. Screw it.” A month later, I’d filed my request for three weeks of leave and booked a guided tour across Asia through a travel agency at Hickam Air Force Base.

I’d already spent four years living in Europe, where I would often just drive in a random direction Friday afternoon, stop in a town that looked interesting, and sleep in my car. So I was no amateur when it came to traveling, but I didn’t know anything about Asia. So I decided I should have someone walk me through my first experience.

The big day finally came, and we boarded a plane heading West to “The East.” Stop and think about that for a minute. It’ll make sense eventually.

Even though everyone told me I was crazy for going to Thailand with my committed partner, we flew to Bangkok, where, despite my best intentions, my story would still involve dozens of lady boys.

When we landed, we were met by a tour guide at the airport holding a sign with my last name written on it, just like in the movies, which made me feel like a celebrity. He drove us to a gigantic five star hotel in the deepest, darkest bowels of Bangkok. Our room was on the 15th floor with an amazing view of the air conditioning units on the building next-door.

Over the next week, our tour guide drove us around the city to all the biggest tourist traps. We visited a 5-story flea market with more exotic, shiny knick knacks than you could fill a thousand shipping containers with. We paid monks $5 to see a golden Buddha statue worth enough money to end poverty and fed a ravenous horde of catfish from a shaky skiff on the polluted river that wound through the city.

As our guide shuttled us around the city, we bombarded him with every question imaginable about Thailand’s history, current events, and all things sociological, political, economic, and anthropological. I could tell he genuinely enjoyed the fact that we wanted to know all of Thailand’s deepest truths. We must have been a breath of fresh air compared to the average loud-mouthed, vapid, entitled American Karens he was usually saddled with.

Everyday, when we took the elevator down from our hotel room to meet our guide, we’d walk past a giant marquee sign in the hotel lobby that read, “Cabaret” in big Broadway light bulbs. Underneath the sign was a 15-foot-wide set of stairs leading down to a basement auditorium. We couldn’t not be intrigued. So one day we asked the front desk clerk how much the cabaret show cost, and she said $150 U.S. dollars.

My initial reaction was, “Yeah, fuck that.” However, we were on vacation, after all. The next morning, I asked our tour guide if he knew anything about the show and if it was worth the obscene price. Immediately, his eyes lit up, and he assured us it was fantastic and absolutely worth every penny. He endorsed the show so enthusiastically, I decided to splurge on it against my better judgement.

The last night we were in Thailand we bought tickets to the 11pm showing. After having a few warm up drinks in our hotel room, we made our way downstairs. I expected to walk into a cramped, seedy basement, but the stage and stadium seating were bigger than the auditorium in my high school. The light and sound systems must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. It was almost as impressive as the Moulin Rouge!

A sharply dressed bellhop (yes, that’s one word, not two) led us to our seats, and we sat down with high expectations. Before the show started, a waitress came by and sold us some overpriced beer and wine, and we settled in for a night we’d never forget.

Halfway through my first beer, the overhead lights dimmed, and a spotlight cracked on, illuminating a thin, middle aged Thai man wearing high heels, panty hose, panties, and a tasteful black corset. If you need a visual image, he basically looked like A Thai version of Tim Curry from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

…and that’s fine. I’m open minded. I traveled all the way to Thailand for a cultural experience, and I was getting exactly that; I was rolling with it.

Honestly, at first I was shocked, but then I was like, “Okay. What do you got for us, Tim?”

Throughout his monologue, and for the rest of the night, he kept saying, “Ladies and Gentlemen,” but he obviously only knew enough English to get through his script, and he couldn’t pronounce the letter “L.” So he kept saying, “Radies and Gent—-men.” I don’t hold that against him. It just stands out in my memory and was kind of perfect for the situation.

Well, for the next two hours, in his broken English, “Tim” introduced us to a parade of transvestites in various stages of the transition process who all regaled us by lip-singing American pop songs that you would likely hear in an American strip club circa 2007. The whole time I remember thinking, “GOD DAMN IT! I DIDN’T COME ALL THE WAY TO THAILAND TO LISTEN TO AMERICAN POP MUSIC!”

In between acts, a chorus line of big booby corset-ed hot chicks and more men in matching black, lacy corsets would come out and do the can-can dance… or whatever.

So… that was weird. A dozen Thai beers later, the $300+ episode of the Twilight Zone ended. Tim and his friends took a bow. The spotlight shut off, and the overhead lights came on.

Silently, we drifted upstairs to the lobby elevator and returned to our suite overlooking the dingy brick wall next-door. It was only after I brushed my teeth that I asked out loud, “What the fuck was that?”

The next morning we met our guide in front of the hotel. His assistant loaded all our luggage into the back of the van, and we headed towards the airport. After our guide navigated us out of the cramped backstreets of the tourist district and found a straight road, he turned around and asked gleefully, “Did you see the cabaret? How did you like it?”

I replied sheepishly, “Uh, yeah. It was interesting. I guess my only complaint is that I wish there were more hot chicks in it.?.?.”

He smiled as big as the Joker from the 1970’s Batman series and shouted, “HAHAAAAA!!!! They were ALL MEN!!!!!!”

Now… I’m all for respect and equality of everyone, but his intentions were malicious.

That makes him the worst tour guide ever.

In retrospect though, the story was worth $300.

Still, he was the only person we didn’t tip on that trip.

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Tales From The Wise Sloth: My First Massage

I enlisted in the U.S. Air Force in the year 2000. After 6 months of training I was sent to my first duty station, Aviano Air Force Base, Italy. A year or so later, I met a wonderful, beautiful Italian girl who I nicknamed “Pulcina.”

I got a 3-day weekend pass for New Years of 2002. So Pulcina convinced me to take a nice vacation to Lake Bled in Slovenia. We rented a bed and breakfast from a polite Slovenian couple who gave us a soft bed and standard cheese and meat breakfasts.

It didn’t take long to walk all around town, visit all the tourist shops, and take a ferry to the cathedral on the island in the middle of the lake. The entire experience was majestic, but since our vacation took place in the dead of winter, we were freezing stiff the whole time.

Fortunately, while driving to and from the tourist sites, we kept passing a large hotel that advertised they had a swimming pool inside. We both knew European hotels would often allow the public to use their pool for a small fee, and we were desperate for that summer time feeling relief from the oppressive Slovenian winter. In fact, we predicted we’d have this chance and both brought bathing suits. So, on the final day of our vacation, we drove back to our hostel, picked up our swim gear, and drove to the hotel.

When we arrived at the reception desk we were told it would only cost a few Euros to use their pool area for the day. Being in Eastern Europe, that didn’t surprise us. What did, was that the hotel also offered 1 hour massages for $20.

I’d never had a massage before, but I’d always wanted one, and I knew I needed one. Since the price was irresistible, I bought one for myself and Pulcina. The front desk lady told us there was a waiting list. So we would have to go play in the swimming pool for an hour. Then, I would get my massage, and afterwards, Pulcina would get hers. Frankly, the timing was perfect.

So, after an hour, I got out of the pool, dried off, and headed to my appointment. I entered a small room, barely larger than a closet, and was greeted by the hottest 48-year old Slovenian MILF in history. She spoke to me in Slovenian, and I humbly confessed that I only spoke English. She immediately switched to speaking perfect English and made some small talk. After the pleasantries were over, she got down to business and informed me how the massage would proceed.

She told me I couldn’t wear my bathing suit on the table since it was wet from swimming. So I would have to undress before the session began. However, we were basically standing in a closet, and there wasn’t any changing room. I looked around for a place to undress, and when I brought my eyes back to the Slovenian MILF questioningly, she just stared back at me stoically. I thought to myself, “Hey this is Europe. They don’t care about nudity. I guess I’m just supposed to get naked.”

Cautiously though, I put my thumbs on the waist band of my bathing suit and motioned like I was going to push them down. As I did so, I made eye contact with the Slovenian MILF and raised my eyebrows. I could tell she understood what I was asking, and she simply stared back at me impatiently.

Comprehending the situation, I thought, “Fuck it. I’m on vacation.” Then I pulled my swim shorts down in front of her, fully exposing my manhood, which was cold from the swimming pool. Her stoic expression barely cracked with a sly grin as I hopped onto the massage table and covered myself with with the white sheet.

I didn’t get a “happy ending,” but she gave me the best massage I’ve ever had in my life, and I’ve worked as a massage therapist for the past four years. So I’ve had hundreds of massages. I compare all of them to hers, and I will never be able to replicate the perfection of her coconut-crushing hands.

After she finished fixing everything wrong with my life, I slid off the table, pulled my shorts back on while she watched, and then went back to the pool area. I informed Pulcina it was her turn. Then I melted into the hot tub as I watched her slosh towards the massage room.

After her massage was over, we packed up our stuff in the car and headed back to our bed and breakfast. As I was driving, I looked over to her in the passenger seat and asked, “How was your massage?”

“Fine.” She replied.

Casually, I added, “European massages are weird though… for an American.”

“How is that?” Pulcina asked.

I answered, “Well, you know…. the massage therapist said I had to take off my shorts since they were wet from swimming, but there wasn’t a changing room. So I had to get completely naked right in front of her while she watched. In America, we don’t just get naked in front of other people.”

Pulcina snapped her head towards me, and her eyes turned red as she screamed, “Turn this car around! I’ll keeeel herrrr! She did not tell me to take off my bathing suit at all!!!! I had more clothes on than you, and they were more wet than your shorts! That fucking beeeeetch!!!!”

I laughed all the way back to the bed and breakfast.

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