Dear Hillary,
Every week I read your column faithfully to see what we have to watch out for, to make sure we don’t get ripped off by the young fillies, but the situations never seem to happen to me. Am I doing something wrong? Should I go to a different bar? No girl has ever asked me for money for anything. I keep on thinking I am missing out on some of life’s great experiences, but don’t know what to do about it. Any suggestions? Where’s my Private Dancer?
Bill
Dear Bill,
I presume you are referring to Stephen Leather’s excellent book called “Private Dancer” which should be made compulsory reading before getting off the plane at Suvarnabhumi airport. There would be far less tears, far less rip-offs and probably far less people writing in for my advice. However, you, Bill my Petal, are the other way about, aren’t you? You want to be used and abused. A bit of the old masochism coming out, eh? But no worries, Bill, here’s what you’ve got to do. Get a bit tanked up one evening and then go to one of the raunchier sois and go into the first bar that has a girl outside who calls out to you “Hello sexy man.” You’re now starting on the great adventure. After a good night on the turps, it is your turn to look after her, and you start with buying the motorcycle she needs, followed by footing the vet bills for the family buffalo (they don’t do well living in the Bangkok traffic) and then the money for the back rent of her apartment. If you’re really lucky, you will also find out that your sexy six footer with pneumatic knockers used to play for the boy’s U17 football team, so you’ll have something in common right away.
Bill, I think (and hope) you’re pulling my black silk stockinged leg, but it is important to always remember the definition of a sadist. It’s someone who’s nice to a masochist! You’ll thank me for that one day.
