Bangkok Bait And Switch Bitch

Stepping cautiously over a chunk of uneven pavement, Chucky quickly shifted his weight, caught his balance. Then a wayward motorcyclist brushed by him, flying like a bat out of hell down the sidewalk.

Such is the pedestrian's struggle on the streets of Bangkok...

Turning on his heel, at the neon-lit entrance to Soi Cowboy, Chucky swung his gaze and spotted a smallish man lurking in the shadows. The man, who appeared of Khmer descent, stepped forth, and crept toward Chucky, like a cat stalking prey.

The man wore ratty flip flops, jorts and a puke green Chang beer tank top, and in his hand, he held a small black pipe that was packed with yellowy crystals. The man's bulbous eyes darkened and bulged as he jutted the pipe forth, nodded for Chucky to take hold of it.

Chucky, though not an old Asia hand, knew well enough what this was. Cold shivers of fear spread over him, and he cringed and walked away as briskly as possible, avoiding that pipe like it was a live hand grenade. He knew the deal. He knew simple possession of even a small quantity of illegal drugs could land him in a tiny, stinky, fucking shit-hot jail cell, packed in like sardines with 50 or so other people.

Unless, of course, he paid something like a $10,000 bribe to the local police, the "boys in brown," who were probably watching from afar, having themselves set up the scam.

Though he'd gladly puff weed or whatever else might be offered, in the right circumstance, Chucky wasn't dumb enough to take drugs from a random, sketchy stranger. Especially not in a public place in a Southeast Asian country... This was one bitch ass bait and switch he'd definitely not be suckered into...

And not that Chucky needed much of an extra buzz anyway. The "pre-game" shots of rice whiskey he slammed before heading out were taking root, coursing through him. Just at the right time too.

Entering Soi Cowboy, the adult playground, he swiveled his gaze left and right, left and right, soaking in the sights, the assorted punters, brightly lit rows of girly bars, and best of all, the scores of scantily clad Asian skanks standing out in front of bars, waggling ass and tits, the demimondes calling out drink specials, lambasting any male passersby with cloying bursts of winking flattery.

Walking slowly, scanning the scene, most of the demimondes Chucky spotted were fuckable but none were worthy of posting about on Stickman, Teak Door, or even that fucktarded Thaivisa forum.

Okay, sure, like all of them he'd do for free, and one or two he'd pay a small sum for, if he were inebriated enough. But none of them warranted a second look. It wasn't until he laid eyes on HER, however, that he halted in his tracks.

"Sawadee KRAP!!!" boomed Chucky. His brows beaded with sweat, his gait off-step, a result of his creepingly severe intoxication.

The university-aged girl outside the bar smiled widely. She was all teeth and eyelashes. Her ears perked up as she sniffed in the pungent aroma of Chucky's alcoholism.

Chucky's head bobbed like a pigeon, and his lips curled into a goofy smile. His pupils dilated. Whoa! This had to be one of the hottest chicks he'd ever seen! No hyperbole either. No beer goggles, nothing like that. He was drunk but not that drunk. This girl was amazing! She was light-skinned, succulently slim, had legs up to her chin, and her curly, shoulder-length platinum dyed hair was glistening under the flashing glow of the bar's marquee.

Chucky thought about all the water buffalo he'd buy her. That is, of course, after he got behind her and banged the sloppy shit out of her sweet ass.

"Hello, han-sum man," the hot young girl cooed, "where you go? You come inside for drink, ka. Have happy hour, drink special." The way she accented the second syllable in special, speh-SHULL, ooh, it was plain adorable, got him all woozy, weak in the knees.

Then the hot young demimonde slid down from the stool she'd been perched on, tilted her pretty little head, and motioned Chucky to accompany her inside. Chucky instantly noticed how much shorter she appeared, once on her feet. She couldn't have been more than 5'0 or so but her legs still looked ravishing... Ah, TIT, this is Thailand, Amazing Thailand, he thought. How remarkable that such a petite girl could have those swimsuit model-like legs...

"Shall I compare thee to a summer day?" proclaimed Chucky in a faux posh British drawl. He enjoyed quoting Shakespeare to bar girls, if nothing else to amuse himself, seeing their puzzled reactions.

The hot young girl just smiled wider at him, reached for his hand and led him into the bar. Her tiny hand was warm, soft and smooth as silk. Following her inside, he lowered his gaze and gasped, his jaw hitting the floor at the sight of her tight little Asian ass all rippling and wiggling under the fabric of her miniskirt. Then in they went through the center part of a loose red velvet curtain hanging over the bar's front doorway, and the curtain swished at their shoulders as they entered.

The bar was freezer cold, dimly lit, and reeked of cheap booze, cheap perfume, and stale cigarette smoke, and was only sparsely populated. Only a few punters at opposite ends of the floor. The tired "sexpat" stereotype, of all go-go bar patrons being fat, old bald White guys was again being disproven. The bar's punters were actually diverse in age, appearance, and nationality. Like many Bangkok bars, it was a venerable UN of girl gawkers.

The music in the bar was loud. Body shaking loud. Even louder than most bars. Not good music either, like the classic rock Chucky dug. No AC/DC or Motley Crue. Nope, it was fast, repetitive, annoying Thai dance-pop. The same kind in almost every Bangkok go-go bar. The kind of music he wouldn't listen to for more than a second. Unless, of course, it was accompanied by naked or half-naked tits, ass, and pussy.

Sinking into a leather seat, in a booth, Chucky glanced around at the bar's catalog and was distraught to see the demimondes, the go-go girls inside were nowhere near as hot as the chick outside, under the awning. The inside demimondes appeared older, fatter, and one was covered in faded bluish tattoos, even had a few face tattoos. Yuck, Chucky winced. The hag looked more like a prison inmate than a go-go dancer!

The only thing consoling him at this point was the smoking hot pussy sitting next to him. Now she, she was hotter than the summer in Isan, and, comparing her to the hags in the bar, her pussy's stock shot up exponentially.

So he wasted no time. Bought her a "lady drink," and they began chit-chatting. Her English was pretty good. Holding a frosty Singha beer by the stem, he sipped on his suds and swept his eyes over every beautiful inch of the scorching hot young demimonde's hourglass figure. Fun, friendly, easygoing, and with a smile seemingly plastered to her face, she laughed at his lame attempts at the Thai language, and touched his arm multiple times, sent him all the signals. Then it was time to close, and Chucky leaned in, cleared his throat, and asked her, in a firm voice, "Hey, how much for short time?"

"Cannot," was all she replied, giggling.

"Cannot?" Chucky quizzed, his head cocking back. His eyebrows then lifted so high they nearly flew off his forehead.

"Cannot do," she insisted. Her perpetually widening smile fading into a nervous, crooked little smirk.

"Why not?" Chucky asked. There were a few bar girls and dirty massage bitches who'd refused to boom boom him, since he had a somewhat large jimmy, at least compared to many of the local guys, the bitches' boyfriends, husbands, etc... Those sluts sucked him off, jerked him off, sure, but wouldn't let him run his snake in the grass. Wouldn't let him tap their tiny, tight Asian pussies...

"Too big?" Chucky shouted into her ear, the bass from the annoying Thai dance music was really rattling his body and seemed to grow louder and more menacing by the minute.

Then Chucky cupped his hand over hers, tugged her hand, and laid it flat over his hardening, purple-headed yogurt slinger, and rested her hand over the crotch of his cargo shorts. The girl lightly petted his semi-hard one-eyed weasel, then giggled, drew her hand away, fast, as if she'd touched a scorching hot surface.

"No, no too big," the girl chortled.

Now Chucky was offended. So it wasn't big? Were the other girls lying? Then he briefly pondered the old maxim of "How do you know a bar girl is lying? If she's talking." It probably rang true, he thought.

"Me no do," the young girl confirmed, "the boom boom," then she gyrated her hips, mimicking intercourse. Seeing the super sexy demimonde shake her hips, gesticulate like that only pissed Chucky off, and teased him, terribly.

"I just do drink," she went on, resting back into the booth.

Despite being tipsy, the revelation dawned upon him, hung over him like a heavy fog. He knew what this was.

It was a coyote.

A "coyote" was a girl who only talked to guys, drank with them, and then juiced the unfortunate guys' cash, without giving up any ass in return. The whole "coyote" thing, he'd read, was a fad imported from Japan, where lonely salarymen go to bars, after work, and pay women to simply sit and drink with them.

Upon first learning about coyotes, Chucky thought it was the most pathetic shit ever. Why would any guy pay a woman to simply drink and sit with him? With no chance of sex? What kind of sad, beta-male, bitch ass shit was that? And now it was befalling him. Now he was that beta, and a chilly feeling churned in his gut.

The only thing that didn't make him stand up, pay and leave ASAP, was that at least the coyote was letting him fondle her. He'd been rubbing on her slim, smooth thighs, reaching back and goosing her firm little snuggly ass, and squeezing her teeny tits. She'd even let him spider his hands up under her bikini top, pinch her cute, bottlecap-sized nips.

Sadly, though, she had swatted his naughty paw away when he'd tried to go down under, below the belt, and burrow down below her equator, tunnel into her black miniskirt, and conduct a little spontaneous, impromptu gynecological inspection...

As fun as it was to molest the young demimonde, he found it boring and lame that this was as far as it'd get. What the hell is wrong with these guys, going to coyotes, he silently seethed... Why would this even be a thing?

It pissed him off. The coyote could have had a warning sign or something. Chucky took his hands off the coyote, scanned around the bar, looking for a demimonde with a number. Swinging his gaze around, the euphoric rush of the alcohol kicked in further. But he remained cognizant enough.

He was worked up, molesting this sexy young piece of snatch and wanted to find a warm soft body, a nice juicy pussy to smash. He knew that if he could find a demimonde that had a number on her, he could ditch the dick-tease and rent a good Asian ass for a fun half-hour or so. That'd be more than enough time for a quick fucky sucky. Shit, usually 2 to 5 minutes were enough to get what he needed.

(This was one of Chucky's favorite things about demimondes, pay for play pussy. They didn't care if you came too quickly. Although sometimes he'd be disappointed if HE prematurely ejaculated. But only because it felt like a waste of cash.)

Swinging his gaze around the bar, he was further disappointed to see only a few demimondes on the dais had numbers. They looked miserable, too, were frowning and doing the "Bangkok Shuffle," the bored, half-ass bar girl dance, that was merely a series of weak jerks and turns.

Of the available demimondes he saw, one was snaggle-toothed, and another was fat, her stomach stretched out from baby damage. The other numbered pussy was the head-to-toe tattoo, prison inmate thing. Hard pass. He wouldn't even fuck any of those dogs for free, let alone pay.

Sensing Chucky's dismay, the coyote turned on the charm, asked him if he'd like another drink. The waitstaff, a gynecocracy, a chubby crew of middle-aged ladies with made-up faces bleached disturbingly pale, far paler than the rest of their bodies, the fat bitches looking like something between sumo wrestlers and circus clowns, had also been pestering Chucky, every couple of minutes, cajoling him to buy drinks.

(One of the chunk-muffin servers even tried to flirt with him, get him to buy HER a drink. Yeah right!)

Turning icy with rage, Chucky just shook his face. Snarled. The coyote then picked up on his angst and told him "8" does boom boom. 8 was the prison inmate chick. No thanks, Chucky shook his face again.

He knew he'd lost in this bar. He'd been bit by a coyote, hit with the bar bitch bait and switch. This was apparently one of those asshole bars that hires a hot young piece of snatch to sit outside, lure punters in, and then gets them drunk enough that they'll fuck anything. Hence how flabby and tattoo face girl over there stay employed. Just despicable.

Chucky then smiled, remembered that face tattoo demimonde he'd hired, one rainy late night, as he was stumbling home drunk. She'd been sitting outside, at a bar, near his apartment. Despite the face tattoo, she looked pretty decent, had an otherwise pretty face, nice body, and big tits.

Once in his bedroom, she'd shocked him by slipping out a pair of fake teeth before giving him a "gummy," and it was one of the best blowjobs he half-remembered. But he couldn't recall much after that, if he'd banged her or not. If he did, it was probably doggystyle, he surmised, which was usually how he treated the occasional butterface he'd bang.

For a second, he wondered if the tattoo face demimonde on the dais was the same girl from that night. Could it be? He squinted and zoomed his gaze on her. Nah. The tattoo face in this bar had smaller tits, kinda saggy tits too, and a flat, bony ass. Definitely not the same demimonde. Fucking prison girl wasn't even doable...

Then he considered asking the coyote for head. There'd been a bar in Pattaya with a "naughty boy corner," where a punter could go, get his knob greased, off in a smoky, dark corner, for only $20 or $30. But then he remembered the coyote had braces. Big, silvery metal braces, and he wanted those nowhere near his dick.

Discouraged, he ignored the protestations of the coyote, who'd implored him not to leave. Chucky paid his tab, tipped the chunky clown face waitress 20 baht and made a beeline for the door, feeling dejected.

But as he left, his mood shifted. Re-entering the sticky hot air, seeing the pumping neon of the Bangkok night, he realized where he was. Bitch, he was in Bangkok! The city was full of bars, dirty massage parlors, and idling escorts.

His soul eased as he remembered that in Bangkok, as long as you got the cash, another mouth, another pussy, another ass always awaits...