Bangkok, Thailand

Soi Cowboy is a street in Bangkok that is known for its “go-go bars”, a mixture of strip club, bar, and brothel. It’s a street that knows its business model and moreover, its clientele. Tourists and expatriates gravitate to Soi Cowboy which seems to serve all flavors of nightlife, to all sorts of appetites. It’s also well known for its “ladyboy bars”, go-go bars with all trans woman hostesses. Chances are that you will find yourself wandering about in Soi Cowboy in your quest to party in Bangkok, like I did back in 2020. I had never been to a strip club before, let alone a red-light district. Nevertheless, with my travel mates from my study abroad program, we went to Soi Cowboy our first night in Thailand.

…

The night was bright. Neon shades of reds, pinks, blues, and greens lit up the street and the faces among it. The colorful go-go bar signs exclaimed their presence with happy names such as Oasis, Spice Girls, and Five Star Boy. There were go-go bars upon go-go bars almost as far as the eye could see, like staring into an infinity mirror whose hue became redder the deeper one looked.

Soi Cowboy was loud and muffled at the same time. Music and chatter fought for dominance. Blasting Justin Bieber or Bad Bunny with as much force as the stereos could muster, DJs across every bar competed fiercely for the catchiest pop song. Trying to be heard over the ambient noise or their drunken thoughts, tourists no farther than 5 feet apart hollered at each other.

The streets bustled and teemed with go-go girls. I was surrounded by almond eyes, lush and long straight black hair, and full and red-glossed lips. Most go-go girls wore diminutive two-piece outfits, exposing a delicate petiteness of torso and waist. Breasts were accentuated by the small tops, slimness of waists by the bottoms, and the length of legs by the high heels. Their faces and fashion revealed a general youngness, no girl looking over her mid-twenties. Outside of each go-go bar, a group of girls paraded near the entrance. Like lures to fish, the girls baited tourists. Drawing the dumbfounded tourists closer with their suggestive waddles and woos, the go-go girls were equal parts dancer and saleswoman. I tried my best to resist the cat-calling, coy glances, and giggles. As my two friends and I walked along the illuminated street, the go-go girls tried tempting us, no matter how disinterested we looked.

Wrapping an arm over our shoulders or around our waists, a go-go girl would ask, “Hey young man, do you want a good time?”, as sweet-scented perfume wafted into our noses.

Um…yes.

Softly brushing her fingers down one of our thighs, a go-go girl would inquire, “Hey handsome, should I show you around?”.

I appreciate the validation, but we’re just looking around.

Giggling, a go-go would ask, “Hey cutie, do you like me?”.

Is that a rhetorical question?

Sometimes, they would meet my eyes in silence, briefly look away, then boomerang back with a coy smile. That was my favorite. I didn’t feel awkward returning a smile.

Addressing my friend Janani, the girls teased, "Little lady, which one is your boyfriend, I want the other one”. Sheepishly, I quickly claimed Janani as my pretend girlfriend. Wrapping her arms around me, Janani was a good sport.

Sometimes, men solicited business too, though they smelt of booze and tobacco. One asked, “My friends, we have good deals, happy hour all night. Do you like girls, boys, both?”. With broke college student mentalities, we found that pitch enticing.

Eventually and perhaps inevitably, a peddler approached and asked semi-discretely, “Drugs? Cocaine?”.

And then there were the ladyboys, who had perfected the hard sell, to say it nicely. Instead of a brush to the thigh or an arm around the shoulder, they went straight for the groin. One heavier-set ladyboy in a fairy costume quickly advanced on me and with his wand, tapped my groin. “Poof!” he giggled. A powerful spell had been cast upon me! I instantly had been repulsed. He snickered and flapped away, so too my chance of breaking that spell.

Men, many of whom were Caucasian, twice or thrice my age flocked to the girls. Against the graying and ghoulish men, the go-go girls appeared truly girlish. As I tried not to stare at these aged creatures, I tried even harder not to project my fantasies of them. That guy held a back-office job in New York City or Moscow. Boredom or his impotence with western women evolved into an acute fetish for Asian women. Perhaps he had a daughter and a wife, but the bridges connecting them had long been burned by his negligence or arrogance. Alone, he started to eat and drink more, smoke more, and desire more. But his appearance and self-centeredness turned off any respectable woman. Disgruntled and frustrated with the west, he looked further to the east. He saw an online advert and impulsively bought tickets for an escapade, or rather sexscapade, in Bangkok Thailand, leading him to Soi Cowboy. Fueled by cheap liquor and the smell of cheap love, he couldn’t help himself from badgering or getting badgered from the go-go girls. Perhaps he had paid for “tour escorts”, half tour guide and half prostitute. I was still staring at this guy. I wondered if the girl around his arms was for the night or the trip.

I needed to look away. Was it self-righteousness or hubris that enraged me? I could act like an idiot in Soi Cowboy, but they couldn’t. Maybe I was the one with problems.

I also felt rich. Perhaps it was the scrumptious two-dollar dinner I ate or perhaps it was the constant feeling that everyone wanted my money, but I felt powerful. While traveling though developing nations—or better said, nations with still many destitute people—I had noticed the disparity of power, that what I was willing to spend meant a lot more to them than me. The dollar went a long way in Southeast Asia. Had I traveled to the French Riviera for example, probably overpaying for croissants and café au laits, I might have felt poor, especially given that I would be complaining about pricey petits dejeuners. In Thailand, it was all too easy to feel like I was rich. Why? Because I was (and still am) rich, not just relatively but also absolutely. Being a billionaire, millionaire, or middle class, it matters not. What matters is that leisure is a luxury, especially travel. Whereas I could pretend to study abroad and wander about in a red-light district in Bangkok, someone else had to work, in a capacity perhaps not wanted but one that paid maybe just enough.

From the movies, I always thought red-light districts were swanky and oddly still places. They were places of shadows slightly illuminated by ominous yet tantalizing shades of red. They were places where sharpy dressed, ruthless gangsters schemed discretely. They were places where women with bodies as smooth as calligraphy wore effortlessly draping silk. They were places that both sparked desire and kept it burning with primordial suggestions. 

In reality, with its flashing lights, cacophonous chaos, and naughty children, Soi Cowboy was an arcade, with games of which I was less familiar. I didn’t know what to play. I just knew that if I did, I would need to have enough coins. Speaking of games, after walking around for some time and seeing the sights, my friends and I needed to make a game time decision. Which go-go bar would we try first?

“For the experience!” as one of my travel mates exclaimed, attempting to justify why we should enter the ladyboy bar in front of us. It was logic that was hard to turn down and like most twenty-year olds traveling abroad, we loved an interesting experience. We entered.

Inside, the room glowed ambient red, just at that perfect brightness between dim and dark. Booths cushioned with red-leather lined the walls and faced the center where the stage boasted mirror polished poles. Although I knew very little about strip clubs, this seemed like a textbook layout to me. I couldn’t hear anything, not because there wasn’t any sound, but because I was too focused on what I was seeing. Besides the clearly female brunette across the stage and Janani at my side, I didn’t know what to believe. The high heels, the hairless and trimmed legs, the delicate curves of the waist and torso, all of them working in concert with the breast implants created a near perfect image of a modern women—in very stereotypical terms—from the neck down. Even upon reaching the face, with the carefully applied makeup, I could barely see the veil of femineity. But as I got closer, the facial masculinity started to reveal itself and betrayed the body. Still, at a fair distance, a guess seemed no better than chance.

Watching the ladyboys parade on stage and whirl around the poles, I wondered. Staring up at a ladyboy’s ass and sipping a whiskey coke, I wondered even harder. Perhaps a time like this was the best time to ruminate on gender and sexuality. I thought:

Why as a society, at least seemingly to me, do we love and are we obsessed with asses? How odd! Myself included, what is it about an ass that is sexy? Is knowing that an ass belongs to a woman what makes it sexy? But isn’t ass, well, ass? Given that I was not aroused, I suppose ass by itself is not sexy. But why? These were not bad asses in front of me per say, just male. If Rihanna had been in front of me, then I would be one happy camper indeed. So, does that mean that belief precludes attraction, that beauty is contingent on what the self understands, or moreover, allows to be beautiful?

I needed another drink.

Like the fairy that cursed me, these ladyboys denied the existence of personal boundaries. For my protection, Janani shielded me from groping hands. Looking at our defenseless friend, his ostensible suffering brought us great joy. He was absolutely spot-on about coming inside the ladyboy bar. This was definitely “an experience”.

To end the night in slightly more familiar territory, we left for a regular way go-go bar. Inside, the red room boasted a large stage with more poles than dancers. The bar’s seating was similar to that of an amphitheater, with multiple rows of incrementally elevated seats facing towards the center. We sat near the back and ordered a round of drinks. I don’t remember why or if there was even a reason, but I wanted to chat with a go-go girl.

Side shuffling on stage, wearing high heels and tight red clothes, the girl on the right side of the stage was cute. She had a kind face, one that looked compassionate. I offered a smile and waved her over. After reciprocating a smile, she started to approach with nonchalance, her gait neither dramatic in its swing nor frozen in the joints. I moved seats to be out of earshot from my friends. She sat down on my right side, just a hair’s distance from touching my shoulder. We both smiled again, each of us exposing our imperfect but charming teeth. Though, under the guise of our smiles, those first few seconds felt as if we were sizing each other up; myself wondering where this conversation would go and her wondering what type of customer I would be.

Jordan (J): Hey, my name is Jordan!

S (for anonymity): I’m S!

She spoke English well. Now that we were sitting so close to each other, I noticed her large round dark eyes. Her skin was fair, about the same tone as mine. She had bangs, a haircut I always thought was hard to wear well. But she wore them both confidently and pleasantly.

J: Which part of Thailand are you from?

S: [She named a Thai city that I could not pronounce or remember]

J: Where’s that?

S: East, it’s small. Where are you from?

J: California. Los Angeles.

S: Wow so far. Can you buy me a drink?

J: Sure, what do you want?

S: Tequila.

I nodded and she walked over to the bar (a go-go girl receives a commission when someone buys her a drink). When she came back with the fixings, we clanked and cheered.

J: How long have you worked here?

S: Seven months.

J: Do you like working here?

S: Mhm I like it. What do you do?

J: I am a student.

S: You look young.

J: How old do you think I am?

S: I don’t know. Twenty-two.

J: I’m twenty.

She looked taken aback by my age. After all, she was talking to a kid.

J: At school, what did you like studying?

S: Law. I wanted to be a lawyer.

So, S and I started to chat about law and then our aspirations, a topic which I orate about insufferably. Looking back, I am sure the last thing S was interested in hearing was the life I dreamed to build. However, in the moment, it seemed like we were both thoroughly enjoying the conversation. Perhaps I was too drunk or maybe I have a horrible read on people, but S had a sereneness about her. Her voice was calm and genial, the pitch not too high like a little girl but just high enough to imply girlishness. She articulated words just at the right pace. Most of all, her face was tranquil, like a still lake reflecting a blue sky. I judged her as a person with a kindred spirit. Eventually, we started to talk about our families.

J: Do you have any siblings? I have three brothers.

S: I have five siblings.

J: Do you send money home, to your family?

S: Yes, at least twice a month.

J: Do other girls here have similar situations?

S: Yes, most of them.

She pointed to the stage, towards the other dancers. She paused and stared blankly at the stage, not looking at anything in particular. Was it pride or despair that she felt? I couldn’t tell.

S: Can you buy me another drink? Tequila?

J: Yeah… of course.

More small talk ensued but at some point, I became nosy.

J: How much do you get when someone pays to sleep with you?

S: Six-thousand baht [$193.5]. The bar gets seven hundred [$22.6].

J: And how many men have you been with during your time here?

S: I can’t tell you. You are not my boyfriend! I would stop working here if I had a boyfriend.

She said this with a grin, accompanied by a playful chuckle. I believed she was not offended by the questions. I kept going.  

J: Would you date someone like me?

S: Yeah but no. Would you take me to California? Get me a visa?

J: If I did, would you leave with me?

S: Yes.

J: You would leave Thailand behind, even your family?

S: Yes, I would go.

She did not hesitate. The affirmation was firm and swift. The “yes” was confident.

I dropped my head, starting to feel that my game of chit chat elicited answers I wasn’t ready to hear. I didn’t know how to respond, so I stared at the rim of my beer bottle, not actually seeing any shape. Noticing my slump, S raised both of her hands and with each one, she pinched my cheeks and smiled. The pinch was a warm tug, like how a mother pulls at the fat flesh of her baby’s cheeks, adoring its cuteness. I looked up and was met with gentleness.

J: How many people have asked you questions like this before?

S: Just you.

J: In all seven months? I am the only person to ask?

S: Yes.

I fantasized. I imagined S’ life in that rural and eastern part of Thailand, born to a father addicted to cheap booze and to gambling on Muay Thai fights, confident that his next big bet would solve all his problems. I saw her younger siblings and how they looked up to their big sister S, the independent girl who moved to Bangkok. I saw how their eyes sparkled with pride when they received the cash S sent back home. But I saw the tears in their eyes when their dad took that money to gamble on another Muay Fight. I saw the silent wails of S’ mother, too afraid to fight her husband. I was seeing S, right in front of me, and saw the pain of these long nights and the pain to wake up and do them all over again. I hoped I was wrong.

Noticing that our conversation would produce neither more words nor money, S asked the following in a low voice as if she didn’t want to speak it.

S: You either need to pay to go out or upstairs with me, or I have to go.

J: You should go.

About an hour had elapsed. I rallied my friends and told them I was ready to leave. As we were walking towards the exit, I looked back to see her one last time. I wanted, so desperately, for there to be a moment in which we would share eye contact and nod in unison, acknowledging that for at least one hour, we each had a listener. But those types of moments belong to cinema. S was already engaged in another conversation, leaning into an overweight and middle-aged Asian man. She never glanced back. S was back to work.

Outside, I sat on the curb with my friends. Janani passed me a cigarette. It was Thursday morning at 2:33 AM, the night still young for Soi Cowboy.

…

I wonder, even today, if S told me the truth, and all of it? If physical seduction sells, then verbal consolation probably does too. But even if S’s story was fiction, then it was at least realistic fiction. Many Thai go-go girls and ladyboys do support their families by the income of their sex work. S’s story, if not her own, likely has happened to someone else. Should I take everything I heard with a grain of salt? Probably, but perhaps one of the first doors towards empathy is trust. In this case, I would rather be a fool than a fact checker.

Soi Cowboy grounded me back to reality, quite literally onto a concrete curb. I suppose it’s all too easy to romanticize what I had read in books or saw in films. In this red-light district, tourists were everywhere. I didn’t feel swanky. It was bright and loud, humid and hot. What you saw was what you got. And I didn’t know what to feel, but it certainly wasn’t desire.