Licky Licky Bang Bang

The first time I learned of ping-pong shows was when I saw Priscilla, Queen of the Desert in the theater. It was the scene where they end up befriending the town outcast and find that he has a Thai wife who runs off to the local bar and shoots ping-pong balls out her, well, hoo-ha. At the time I didn’t understand what the scene referenced. I got the part about the man marrying a woman from Thailand, and I figured out that she was a prostitute of some sort. I just didn’t understand the bit about the ping-pong balls.

Now I do. Well, to be fair, I was enlightened prior to my 34th year, but now that I’ve spent more than one night in Bangkok, I know first-hand what it’s like to witness a ping-pong show. And to be honest, it’s far from pretty and closer to horrifying.

I don’t know what you think of when you think of ping-pong shows, but I thought razzle dazzle—seriously. I was thinking it would be more like a kitschy drag show and less like a sad den of sex slavery. And because I was so optimistic about the potential entertainment that awaited me, I was pro-ping-pong-show from the get-go.

Now I did keep this goal of mine under wraps for quite some time. Even when the Canadians regaled us with stories of all the ping-pong show options in Phuket (which, much to my surprise, I learned included much more than ping-pong balls), I just laughed and acted put-off. But really, I wanted to see one for myself. I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to drag anyone with me on my little perverted adventure.

After four glorious weeks in the land that was once Siam, our final night was upon us. You can imagine my excitement when our guide mentioned that he was taking us to Patpong. That’s, right, Pat-friggin-pong. The red light district. Ping-pong pogo sticks, I was gonna see a show! Well, I didn’t know that, but I had a feeling. I asked Sam if he was going to take us to a ping-pong show, and he was coy. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one that asked. All five us were down, and our man, Sam, made it happen.

We taxied over to a fancy 5-star hotel next to Patpong (uh-huh, that’s where the nice hotels are) and had dinner. After our deliciously fishy meal, we walked over to the main drag of Patpong where the streets are lined with go-go bars, and the sidewalks are filled with night market stalls catering only to the tacky taste of tourists. Sam searched for a specific establishment because he didn’t want us to get ripped off, as is often the case at such places. Many times, you have to pay a hefty cover, then are forced to buy drinks, and in some cases, they’ll lock you inside the bar for a few hours until they are satisfied with the amount of money you spent in their bar. I know, it sounds like the sort of place I should frequent on a more regular basis.

At last, Sam found his spot, which had moved locations and changed its name to Super Pussy. He negotiated with the doorman, and walked out to inform us that we all had to buy a drink (alcoholic or not) for 200 baht (around $6). He then told us that he would not go inside with us and was very concerned that we were all definitely okay with going into the ping-pong show. You see, it was against company policy for him to take us there, so he was trying to cover his own ass (and I can’t say that I blame him). We all assured him that if we went inside and were offended and hurt, we would only have ourselves to blame. He told us he’d meet us at the hotel in a half an hour, and I was the first to pipe up and say, “We need more time than that!” I re-negotiated and gave us 45 minutes to an hour.

We girls traipsed into the bar (because our one male traveler was off to the ATM) following the bouncer to our seats. The whole bar was empty except for the strippers. They seated us directly in front of the stage, giving us the best possible view of the “equipment”. Within a minute, someone came over to take our drink orders. Seconds later, a gaggle of girls crowded in on us asking us our names and wanting to become besties. They also wanted us to buy cocaine. How do I know? Because they kept asking me, “Coca, lady? Coca?” while touching their noses. My Dutch friend was under the impression they really liked Coca-Cola. I had to explain that they really just wanted to get high on her dime and that cocaine in Thailand is actually pure heroin. Yeah. Nice.

While we were bombarded with these girls, our drinks came and the bar madam came over demanding immediate payment (and I have to admit she was a little scary…and she was fully prepared to tell us how much the girls would cost us should be interested in a little "licky licky bang bang"). We handed over our money, and the girls kept insisting on getting up close and personal with us. My negative stance on “coca” and socializing made them lose interest in me fairly quickly. The girl from New Zealand was a different story. From the day she set foot in Thailand, poor little NZ was spotted from miles away by anyone that wanted to sell her some piece of crap for far too much money. These girls knew a sucker when they saw one and would not leave her alone. She eventually got away from them, but it took some doing. What she really needed to learn was to just not be nice and accommodating because sometimes the polite smile and “no thank you” doesn’t translate into other cultures. But, I guess it’s easy to get into these jams when you’re 20-years-old and think you know everything about the world.

With the girls moving on to some other unwitting tourist (which happened to be the male member of our group who finally wandered in), we were able to sit back and watch the show. As we walked in, a girl was shooting ping-pong balls out of her hoo-ha, then she stood up and started pulling out a chain of…razors. Yeah, you read that right. Razors. Now ask yourself, did she do this with pizzazz? Did she seem like an engaged performer? No. No would be the correct answer. She was totally dead behind the eyes. This woman who was probably very young, but looked very old and was totally stoned. Stoned beyond the point of being human. She was nothing, and felt like I was watching someone slowly kill herself.

Behind her stood six girls who would dance (and when I say ”dance”, think strip club dancing where they really just stand there and maybe sway in a very disinterested way). Much like in a strip club, there was absolutely nothing sexy or campy about the scene (and if you’ve never been to a strip club, it’s nothing like Demi Moore’s Striptease. It’s really just bored, naked ladies strutting around a small area, and you quickly become desensitized to it—at least if you’re me). The girls, who did have mad skills with their “no-no” zone, and the lifeless back-up dancers were not the intriguing spectacle that I had envisioned. Rather, they seemed like lost souls who were trapped in a hellish existence. And to be quite honest, I would not be surprised if they had an owner.

After the razor woman left the stage (which required a handler as she was too far-gone to figure out how to exit the stage), we saw someone empty a water bottle and refill another one, we saw another draw a picture, and we saw yet another woman pop balloons with darts. And by that time, a half an hour had passed. Much like Sam had anticipated, we were done. The five of us looked at each other at the same time and knew it was time to leave.

So we did. And we all wanted to take a shower because we felt even dirtier than we did after hiking for three days in the hills of Northern Thailand or camping for two nights on a deserted island.

Now I know that I never need to go to a ping-pong show again. I may not be part of the solution, but I don’t think I can continue to be part of the problem.