Mistress of Vices: Bangkok Dangerous!

As the unofficial guide to the city I call home, I’m used to fellow residents, friends and out-of-towners throwing bizarre requests and questions my way. These include everything from “Where do we buy edamame beans” or “What’s a good date restaurant” to even “How do I source 50 stained glass vases in a day”. I’ve grown to fancy myself as a connoisseur of ridiculous and inane enquiries, which I manage to find answers to. But nothing prepared me for a BBM from a Bandra gal pal candidly albeit sheepishly asking me if I had a recommendation for a male stripper in South Delhi. It was Tuesday afternoon and I was just getting out of yoga class, so maybe it was just the increased blood flow to my brain, but I suddenly had the urge to giggle loudly. And I did, much to the chargin of the instructor.

Unlike unabashed bachelor parties where men proudly run scores on the strippers and other, ahem, entertainment for the joyous event, bachelorette or hen parties are still hiding in the closest for most cases. I know many a bride whose first directions to her sister/cousin/best friend in-charge of throwing the bachelorette is “no strippers”. They insist that having a fgirls night out is all they want before their descent into marriage-dom and a phallic shaped cake is too much excitement for them to handle. What bores!

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That brings me to my first encounter with a male stripper. It wasn’t at all what its hyped up to be. There were no brooding seduction tactics and I did not go weak in the knees. Instead my best friend and I found ourselves’ in a chaotic market standing outside a temple sharing bewildered and worried glances. We had turned up half an hour early for the appointment that had been made after a hushed call to a male stripper cum gigolo recommended by a mutual contact. He had insisted on meeting us at that odd location and when he finally strutted in, he asked point-blank whether we wanted a full-monty, filled us in on his routine and then quoted a non-negotiable price – He was in and out in under five minutes and we had lost our stripper virginity.

The business has turned a lot more professional since then, or so I hear. But there are still no female equivalents to kinky hotspots like Prague’s Gentlemen’s Clubs or Tokyo’s Love Hotels. Why do boys get to have all the fun? I asked myself that a couple of hours away from my much anticipated visit to the three-storey Sex Machines Museum in Prague as I wrote this on a Euro-rail journey to the Czech Republic.

After all, sex tourism is big business for that region. Not surprising considering they have been trying to legalise prostitution and are home to the world’s first online brothel – Big Sister. That’s the place to go if you want an hour of free loving on the condition that you let them film you. Voyeurism at its best!

Even though Bangkok’s reputation as the capital of debauchery has long been sealed, there’s really not much left to write about the escapades undertaken there. That’s why Prague’s growing notoriety as a haven for booze cheaper than water, freely available drugs and a thriving brothel scene invites singles in hoards. A fact proven by the groups of boisterous bachelor parties’ underway at all odd hours of the day and night on Wenceslas Square. The definitive scene for me though, which perhaps even legendary guy movies like The Hangover can’t replicate was the sight of a tall, hunky Australian guy wearing a lace teddy at 11am on a Saturday in 6 degree temperatures parading barefoot with his mates like it was perfectly normal.

This kind of madness is exactly what the short-of-being-mainstreamed brothels of the city count on. And also why it’s home to the Sex Machines Museum – an ode to the erotic. From the ‘rate your prowess’ bum-tickling machine at the entrance to the 100-year old handle-operated vibrator from Germany and a chastity belt from the 1580’s, innovation is clearly evolving. At least dildo manufactures think so. Why else would anyone design furry pink “travel mates” for the adventurous girl on the go? It’s one of the biggest selling items at Vienna’s sprawling sex shop, or so Susan (the sales lady and my guide) would have me believe. No seedy backlanes or hidden entrances here. The shop and its nonchalant browsers were out in broad daylight along with the oddly disturbing ball-cleaning shampoo placed next to flavoured body paint. Ranked a close second to the candy male holster that I wonder who in their right mind would ever want to wear, slutty nurse outfits, detachable anatomical replicas and edible condoms jostled for attention. They were all sadly overshadowed by an entire wall dedicated to vibrators manufactured by colour, size, shape, and material preference.

Word of caution: That is not the kind of baggage you want to declare at customs. Certainly not to a haggard East European lady inspector who precariously dangles your chocolate-strawberry laced purchase when it sets off the metal detectors. (Damn Susan and her persuasive upselling.) So what if you bought it for the girlfriend getting married next month… The curious 12-year old and his disgusted mother giving you the stink eye didn’t know that. Neither did the 15 other people standing in line next to you.

On second thought, maybe a timid girls night out wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

From the May 2012 issue of FHM India.