Walking the streets of Thailand and being seen by the street walkers as I see them

The night I got back to Bangkok from my sojourn at the beach I was fiercely hungry, wide awake at midnight, and itching to go out.  I was not at all tired.  I strolled down the street from the hotel and out onto one of the busy boulevards, tramped up and down the overpass, and found my way to one of the best bowls of Thai noodle soup I have ever had.  After, as I strolled back on a different side of the busy road, I seemed to have entered a pocket of prostitution.

In 200 yards I saw as many or more prostitutes.  They lined both sides of the sidewalk, and were engaged and smiling with passersby.  Well, with men.  Mostly.  Who were walking in front of me.  Making contact, eye contact, and entering into hushed conversations with those who stopped.  “Short time,” is local for a quickie, “long time,” who knows?

I also noticed middle aged white men walking with Thai women, and it generally looked to be client plus working girl.

About 20% of the women on the street were ladyboys.  And yes, I can tell.  Every time.  Plus, Thai lady boys don’t typically try to hide their voices.  Speech therapy is for people like me who live in countries where we might get killed or attacked for not passing. By Western standards, every one of the ladyboys passed. Apparently it is common to ask if they are pre or post-op.

As is usual, my mind was flashing a million thoughts.  First, so many of the women I saw were absolutely stunning.  Like top escort level stunning.   It made me think, crikey, I could be a client too.   Maybe I want to be a client.  And then I wondered what I would do if I brought one back to my room.

And I thought about the politics of sex tourism, and how it is criticised for being exploitative.  But I also know enough about the scene I was walking through that none of those women had pimps, so what they earned was theirs to keep.  And since I do the same thing, just in a different setting, it would be strange of me to not appreciate it.

I did.  And I appreciated them too.

What else did I notice?  Well, I realised that I don’t dress like a Western woman.  And by that I mean a woman who is demure in her dress.  I don’t dress like a tramp, or like a “hooker” in the classic sense of how some trans women are accused of dressing, though I fear my version of sexy is just more expensive.

I also don’t walk around like Americans in shorts and running shoes, frumpy t-shirts or tank tops, a trend which now extends to women too.  Poor things. I don’t do this even at home.

I dress to celebrate my body.  I have a gorgeous body which. I work my ass off for, and for which I waited my whole life. That night I was wearing a very tight, clingy jersey dress that was backless. And short. Very.  I looked great, and my body felt it, and every middle-aged American man walking by me with his frumpy wife was checking me out. If she was pretty, so was she.

But here is the real story.  I made eye contact with so many of the women I walked past, but curiously only a very small number of the ladyboys, the ones standing on their own, looked at me and smiled to me as a sister. The rest paid no heed.  And even though I greeted many of the cis women, and they me, not once did this stray into a conversation about rates, spending time together. Even though I was a potential customer.

And this puzzled me greatly, as I watched the interactions between the men I saw on the prowl, even the occasional couple looking for a third, I wondered ‘why not’?  And then something hit me.  They could see me.  The warmth and friendliness and conspiratorial winks on their faces were ones of recognition.  They could tell I was a sex worker too.

I felt so good about that.

And what would I have done were I to have taken one home with me?  I know.  I would have booked a “long time”. Maybe I’ll share that with you some day.  No ordinary lay am I. I will almost certainly be back in Thailand soon for surgery of some kind, and there is no healing comfort that I treasure more than quiet time in the. arms of a whore.