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Bangkok Ladyboy Voodoo Doll App!

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Easing into the tuk-tuk’s backseat, Bird looped her arms around my neck. Her head was thrown back and her face was hanging like a half-moon over her pill blue surgical mask. Staring at me pensively, her hooded eyes thinned.


Fake lashes fluttering, she tilted her head sideways, and shoved me off her, playfully, and muttered a Thai curse word as she whisked her raven black hair over her right shoulder.


Then she lowered her mask, revealing puckered, pouty pink lips. It surprised me she’d even wanted to breathe, with the pandemic and all, not to mention the city’s atrocious air pollution. Sukhumvit Road’s toxic vapors were their usual gnarly, rendering respiration akin to sucking on a running tailpipe.


Coughing at my hands, I felt warm wet droplets of breath and noticed that, for some unholy reason, I wasn’t wearing a face mask. I rarely leave home without one. Even before the pandemic I’d always wear a mask. Bangkok air necessitates wearing a mask. It’s deadly, the Bangkok air. Albeit it’s not as deadly and terrifying as the roads…


The roads, oh, the <deleted> roads. The roads in Thailand are a damn warzone, a chaotic jungle of rubber, concrete, and steel…


But traffic was too clogged to be malevolent. It was moving slower than a retard on Xanax.  


Bird’s pink lips curved into a smile. Her teeth white and thick as pearls. Then her shimmering smile slowly died. Her face shifting from a smile to scowl and her opal eyes dropped as she whipped out her phone from her ass and flicked the Oppo on.


She then started stabbing at the Voodoo Doll app, happily slashing and cutting her ex-boyfriend’s threadbare body with a variety of kitchen knives. The poor <deleted>’s pudgy mug had been photoshopped over the doll’s head and his contorted face seemed to be quivering.


Sneering devilishly, she muttered, “He no love me…” in her singsong Thai accent, hitting a lingering down tone on that last vowel. She shoved the phone back down her ass and dug out a hot pink motorcycle helmet from under the seat, strapped it on and lowered the mirrored visor. I could see my reflection in it. My face flushed crimson and my forehead crinkled under my silver cowboy hat.   


I was wondering why the <deleted> we were in a tuk-tuk, anyway. I never take one of these things. They’re mostly for the tourists. I’ve been in Bangkok for 7 years. I’m no tourist. Though, in the eyes of the natives, because I’m a “farang,” a paleface foreigner, I always will be, in a way, a tourist, no matter how long I stay…


Looking forward, I spotted the driver slumped at the wheel. The skeletal, late middle-aged man, with a face reminiscent of a Thai Snoop Dogg, was gurgling, spitting up chunks of what looked like purply pieces of puke.  


“Hey! HEY! Who gave coronavirus to the tuk-tuk driver?” I squawked as I gawked, suddenly gasping as I felt a surge of acid scratching at the back of my throat.


Then I swung my head to see Bird on the back of a nearby motorcycle taxi. She was waving me over, like a traffic cop. Jumping out of the tuk-tuk, I threw the driver a 100 baht note, in case he didn’t die.


Then I mounted the motorcycle, sitting behind Bird, and I snuggled up to her. Hugged my arms around her soft, slender hourglass frame. My arms on her tender hot flesh, I felt a rush at the silky touch of her bare midriff under her baby blue half-shirt. Her light brown, milk chocolatey skin looking so damn delicious I could eat it.


I was a happy cannibal. And we rocketed to high speeds on that bike, the driver ragging on his 2-stroke engine, the engine buzzing like a chainsaw as we weaved furiously through the idle traffic, the way only motorcycle taxis in Bangkok can. Traffic laws, which are arbitrary and mostly voluntary in Thailand anyway, seem to apply even less to motorcyclists…


Our exhilarating, roaring motorcycle ride was wildly fun. Its usual art. An oeuvre suicidal, brilliant, efficiently quick and kamikaze, filled with fits of starts and stops, skillful maneuvering, near collisions, frenetic speeds, and welcome whaps of face-cooling air…


(My buddy Crazy Carl said that Thai drivers, particularly the motorcyclists, motorcycle taxi drivers, most all believe in reincarnation. So they don’t fear death. Their thinking being that they’ll just come back anyway. Crazy Carl said some must look forward to death, because being a motorcycle taxi driver in Thailand probably sucks… He said the ones happy in this life are those carrying protective amulets… Always try to ride with a Thai motorcycle taxi driver who’s wearing an amulet, Crazy Carl preached…)


When we reached the hotel, which was on a side street in lower Sukhumvit, I noticed Bird was gone and that the motorcycle driver had no head.

I paid the headless motorcycle driver and, in the process, found my money had bloodstains on it.


The headless driver waied me and zoomed off into the humidity of the night, a gigantic plume of black smoke spitting from his exhaust pipe, almost as big as a mushroom cloud. The smoke was so thick and dark that the glittery neon skyline in the background appeared as if it were an impressionist oil painting.


The hotel was cold as a morgue. It was a dimly lit, teakwood cave, full of tiger-skin rugs, rainbow sashes and pink frilly drapes. The hallways looked to be an intricate complex of tunnels that didn’t seem to end or start.


At the front desk, the hotel staff were foamy brown blobs. Floating about, they were dressed in traditional Thai attire of golden pantaloons, colorful sarongs, and pointy hats with tips like temple spires.


A short fellow checked me in. He had a heavy black garbage bag over his head, with slits cut out for the eyes and mouth. He was like the Thai version of the Zodiac Killer.  


Zodiac’s bony arms twitching, he spoke to me, telepathically, in a Tony Soprano-ish New Jersey voice, imploring: “Look, don’t you never wrong a Thai woman. They’ll cut your dick off while you’re sleeping. My sister, she sliced off like four dicks. But she don’t throw ‘em in the duck pond, like youse always hear, yanno. Nah, she’s saved ‘em. Keeps ‘em… Trophies in a glass case…”


I rode the complimentary hotel Segway through a maze of winding hallways, and the Segway braked, automatically, when I arrived at my suite. Right after I stepped off, the Segway zzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZzzzzz-zipped away on its own.


I slid my room card, hard, and the door beeped a Black Sabbath riff. Then I turned the L-shaped handle which caused the cherry red door to shatter into more than a million fragments resembling rose petals.


Inside, I found Bird already there.


The room was small, painted peach pink. It was practically a cabin in a gay cruise ship. And in its center, it had a jacuzzi without water instead of a bed. Inside the jacuzzi were stacks upon stacks of heart-shaped valentine pillows, and I kicked off my shoes and jumped into the jacuzzi, eased in next to Bird. A Muay-Thai kickboxing match was on the wall-mounted flatscreen TV.


Bird slung her arm around me, and I took a good long look at her unmasked face. She looked like a man. It occurred to me that she must be a ladyboy. How could I not have known?


Normally, they’re not my thing. But it’s been a while since I did anal sex. So I thought of giving it a go. Even in Bangkok it’s hard to find a woman willing to do free, consensual anal sex, and if this one wouldn’t do it, well…


The only ladyboy I’d been with was many years ago. I met her in the back of a bar, late at night, in Pattaya. I was stumbling drunk, and I can’t remember how or why, but I know she gifted me thrilling, toe-curling head in a toilet stall. It was like an out-of-body experience.  


But immediately after I jizzed in her mouth, she retched, crumpled, and hugged the crapper and hurled. And I was so freaked out by her vomiting that I yanked up my pants and ran away.


After that, I remember eating fried scorpions on the beach. Then I passed by a pack of violent ladyboys who were beating and robbing a middle-age German tourist on a side street. Then I vaguely recall passing out, sleeping rough, in the doorway, in front of (what I believed to be) my hotel because the front door was locked, and no one answered the doorbell.


That was my only ladyboy experience.


It was late. I was drunk. And I couldn’t see that ladyboy’s face too well in the dim lighting of the bar bathroom.


But this one, next to me, in this pile of red pillows, I could see. I inspected every inch of her face’s symmetry. It was mannish. She had a real square jaw. She definitely looked far too much like a dude for my taste.


She cuddled up closer to me, eying me ravenously. She might have a female body, but it seemed as if she still had a male brain and a male sex drive. The way she was looking at me, it was like a starving man eying a piece of meat. I started to realize what life might be like for women, dudes glaring at them this way, every day, and I made a mental note to try to be less of a perv in public. Or at least wear sunglasses more.


We’d been locking eyes for a few sultry seconds, but I couldn’t take it. She was too manly. I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t bring myself to try anything.


So I swung my gaze back to the TV. On it was now cockfighting.


Two torsos, with large erect penises, dueling and clanking them at one another. And then the scene shifted to another style of cockfighting, that of chickens.


This piqued her interest. Still staring intently at me, she said, in that nasal honk, singsong accent, “Papa, he have rooster. He go boxing, boxing rooster. He love rooster more he love me. More he love mama. Mama want kill rooster.”


Hey, I could understand. I spent a few weeks on a road trip in Isan and myself had wanted to kill a few roosters. The feathered <deleted> things crying and wailing and cockle-doodle-doo-ing all night, outside.


I’d plotted horrific ways to kill the animals, too, dreaming of grabbing an AK-47, going John Rambo and cold smoking those RAH-RAH-RAH-RAA-ROOOOOO ass feathery <deleted>. Or kidnapping the creatures and throwing them into a river with concrete shoes like a mob snitch. I was imagining all sorts of <deleted> that’d throw PETA people into paroxysms.


In the end, I settled on ear plugs and simultaneously cranking the loud AC and ceiling fan. Ear plugs are essential equipment for living anywhere in Thailand, really…


Bird was getting antsy. She was clearly upset I’d not been returning her advances. I could see her, from the corner of my eye, frowning. And she upped the stakes by slipping down and off her black miniskirt.


She was wearing mesh, see-thru gray panties and through them I could spot a hairy <deleted>. She was post-op. Almost definitely no anal sex, I figured. Dammit, this night was the pits!


“Why you no love me?” she whispered, running a meaty hand, playfully along my arm. Her long purple nails sharp as talons.


And she scooted up closer, her soft, fragrant hair brushing delicately at the nape of my neck.


Then she pressed her big perky tits to my chest, grinding towards me, closer and closer, her flat little nose now nudging my cheek.


And closer, closer, she got, our bodies locked. She was practically wrapping herself over me like a blanket, her minty hot and humid prickly pulses of breath tickling at my ear, touching me in tingles.


Okay, I pondered, I can close my eyes, hit it doggystyle. This is some cyborg pussy, this post-op <deleted>. I gotta try it. Only live once, right?


I sprouted wood, just thinking of how artificially tight the constructed <deleted> could be. How, with the right technology, it could be even better than anal.


Horny as a porn star, I shut my eyes, pressing them tightly closed, and my heart throbbed as I clenched my teeth and shifted my body facing directly opposite hers. I felt the warmth of her body heat, her big fake silicone tits pressed to the thunderous drum of my chest. But when I went in for a kiss, her hard tits and body heat melted into a void of cold conditioned air, and I fell face first and plopped into the pile of pillows.


Opening my eyes, I saw nothing but red.


She was gone. But where to? I rose to my feet, my eyes darting in all directions as I jumped out of the empty jacuzzi. Then I searched the whole tiny hotel suite. But found nothing.



Looking into the bathroom mirror, I saw that I was in a big banana yellow chicken suit.


One might think it’d be too toasty in a chicken suit, in the tropical heat of Thailand, but it was actually rather breathable and cozy. I supposed the material to be silk.


I hurried out of the suite, into the hotel hallway, and jogged along the twisting cave-like corridor, looking for my ladyboy. But she was nowhere. The halls, empty and quiet, felt like The Shining.


I trudged into the lobby. It was empty too. Frustrated, I went full retard and <deleted> trashed the place. Kicking over tables, tearing up paintings. Cursing at the top of my lungs, I picked up and flung a desktop computer, sending the monitor and mess of wires crashing through the hotel’s front window.


Then, on the front desk, a tablet computer appeared, chirped, and vibrated…




On the tablet’s screen was a QR code next to a flashing photo of a torso in golden pantaloons.


But still no Bird.


No sign of her anywhere.  


Stepping outside, into the muggy air, I bent forward, held my hands to my knees, and drew in a series of deep breaths. Next to me was a seven-foot-tall spouting penis fountain that was illuminated neon pink. And I paused to ponder a whir of white noise.


Then I saw out into the alley, where a hunchbacked old man, an unshaven, balding, fat farang, stood with his arms outstretched. He was in a green Singha singlet, and had on baggy mauve camo cargo shorts that were soiled, <deleted> dirty as a Wuhan wet market. On his feet were cowboy boots with spurs that appeared to be shooting fire, as if they were afterburners.


His head thrown back, the fat farang was staring intently at the smoggy starless sky, howling like a wolf.


He then lowered his gaze, spun around and tossed an empty beer bottle at me, and the glass bottle exploded as it shattered on the penis water statue, casting a bolt of white lightning, followed by a burst of pink smoke.


Once the pink smoke cleared, a neon orange orangutan stood in a mountain pose, in the near distance, staring at me, menacingly.


The orangutan, walking on its legs, like a man, had a malicious expression on its face and lurched forth.


I backed up, slowly, purposely, wondering what sort of defenses the hotel had against orangutans. And the beast only picked up its pace, and ran, full steam, in my direction, baring its fangs, its huge gaping mouth salivating, wet at the ready.


It was far too fast for me to outrun. And in mere milliseconds, it was feet away, chasing me recklessly through the streets of Bangkok.


The Orangutan and I were as motorcycles, roaring like jumbo jet engines, ripping through busy Sukhumvit sidewalks, bashing into pedestrians, knocking over street vendors. And as I attempted to hurdle over an elderly monk, I inadvertently karate kicked a street side cooking cart, sending it flipping over, boiling water and red-hot cobs of corn shooting like shrapnel, maiming passersby.


A motorcade of motorcycle taxis, riding at Mach speeds, whizzed past us like missiles. And I jarred towards an intersection, but a tuk-tuk barreled forth, blocking my path.


So I stopped to face the wrath. And I spun around to punch my pursuer. Seeing the enraged orangutan, an arm’s length from me, I did my best Floyd Mayweather, planted ten toes to the ground and launched a left jab at the beast’s ugly mouth, which was big as a canyon and flying at me with the speed of a bat.


But as I threw that slicing jab, the orangutan shapeshifted, forming into a swarm of hornets, which disbursed, into the stink of Sukhumvit Road air, and there the hornets became mere directions of night.


From behind the remnants of the swarm stood Bird, jutting her square chin. Scowling, she clicked on her phone, causing an explosion, a bomb BADA BOOM pink fireball. Then I found we were back in the hotel room together. Supine, we lay like bodies on a heart-shaped bed.


Both of us in white hotel bathrobes, Bird lay panting. Her eyes leaping from her skull as she swiped vigorously at the Voodoo Doll app. 










Edited by kimcancer
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These are the stories you like to hear in a Pub, Right. 

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