I knew from the minute the foxy blond in the blue shorts sat down she was a tease. Young -- maybe 22,23. Blond maybe bleached. Face and figure – no maybe’s there. Absolutely stunning. And she knew it.
I hadn’t seen her approach because the open-air beer bar was sheltered from Bangkok’s traffic by a semi-circle of dust-covered, shoulder-high potted plants. Customers were protected from the sun and rain by a thatch-and-wood roof from which a few Halloween balloons and tiny plastic witches added color and annoyance to anyone trying to chug his beer. She sat where a few balloons nestled beside a tiny Buddhist shrine, and several others encircled a beribboned bell customers could ring should they feel happy enough to buy everyone a drink.
The Thai women working behind the bar hadn’t noticed the blond yet; too busy admiring Goong’s latest shoes – expensive leather footwear from Italy paid for by her lovesick sweetheart in France so that (unknown to him) she could wear them to discos with her Thai boyfriend. I knew this because I knew Goong, and I also knew her cop boyfriend who owned the open-air bar I was drinking at.
But most of the customers around the oval-shaped counter had already stopped talking and were quietly appraising the blond. Which in itself said a lot about her looks. Because in Bangkok beautiful women are the norm, and most foreign men who end up in the Big Mango prefer Thai women. Especially the jaded local expats and weather-beaten foreign offshore oil riggers who drink at the open-air bars off Sukhumvit Road. I had seldom seen them cast a ‘farang,’ or foreign, woman a second glance. Certainly not in approval. But they did now. Now they threw back their Singha beer and Mekhong whiskey as before, but behind their attempts at nonchalance each was as attentive and alert as a grammar school student on his first day of school. It was as if a solar flare had sent a spectacular light show crashing through Bangkok’s murky, malevolent October night sky, disrupting communications.
I motioned to Goong’s younger sister, Lek, and she suddenly noticed the blond. She quickly approached her, gave her a big Thai smile and a “Hello, what you like?” The evening traffic noises were as clamorous as ever and beside me an inebriated Greg Winston – “Winny” to his friends – was talking, still unaware that he was the only one doing so, but I heard the blond order a rum-and-coke.
At first, she never glanced my way, but I could tell she was aware of the tension her presence had caused. I had seen sexually charged particles wreak havoc with a bar’s magnetic field before. But none as alluring as this one. The fine sun-kissed blond tresses, the big blue eyes, the cute upturned nose, the sensual, heart-shaped lips, the irresistible charm of youth – this one had it all.
Something about the innocent yet provocative way she perched on the bar stool, the way she tossed back her short, stylish, slightly tomboyish haircut, the way she ran her hand over the smooth expanse of flesh visible between where her short-sleeved powder blue top ended well above the belt-line of her hip-hugging, powder blue shorts. The way she tilted her had down to take a drink then looked up at me from under her full bangs and mouthed a “thank you” for getting Lek’s attention for her. No doubt about it. The lady was a tease.
“Skytrain to Murder” is a book written by Dean Barrett. It is available at Bookazine. Also, see DeanBarrettThailand.com
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