I wasn't. There was a long line for the club's single toilet, which seemed to be the most popular seat in the house for everything except the intended purpose. Even worse, I was so hasty and preoccupied with trying not to touch anything in the filthy stall, I accidentally soaked the crotch of my pants with the spray gun provided in lieu of toilet paper. I rushed back to the main room, but Karen wasn't in her seat. I glanced around to no avail. Starting to panic, I searched the bar, squeezing by seedy businessmen and blacked-out bachelor parties. I tried to check the ladies bathroom, but a bouncer clapped a hand on my shoulder and pointed to a sign that read Dancers Only. I was the worst kind of tourist to have come here, and now Karen had paid the price. My head was dizzy with images of her being mickeyed and hauled off to some backroom for the full Eli Roth treatment. Soon, I'd be calling her parents from the embassy explaining where I'd lost their daughter. I was about to appeal to the DJ to make an announcement when I was groped from behind. Someone was grabbing my crotch — hard.
"Sorry. You were being an asshole. I had to do something," Karen explained between laughs, handing the ladyboy a wad of baht. This had been her revenge. Suddenly feeling very sober, I shrugged in agreement. The scare of losing Karen and an embarrassing public grope were the least I deserved. Still chuckling, she looked at her watch and told me we were flying out of Bangkok in five hours. My female friends were right: the trip did make or break our relationship. I had gone in search of some kind of offbeat adventure to recount at dinner parties, and returned instead with a cautionary tale. A reminder that, while I liked to imagine my girlfriend was holding me back — that single and unfettered I would morph into not only a more intrepid traveler but a happier liver of life — the truth was quite the opposite. Karen was the one who'd realized the trip I had only talked about for years. She had made it happen while I backseat-traveled, second-guessing not only our itinerary but our entire relationship. So I usually keep that Bangkok story to myself, but for Karen it's a well-worn favorite. As she relates the strip-club tale, I shrug and mug sheepishly as I'm exposed as the kind of traveler who gives Americans a bad name. But that's okay. I've come to terms with the facts: I'm not Graham Greene, I'm not single, and I'm happier this way. n°
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©2009 Duncan Birmingham and Nerve.com
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