Calling Masseur Feelgood

“I bet they have the best pad thai!”

“Is it like the movie The Beach!”

“We should go! No! I love you, man!”

“Oh my god, but did you see Brokedown Palace? Claire Danes was badass.”

“Did you just throw up on my shoe?”

It was during this drunken conversation at a bar in Australia that Jason and Sejul—two friends I had become close with while studying abroad—and I decided we should go to Thailand. So the next day, perhaps still tipsy, we bought our tickets and two days later we were on our way.

What exactly am I going to do in Thailand, I thought to myself, sitting on the plane shortly after takeoff. I realized, sitting there, flipping through a Bangkok tour book, that our drunken conversation was the extent of my knowledge about the country. For a planner like myself, it felt completely alien, but I figured, no, for first time in my life I am going to be spontaneous, even if it kills me. And I hear it can be a dangerous country, so it just may.

Two hours later, we got off the plane and were accosted with the most humid, sweltering heat I had ever felt in my life. I imagined that this is what heart of darkness felt like. We headed into the airport and groaned when the air conditioning hit us as we went through customs. After a quick taxi ride, we were in Bangkok. It was only a matter of time before the exhaustion set in, so we decided to start exploring.

Within five minutes we realized that not only was the city oppressively humid and smelly—many people wore paper hospital masks, which was not reassuring—but it was so incredibly crowded, Times Square on New Year’s Eve seemed spacious by comparison. Within seconds several rickshaw drivers approached us smelling fresh, tourist meat. We decided to go for it—if things got wacky, we could always jump out of the rickshaw Chinese fire drill-style at a stoplight.

“Where you want to go?” the rickshaw driver asked.

“Wat Po, please” I said, pointing to a picture in my guidebook of the largest reclining Buddha in Bangkok. I had tried to cram in a little research on the plane ride, but quickly got overwhelmed with the sheer number of buddhas in the city, which seemed to cover the area like Starbucks stores in the States.

“Okay dokay,” he shouted, taking off before we could negotiate a price.

“But wait! How much?” Sejul yelled, as we all gripped each other and the sides of the rickshaw as he sped off. Sejul was beautiful and petite and exotic with her Indian background, so she often managed to get things done her way.

“I give you special visitor tour!” he said, smiling.

This did not sound promising, but we figured, what the hell. First the driver stopped at a market, replete with every cheap knickknack and piece of crap imaginable. Apparently before everything made in China was dropped off at our ninety-nine cent stores, they made a quick stop here. While there was a Buddha there—a fact that we would soon learn was not surprising—he was not very big and he definitely wasn’t reclining.

“I’m so not paying, and I’m not getting out of this rickshaw,” Jason said, looking frustrated and angry, which was difficult as he was stick thin and wearing a very tight Care Bears T-shirt.

“We want to go to Wat Po,” I said to the driver, the tension apparent in my voice. “Come on guys, let’s just go,” as we started to collect our things.

“Yes! Yes! Wat Po. I take you! You calm down! So many buddhas here. I sorry!”

We settled back into the rickshaw, feeling like we had taken charge but also already exhausted from the 112 degree temperature. We sat back, enjoyed the limited breeze and soon were at our destination.

Except, once again, it wasn’t our destination.

“Ah, this isn’t our buddha. It’s a diamond center, whatever that means,” Sejul exclaimed. “Listen! We don’t have money, okay? We’re poor college students!”

The rickshaw driver's head drooped sadly and the dollar signs in his eyes receded. “Okay dokay, I take you to Wat Po.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said getting out of the rickshaw. “This is bullshit. I’m not being taken advantage of. I’ve only been here for three hours.” I handed the rickshaw driver 100 Baht which equals about $2.88. “Don’t even think of giving me a hard time.” As he was a small man and I was feeling feisty, I was ready for a battle, and arranged myself in my best crouching tiger, hidden monkey pose.

The rickshaw driver screamed something at us I was glad not to understand. Jason glared at him, which strangely did the trick, as he drove away.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” Jason asked.

“How about a massage? Aren't they known for that here?” Sejul said.

“I could use one,” I said, feeling guilty as I had no other ideas as to what we should do. We sat on a curb, clutching our belongings to our chests as I checked in the guidebook. “It says to watch out because a lot of them are brothels.”

“Great” Jason remarked. “Let’s just end up as sex slaves and”—

“It just says we have to be careful, not to be worried that we’ll be sold and bartered. I just don’t want to end up with an STD.”

Sejul checked the map and it turned out that there was a massage place within walking distance. We started along as our spirits lifted with the idea of our awaited bliss. But the parlor was sketchy at best. A woman not only rushed out of the storefront to greet us as we looked in the door, but started to lead us down a back alley. I figure massages, much like abortions, should never be started by leading you to a “special entrance.”

Our search stretched into hours, as parlor after parlor gave us a not-so-fresh feeling.

“This humidity is killing me. It’s like walking through soup,” I said. My hair, which had once been straight was now so curly I couldn't even run my fingers through it. We noticed the outdoor vendors around us covering their wares with plastic, which we found odd as there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Two minutes later it started to pour. Not rain so much, as it felt like the world was ending and frogs would soon be falling from the sky. We ran for cover but were already drenched. Five minutes later the rain stopped and the vendors pulled away their plastic as if this was a common occurrence. Apparently we were here during the rainy/typhoon season. The planner side of me cursed the new spontaneous side.

“Well, I’m not hot anymore, but Sej, I think I can see your nipples,” Jason said.

“You’re lucky you’re gay,” she replied. “Where is a freaking legitimate massage parlor in this town?”

We started walking and then we saw it. It looked clean, inviting, and non-brothelly. The Mecca of the non-red light district. When we walked in the front door, they simply welcomed us in. We were ecstatic. A plainly dressed, non-slutty looking Thai woman led us to a clean, good-sized room and told us to strip down and put on our robes, not seeming to care that Jason was a boy. We did so willingly, peeling off our wet layers.

We lay facedown on our strawlike mats and three miniature Thai women entered, chatting away with each other. With little more then a smile in our direction, they got to work molding our backs to their whim, never stopping their discussion. And it was a good thing they kept talking because they drowned out our yodels of happiness.

When I was turned over on my back and the woman started walking to the very top of my inner thigh, I learned I was tense in places I hadn’t even considered. I felt like we should share an after-massage cigarette and maybe spoon. By the time the women were done, the three of us were puddles of relaxation. It literally took everything we had to get back into our soggy clothes.

It had been a strange day but we were finally relaxed. That night we decided to go out and asked the concierge at our rather nice hotel—thanks to the exchange rate—where was a good place to go. We knew the red-light district was questionable, but asked if it would be fun.

“Oh yes, very exciting,” the concierge said.
“Is that good or bad,” Sejul asked.

“Oh, you must see,” he said, winking at Jason.

We decided to take a look anyway. As we walked around the area, we noticed every bar had scantily clad women dancing with what looked like forced abandon. Every time we looked in one of the bars some man would run out and beckon us in.

“I’m not sure if they want us to work there or buy a dance,” Sejul said.

“This feels like the massage experience all over again. Let’s find somewhere to get a drink without the boobies,” Jason said. “I mean, they’re fine to look at if you’re into that, but I’m not paying for them.”

So we continued wandering. We walked out to the open air bars where things were rowdy but the clientele was mixed. We continued to stroll along and take it all in. And then, as we learned was apt to happen on our trip, it started to unexpectedly pour.

We ducked into the first bar with some cover and shook ourselves off. The bar staff was completely mind-numbingly beautiful Thai woman and every single patron was an overweight middle-aged balding white guy.

“Ah, this is weird,” Sejul whispered.

“Yeah, but it’s pouring and I could really use a drink,” I said. I looked over at one of the women behind the bar. “Singha beer?” She nodded and brought it over. The woman and the three of us stared at each other for a while.

“You not from here?” the closest bartender asked, a very pretty, dark haired woman whose clothing looked like it was borrowed from Britney Spear’s tour closet.

“No,” Jason answered. “Vodka tonic, please?”
“Vodka who?”

He opted for a Singha. We stared at each other some more realizing that a conversation would be difficult. And then one of the women leaned down behind the bar and pulled something out, laying it in front of us.

“Jenga?” We looked at each other. The women behind the bar smiled and began to set up the blocks in a tower of the popular Hasbro game and gestured for us to pull out the first piece. It felt like I was reliving my childhood but on acid.

And so, that night we played Jenga. As the game progressed we became friendlier. By the end of the night, we were drunk, the bartender had given us free reign of the music, and the male patrons of the bar left us alone and concentrated on their respective imported lady friends. Outside the rain had stopped but we weren’t ready to leave.

“Weird night, huh?” Jason said.

“Definitely. I like this beer though. Oh, sorry!” Sejul said, trying to steady herself by accidently placing her hand on one of the male patron’s bald heads.

“And unexpected. I had no idea that we spoke the international language of Jenga,” I said. And with that we turned to do a shot of something we hoped wasn’t a date rape drug and began to play another game.

Useless Facts of the Barely Legal World

I am a very black or white when it comes to making decisions. [Insert reference to interracial dating here.] But there certainly are a whole lot of gray areas when it comes to law and life and it’s an area that I love to explore.

I know that if you grow four marijuana plants in Australia, it’s tolerated because it’s for personal consumption. But if you have five, that’s the intent to sell. I also know that the South Australian police don’t know that. When I went into the police station to ask them while I was studying abroad—I was working on a paper comparing marijuana regulation—they were as helpful on the topic as if I had asked my own mother, and she’s no hippie. This is because the Australian police are barely competent.

I know that in Ventura County, California, cats and dogs must have a permit to have sex. I’m not sure if that means you need a permit if different species are doing it, thus creating a cog or a dat, but it’s still weird. In Fairbanks, Alaska, they do not allow moose to have sex on city streets. That alone would make me not want to own a moose, because I would not want to be the one to tell a randy moose that he can’t get his swerve on.

In Oxford, Ohio, it’s illegal for women to strip in front of a man’s picture. I’m glad I don’t live there, because growing up I was kind of in love with Michael Jackson—you know, when he actually looked human—and I had a big old poster of him on my wall. And I like to dance. I’m sorry; I just can’t contain myself when PYT comes on. You put the pieces together.

In Helena, Montana, it’s illegal for a woman to dance in a saloon or bar unless she has on at least three pounds, two ounces of clothing. I don’t know if there’s a weigh station in the bar, but apparently pasties weigh two ounces, which I think is a good thing to know.

In Cleveland, Ohio, it’s technically illegal for women to wear patent leather shoes. Why? Because it might reflect up and men may see something they oughtn’t. First of all, which females over the age of 10 are wearing patent leather shoes? And B) in order for that to happen, I feel like the shoes would have to be especially shiny, the sun would have to be at a 45 degree angle, and you’d have to be a huge pervert to figure that out in the first place.

In Clinton, Oklahoma, it’s illegal to masturbate while watching two people have sex in a car. Once the windows fog up in the car, what can you really see? Personally, I don’t think that should be illegal, because I think it’s pretty obvious that that’s just gross.

I think that when you get a Brazilian bikini wax it looks like your vagina is barely legal, but it sure is smooth. Additionally, after getting said treatment, I think it should be mandatory practice that you spoon with your waxer and have a cigarette together. After all, what you did together was pretty darn intimate.

I know that it’s illegal to use someone else’s ID, even though you can get away with it. This is especially the case when you find it in the back of a cab and you’re nineteen and you try and use it to get into a club. Additionally you look like me, but the ID says that the girl’s name is Arvesha Patel and she’s 27 and 5”9 and Pakistani. And when the bouncer tells you it doesn’t really look like you, you tell him you got a nose job. And then he lets you in the club. That really feels barely legal.

Having parties when you’re underage is never a good legal idea either. I had a huge party once where about 80 people showed up. My friend with a big mouth told everyone and then had the nerve to show up at the party, but came bearing the gift of Chinese food. But then I noticed it was half eaten. You can call it “leftovers” but that still doesn’t make it okay. Also, when you have a party and don’t get caught by the police, why don’t your parents just sense you were up to no good? I mean, the house is cleaner when they return, then when they left it. Children never have the burning desire to tidy up unless they’re obsessive compulsive.

Another way parents know you had a party? When they open up the soup cupboard, and right between the minestrone and the chicken noodle soup, there’s a Bud Light can. And another note? Don’t blame it on your eight-year-old brother. Parents never fall for that.

I don’t know if it’s legal or not, but I do know that my company is theoretically very aware of everything I look at online. And one time, right when the Vanessa Hudgens naked pictures came out (the chick from “High School Musical”) I was looking at them with my coworker. And I thought we clicked on the safe for work version, but all of a sudden we saw underage lady parts. And I kept expecting a red light to start flashing, an email to simultaneously appear telling us we’ve been terminated, and a door to open in the floor and swallow us up.

I found a movie called Barely Legal. The tagline is “they couldn’t rent it, so they filmed it themselves.” I don’t that’s a good idea. I also don’t think I’d ever be able to make a good sex tape because I’d be so aware we were filming. I’d be in the middle of things, and be like, you wanna do it doggystyle? Does that make my ass look big cameraman? Oh, that totally reminds of this joke… That’s because I barely have a comedy career. Sigh.

Another fun fact? Impersonating an officer of the law is illegal. For my friend’s twenty-first birthday we got a stripper to come to her apartment. He knocked on the door because he heard a call about a “noise disturbance.” Then he proceeded to rip off all his clothes until he was down to a very policeman-like g-string. Without pausing for a second, he turns on his boom box (this was a few years ago), and proceeds to pick up the birthday girl and whirl her around. Only problem is that the birthday girl is almost six-feet tall. And there’s a ceiling fan that I notice, even in my drunken stupor, is dangerously close to her head. And I’m very afraid we’re going to celebrate my friend’s twenty-first birthday with a decapitation. I was so flustered by the event, in fact, that when the stripper came over to where I was perched on the arm of a chair to grind on my leg, I lost my balance and fell on the floor. That’s because I’m barely classy.

And while we’re on the subject, begging for change on subway cars is illegal. Unfortunately, this doesn’t exactly cover the guys that try and do freaking back flips down the subway corridor during rush hour. I’m not sure if that’s completely legal, but you’re still completely dooshebags. Go play on a jungle gym.

I’m not sure if preaching the word of God on the subway is legal or not. But if you are going to do it, please make it amusing. These pointers were developed after watching an actual event:

• Please tell people they should say “amen” if we think you look good.
• Please greet every man or woman who looks vaguely Hispanic by the names Juan and Maria. Additionally, when a Hasidic Jew gets on the train, please inform us that you’re going to go talk to your “Jewish brother about money.”
• Also, please end your spiel with the fun fact that you used to be a male prostitute.

So there are a whole lot of useless fun facts for you. So just remember, when in doubt, don’t do things in a car, without pasties on, or in patent leather shoes and you should be fine. And it makes me realize that there really is a lot of gray area when it comes to the law, but I hope that never changes, because if so, all my friends that are lawyers would be out of a job. And I know a lot of lawyers.