It’s early—not yet eleven—and Western tourists are already hanging out at the bars. At other bars in other places, tourists sit in clumps, but here they’re mostly solitary. It’s the creepiest side of sexual tourism: men in their sixties with wedding bands on the same hands they use to clutch underage Thai girls’ waists. My gut clenches at the thought of Charlie in a place like this.
We approach the front of Darkside Bar on foot a couple of minutes later, me picking my way confidently down the cobblestone road and Aubrey trailing behind, barely concealing her growing irritation as she drags her bag behind her. I’m half expecting the bar’s exterior to be dark and shuttered, but its windows are flung wide open and people are already trickling from its entrance to neighboring venues. The crowd is varied: college kids around our age, older Western tourists, a few locals. I motion for Aubrey to follow me, and just as we near the entrance, a man stops us. He’s a local, short and wiry, and his eyes flash as he grins and extends a laminated menu our way. Aubrey leans over to see what’s on it but I slap the menu away, shaking my head sharply. I know what the list is. I’ve seen the same list in other countries, seen groups of drunk men laugh at its offerings and hand over money to be escorted into dingy, curtained rooms.
It’s not prostitution, this particular list. If it were, the man wouldn’t have offered it to us at all. In some ways it’s almost worse—“novelties” you can watch for an extra fee, if the dancers on the bar aren’t enough. I don’t want Aubrey to see it. I grab her hand and pull her inside the large complex, which isn’t just one bar but a long hall, as it turns out, with maybe a half dozen separate bars within. Some are decorated garishly with Scooby Doo figurines and papier-maché Hello Kittys. Some have racecars suspended overhead. All have dancing women atop surfaces usually meant for beers and shot glasses, their Lucite, platform shoe–clad feet twisting and turning at eye level, where if you look up . . .
I don’t look up. Obviously.
“Classy establishment,” mutters Aubrey, and I smile a little. She’s learned something this past week, and I like to think it’s from traveling with me. The simple act of dragging your jaw up off the floor can get you far in this world. “Fake it till you make it” was always my dad’s favorite expression, and Aubrey’s show of bravado is almost convincing. Almost.
“They’re not women,” I casually let her know, pulling out a bar stool. Aubrey leans against the bar next to me.
“Excuse me?” She looks at me like I’m crazy and I signal over the waiter. While I didn’t want Aubrey to see the menu—like I said, I’ve been feeling protective—ladyboys are something different.
“We’ll have two Amstel Lights, please,” I tell the waiter, and Aubrey doesn’t even balk at my consistent compulsion to order on her behalf. Either she’s used to being bossed around or she’s still proc-essing what I’ve told her. “They’re ladyboys,” I say. “Boys who look like girls.” I watch Aubrey’s eyes move from where we’re sitting up the long-legged figures of the three sultry dancers in front of us. She mentally traces the curves of their hips; the roundness of their chests, made rounder still by boob jobs and pushup bras, undoubtedly; their delicate facial features; and their long, wavy hair. Aubrey lets out a short laugh.
“Shut up,” she says, a note of doubt creeping into her voice.
“I’m serious,” I tell her. “Some of them really are girls now, I guess. The ones who have already had sex change operations. The rest are transgendered. Hence ‘ladyboys.’ They’re actually kind of considered a third gender around here.”
“But . . . some of them are gorgeous,” Aubrey whispers. “I would literally never be able to tell.”
“Totally,” I agree. “They’re hot. That’s part of the allure. There’s a huge ladyboy component to tourism over here.” It’s a topic that’s fascinated me ever since I came here as a kid. Which maybe would be weird for most kids, but no topic was taboo in our house. It’s not exactly why we’re here, but I suddenly feel compelled to tell her all about it. “My mom does a lot of campaigning against sexual tourism,” I go on, “so I’ve grown up hearing all about this stuff. She donates but also travels internationally and speaks out against exploitation and such. She’s also really into sexual identity in general, LGBT rights, gender rights . . . it extends in all these other directions. She’s not a career woman exactly, but she’s also not a trophy wife taking it on as a trophy cause. She cares a lot about it, and I guess I kind of do too.” I blush a little, only because I don’t usually admit that to anyone. Not that I’m ashamed; it’s just that it’s never come up, not really, not outside the sphere of my parents’ dinner table. The couple of times I mentioned it to Charlie, he laughed like he thought I was being cute and said something like “Stick to music, babe.” Like this is an interest on a par with records or concerts. I search Aubrey’s eyes for similar derision but she looks interested. Even transfixed.