nana plaza

The jangling sounds, shrieks and bells of Nana Plaza surrounded me, and I looked wildly around for signs of my prey... Look for eyes, look for eyes... The assignment threw me. In my profession, you avoid eye contact..... Quite a thing to be setting off into this hedonic war zone with a specific commission - to watch the eyes for signs – to observe without delving, to watch without becoming part, to examine without involvement....

Had my success with the Australians and then the Americans made me too cocksure? Pulling myself up onto a ledge between two dens I scanned the ravening throng. I need not have worried. My powers of materialization immediately delivered me a prize exhibit.

...This Rubenesque western woman is nearly clad in a black dress - a homage to Liz Hurley with straining safety pins, conspicuous flesh at all salient points indicating a total lack of underwear. She is probably mid-forties, spiked dark hair, well endowed, overweight and spilling out of this yielding, stretchy dress at points where some semblance of dignity demands a cover, even in Hells Plaza... My eyes are drawn to the copious flesh at eye level, as she is currently seated on another high ledge to showcase her ample embonpoint. Her skirt rides up at every squirming movement and she seems flushed and enthralled by her own behavior

...

My gut at that precise moment was wrenched.... like the long-awaited arrival of a rare fauna, the twitcher behind the camera lens unable to believe his luck, trying to contain his breathing, his excitement, trying to keep his camera steady..... make the most of the moment..... where is David Attenborough when you need him....

British, I speculate, as she seems to be enjoying the attention she is attracting. She is seated on a narrow shelf of a wall just below a bar that affords galleried access to the throng that presses in and out of the Plaza, concentrating on eating a fistful of sausage and kebabs on a stick. Besides her sits her boyfriend in similar gastronomic reverie. he is nondescript, everyman in jeans and tee shirt, clearly playing the straight man to her flamboyance. I make the high-risk decision to sit beside them on the ledge as if people watching and resting a while before making my next move, whatever that might be.

As her man leaves to dispose of wrappers and forage for yet more food, I offer some easy conversation around the pleasantness of the evening and the fun of watching the derive. She says 'there is nothing like people watching,' betraying her Britishness before rising, her dress rising with her as she moves towards another open-air food stall, this one selling tiger prawns. Her performance with these prawns is quite spectacular. they are the giant beasts of the sea, red and angry, yet she devours them each in two fell bites, shell and all, leaving only part of the head.

Aware that I am admiring her handiwork, she comments that 'If fifteen years living in France has taught me nothing else, then it is always to eat prawns shells and all.' At that point the boyfriend returns, bearing more kebabs. He notices my proximity and moves her along the wall, out of my earshot. I fear at that point that I have blown it, sensing hostility from him.

Nonetheless, i hold my ground, ostensibly people watching still while waiting for them to make their next move, hopefully into the colorful recesses of the Plaza. My luck is in, they do turn inward then hesitate in the lower beer garden atrium, below the three stories of steaming go-go, bars. I move at that point passing them to venture deep into the beer garden, feigning interest in a conversation a young and rather aggressive ladyboy is insisting on having with me. d

Distracted momentarily, I turn to see to my dismay that the couple has gone. I am daunted by the prospect of having to visit every bar before i strike gold ... but once more my luck is in. At only the second curtain I stick my head around, a bar named Spanky whose USP is the inflicting of lashes upon its customers. I know the couple are there for on the dance floor amid the many slim and sinuous go-go dancers is our British heroine, dancing like a wild thing,, while bumping and grinding against the girls who take this all in their stride, as they reciprocate by lashing her with their noisy but make-believe straps.

They also choose to pull down her top to allow themselves access to her breasts, while one snakes to the floor and pulls up her dress, revealing her knickerlessness. She makes a play to pull the dress down, but in truth is luxuriating in every exhibitionist moment. I sit on stool near a pillar, hopefully inconspicuous,while I observe her previous sullen boyfriend explode into vibrant life at the sight of his lady's revelations and gyrations.

She maintains this gamely for two or three songs before climbing down from the stage to join him in the front row of the stalls, to rapturous applause from all points in the bar. Flush with her daring escapade, she crosses and uncrosses her dimpled thighs, while putting her fifteen years of exposure to all things French by repeatedly inserting her tongue Mylie Cyrus style across his mouth and then into his mouth. he seems to like all this too. As she maneuvers, and he accommodates, I notice that the seat beside them has become vacant. I move with confidence onto this bench, to consider my next move.

She is encouraging the man on the other side of her to take one of the dancing girls for his own. When he declines she quietly whips him with the strap she seems to have inherited, but he remains resolved. Picking up on this clue, I choose an apposite moment during the simulated lesbian show to invite one of the girls to join me for a drink, which she gladly accepts. Rather than me being the object of her attention however, i direct her hands towards the bare arm of our exhibitionist friend. To my surprise the young bikini-clad innocent makes an immediate grab for a boob, to the evident delight of the grabee. They become involved in some extended hand play, while the boyfriend grins on in approval while smiling at me.

I begin to sense that a breakthrough has been made. While my companion returns to the dance floor and the boyfriend goes outside to suck on an e-cigarette, she recognizes me as the guy she met earlier, and we fall into some conversation about the girl and about her out there attitude. She described herself as a 'crazy bitch', saying that she used to do this job twenty years ago in London, before the beer took over, stroking her gut with the beer bottle to accentuate the point. She said she knew all about the job and fancied the girl very much indeed. When the girl returned I directed her toward my new-found friends, who gladly took on responsibility for buying her drinks in return for her complete and undivided attention. Relieved of responsibility for her, i was freed to concentrate on the show, Now both partners were touching and kissing the now bare-breasted girl freely. while the girl eased her hand up the dress that was now under considerable strain, meeting no resistance at all from the crazy one.

At so

me point in all of this, I think they must have been running out of funds so the kissing stopped and the man again moved outside. I fell into conversation again with my new friend who now was making no attempt whatsoever to pull down her hem. She said 'You would never guess that in my normal life I am a teacher.' I said that I perfectly believed that. The boyfriend returned just as another act kicked off; this time where a young woman dressed as man revealed from her suit a strap-on cock which a number of the girls, fallen to their knees, took turns to suck. This was not passing the authenticity turn-on test, though it was quite amusing. I rose to go, offering my hand to the couple as a thoroughly British formal gesture of farewell. The guy took my hand firmly, saying to me in a conspiratorial tone 'And this is a typical Friday night with her.' He was clearly loving the whole show and cared for her deeply. She took my proffered hand but then promptly placed a finger or two in her mouth, while she playfully sucked. I tried to ignore this but was amused at some level. Remembering that my injunction from my commissioner was to make my excuses and leave, in true journalistic style,  this I duly did, feeling actually warm towards this wild couple and also strangely proud of the craziness of Brits also. She certainly gave it her all.

Thinking how fortunate I had been to strike pay dirt so early, I decided to test my luck further. The next couple of bar curtains pulled back nothing of interest, just older rheumy eyed grey-faced guys surrounded by gaggles of dead-eyed girls. The third bar curtain however, Temptations, reveals a quite brightly lit up-market ladyboy bar in which sits two older guys and woman. One of the guys is fully occupied with the blandishments of the ladyboy of choice, while the wifely type is wrestling with some issue with a puzzled-looking lady boy. I am beckoned over immediately to intervene and of course to buy the long long legged ladyboy a drink, for which she is appreciative. This is part of the problem i soon learn.

This middle-aged scruffy Australian woman seems to think it suffices to stuff twenty bhat notes down the girl's bra, little realizing that this is not the way we roll around here. A drink must be bought. The slurring lady - who thanks me for 'buying me a lady boy' who is now sat next to her and being pawed - explains that her grim-looking husband who is sat by her side, very closely so for a couple married for so long, allows her to play with the girls, and lets her mess round with passing men, but draws the line at ladyboys, who confuse him. 

To illustrate these boundary relationships, she plants a surprising and actually revolting kiss full on my lips. Remembering that my job is to report as well as to mediate, I listen on while she says that 'my' ladyboy is her favourite of all of them. I am not sure how she can tell as they are all beautiful. Spookily enough her tone is really similar to the Australian women i had met last time around, who had savored every second of describing the full beauty of these exotic creatures and of their need to manhandle them without conversation.

My ladyboy, a little tired of all of this, asked me if i was to go with her. I said no. She then left, to be replaced immediately by a newer very similar model, who had the traditional twenty bhat note stuffed down her front. The hubby had had enough by this time and his mate seemed not to have a single idea of what to do with her ladyboy, who now had a bra full of small change. As the wife essayed a kiss on me once more, I made for the door, saying that I was in search still for my imaginary friend. The ladyboy's eyes were cool, calculating, professional, adult; the Australian eyes lustful blurry out of focus.