Walking Street Blowjobs

The heat in Pattaya hit different after dark. Mark had flown in from Dallas two days ago on a ticket he bought the same afternoon he signed the final divorce papers. He was thirty-eight, soft around the middle from too many desk lunches, and already three beers deep when he turned onto Walking Street. The neon was loud enough to feel in his teeth. The music from the open-front bars was louder. Groups of men in polo shirts and cargo shorts moved in loose packs while the women—and the ones who looked like women—worked the sidewalks in tiny dresses, platform heels, and careful makeup that caught every colored light.

He had been told about the blowjob bars. A guy at the hotel bar the night before had said it like a recommendation, not a warning, eyes already glassy from the bucket of something red and sweet. “The ones with the pink lights near the end of the strip. You sit down, they come to you, and you don’t have to talk much if you don’t want to. Some of them are ladyboys. You’ll know.” Mark had nodded like he already understood. Now he was standing outside one whose open front showed a row of vinyl stools and a low stage where three girls in short pleated skirts were dancing without much interest in the beat. One of them had a sharper jawline than the others and longer legs. When she turned under the pink light the contour of her throat and the way the dress sat over her hips made his mouth go dry. She looked straight at him. He went inside.

The place smelled like cheap floral perfume, spilled beer, fried food from the stall next door, and the faint chemical sweetness of the air freshener they sprayed near the toilets every hour. A hostess in a black bikini top and denim shorts led him to a stool at the far end of the bar. He ordered a Chang. Before the bottle was even open a girl slid onto the stool beside him. She was tall even without the heels. Her hair was long, black, and straightened so it fell past her shoulders in a single sheet. The silver dress was short enough that when she crossed her legs he could see the top of a sheer stocking and the smooth brown skin above it. Her nails were long and painted the same silver as the dress.

“You want fun?” she asked. Her English was clear, better than he had expected, with only a light accent.

“Maybe.”

She smiled with one side of her mouth, the way people do when they already know the answer. “I give good blowjob. Very good. You want see? Private room in back. No rush.”

He nodded. She took his hand—hers was smaller, warmer—and led him past the stage toward a curtained doorway. The room behind it was small, barely big enough for a single plastic chair, a low shelf with a box of tissues and a pump bottle of lube, and a hook on the wall. She locked the curtain with a plastic clip, turned, and told him to sit. The dress came off over her head in one motion. Underneath she wore nothing. Her cock was already half-hard, neat and smooth, the same warm tone as the rest of her skin, the head just starting to show. She stepped out of the heels for a second to kick the dress aside, then put them back on and knelt between his knees without ceremony.

“You can touch,” she said, looking up at him. “Most men just watch and get nervous. You don’t look nervous.”

He touched. The skin was soft. When he wrapped his hand around her she sighed and her hips rolled forward into his fist. He stroked her the way he stroked himself—slow at first, thumb sliding over the head—until she was fully hard and a bead of pre-come formed at the slit. She leaned forward, licked it off her own fingers, then undid his belt and pushed his shorts down. His cock was already thick and flushed. She spat on it, stroked once from base to tip, and took him into her mouth.

She was better than good. She worked the head with her tongue in slow circles, then sank down until her nose touched his stomach and held it there while her throat fluttered around him. Spit ran down his shaft, over her fingers, and onto the floor. She pulled off long enough to say, voice a little rough, “You like ladyboy mouth? Tell me,” then went back down and took him deep again. He watched the top of her head, the way her back curved, and the way her own cock bobbed between her thighs, hard and steadily leaking onto the concrete. She used one hand on him and the other on herself, matching the rhythm, stroking herself in time with the bob of her head. When he got close she felt it. She pulled off, stroked him fast and tight with a spit-slick hand, and aimed his cock at her face.

He came hard. Thick white stripes landed across her cheek, her open lips, her chin, and one landed in her hair. She kept her mouth open and her tongue out, catching what she could, then licked the rest off her fingers and from the corner of her mouth while she looked up at him. Her own cock was still rock hard, untouched now, a thin string of pre-come hanging from the tip. She stood, turned around, and bent over the chair so he could see everything—her ass, the tight hole, the way her cock hung heavy between her legs.

“You want fuck too?” she asked over her shoulder. “Extra five hundred baht. I have lube. You can come inside if you want.”

He paid cash from his wallet without counting it twice. She found the bottle, poured some over her fingers, and worked two into herself while he watched. She was tight at first. She opened around them, pushing back, then added a third and told him she was ready. He stood, gripped her hips, and pushed in. She made a low sound and braced her hands on the chair. He fucked her standing, deep strokes that made the heels scrape the floor, while she reached under herself and jerked her own cock. She came first—cock pulsing in her fist, come striping the seat of the chair—and the clench of her around him pulled him over the edge a minute later. He stayed buried, balls tight against her, and came inside her in thick pulses while she moaned and pushed back onto him.

Afterward she cleaned them both with the tissues, efficient and unembarrassed, then stepped back into the silver dress and smoothed her hair. At the bar she wrote a number on a napkin in careful digits and slid it across to him with a fresh beer he had not ordered.

“You come back tomorrow,” she said. “I work until three. Ask for Nok. Tell them you want the private room again. I remember your face.”

He put the napkin in his pocket. Outside, Walking Street was still loud and bright and full of people who did not know what he had just done. His legs felt unsteady. He texted the number before he reached the end of the block. She answered within a minute with a single emoji and the exact time she finished her shift. He changed his flight home by two days on his phone before he even got back to the hotel room, then lay on the bed with the smell of her still on his hands and thought about the way she had looked up at him with come on her face and asked if he wanted more.