The ‘Attention Economy’ of Pat Pong

Marketers want to talk about an attention economy, but nowhere can you see it more clearly than in a strip club.

For the clearest glimpse of that in action, I suggest Bangkok. The rumors you’ve heard about it might just be true.
These sordid tales aren’t just the result of a number of anecdotes, passed from traveler to traveler, like a game of whisper-down-the-lane. I’ve seen enough to know that. Not that it takes a savvy super detective – there are underage girls hawking their “wares” every which way you turn. The government is supposedly cracking down on the child sex trade with as much vigor as the genocide their committing on opium poppies, but I haven’t seen the fruits of their labor just yet. (At least not in Bangkok.) Considering that the sex trade works hand-in-hand wit the tourism trade to bring in US dollars, I idly wonder how much of this “crackdown” is just for show.

Really, I didn’t care. I was growing uneasy and impatient as I paced around our hotel room. My sex-crazed co-worker Josh had yet to return from a “hunting” trip with our only hotel key. I found myself wondering ‘what is there to do on a Friday night in the red-light district of Pat Pong that doesn’t involve a hand job?’

Josh had been making the parlor rounds to compare pricing like the methodical bargain hunter that he truly is. Sure enough, he returned just as I was putting on my jacket and began begging his case with me–that I should join him for a ‘Happy Ending’ massage that would cost only 80 Baht (about $2 USD).

Annoyed, I told him firmly I had already decided to head to a disco for drinks. If at all possible, it would be nice to avoid an STD from an underage girl. (There also looms the ever-present risk of being scammed, drugged, or killed by accomplices. Not that it’s necessarily common but we’ve all heard the stories, and they can’t all be cautionary tales.)

A very subdued Josh finally relented and agreed to come with me, but only because he figured I might need “real manly” back-up at the seedy discos here. That’s Josh for you- pouting one minute but all is forgotten by reassuring his masculinity the next.

We finally decided on an upper-level street club, fairly classy and darkly-lit, promising “Amazing Ping Pong Show You Never Forget Never.” I figured they weren’t going to actually follow through on that lofty promise, but it seems I was wrong.

After paying the doorman at the bottom of the stairs $20 each (an outrageously high cover fee considering Thailand’s cost of living), I should have known this joint was going to be a tourist trap. (It was). Despite that, I was also about to witness the most singularly amazing display of muscle control in my 24 years on this crazy planet…

Upon entering the joint, a gaggle of scantily-clad girls (and I do mean girls) converged on me and my friend and began stroking our hair. It didn’t matter that they didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak a word of Thai. The rock music blaring over our heads took care of that pesky language barrier thing. It’s not like we really had anything particularly insightful to say to one another: we were here for one reason, and they were here for another. It just so happened that those motives created a sort of uneasy symbiosis. Existential conversation was not on the menu.

Eventually growing bolder, several of the girls began rubbing our thighs while they smiled at us and the leader of the bunch eventually plopped down on my lap and began nibbling my ear. Alarmed, I glanced over and noticed
Josh was lapping up the attention. The truth is, I don’t think a woman has even talked to him in America for months, maybe longer–let alone licked his ear. He needed the attention as much as they needed his money.

His mock lecture to me over breakfast the day before concerning our strict company budget to reach Malaysia seemed like a distant memory now, fading faster by the minute. It’s so convenient to rationalize what we crave
though, isn’t it?

As was inevitable, Josh’s pocket money was depleted all of two minutes later and the girls grew bored just as quickly as they had appeared. Conveniently enough, an elderly gentleman was ambling up the long flight of stairs and the girls practically knocked each other over to reach him first as he gingerly took his seat among some overstuffed throw pillows on a velvet couch. He was wearing a wedding band and the leader jokingly began her attempt to pluck it off him.

I was pointing this out to a deflated Josh (so he would realize how amazingly fickle these showgirls were and not take it personally) when I was interrupted by some unmistakably 80s porn music as it rattled the aging sound system. In similar fashion, the girls wearily climbed on stage, one high heel after another.

“This is the best part!” Josh said suddenly, coming back to life and nudging me with a sly wink.

The girls began to dance, looking more bored than a bunch of sidelined cheerleaders. One of them dropped to the stage and thrust her pelvis in the air. She continued to gyrate as the music built to an awful crescendo.

From somewhere in the dark, someone banged a drum and a ping pong ball shot clear across the stage. I was so stunned I didn’t even think to clap until Josh finally nudged me.

Not to be outdone, another girl got down on all fours and perfunctorily proceeded to pull a wet, glittering strand of sapphires out of her nether regions–slowly at first, and then faster, in time to the music. Again, I could only sit and stare in disbelief. My reservations seemed to be dissolving with the ice in my Mai Tai…

Almost as if he were reading my thoughts, Josh leaned over and yelled, “You don’t even see that kind of shit in Vegas!” followed by a series of loud, appreciative whistles.

“Yes indeed, sir. Things are strictly business over here.” I mentally composed tomorrow’s daily email correspondence to a naive manager back in Boston.

Oh sure, I suppose I will feel a pang or two of guilt about the social and economic factors that brought this show about, or about writing this trip off as a business expense come tax time… but I’ll get over it.

About the author:

Delylah currently resides in the colorful Tenderloin district of San Francisco and is originally from central Pennsylvania. Contrary to popular belief, she is not Amish and abhors scrapple.