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Phnom Penh: Platonic Sex Tourist

Sex Trip Report

Story from a sex traveler in Cambodia

Arriving in Phnom Penh and knowing that the Silver Pagoda, National Museum, Wat Phnom, Tuol Sleng Museum, and Killing Fields are the highlights and with my having visited the latter two on a prior and only other visit, the decision was easy what to do first – go to Martini Pub!

Finding Martini Pub was both difficult and easy. I decided to take a long walk there, for my more than 90 minutes/day exercise that equates to two additional years life expectancy, from my $3 Okay Guesthouse (my thriftiness has been well-documented in prior submissions) near the 5-star riverfront Cambodiana Hotel (where I’d meet my wife who’d be coming down from Hanoi in a few days; her organization’s scope is improving a certain function of Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos).

I couldn’t find Martini Pub and neither could a motorbike taxi I caught after waiting out a monsoon the city seemed to have every mid-afternoon.

That night I hopped on a motorbike taxi in front of my guesthouse, meaning I was dealing with guys knowing where things are, and was at Martini Pub in little more than minutes. Turns out that Martini Pub had moved and my earlier man was looking for it at the old address and helpful Cambodians had been calling the wrong phone number.

Now I wasn’t planning on getting laid, but did want to see the experience. (This could remind you of the definition of an agnostic – a gutless atheist.)

As I’ve documented before in a prior submission, a sex worker is of little use to me – can offer little pleasure, for I can’t eat her out, fxxx her without a condom and even receive head from her.

Yes I’m aware more than anyone that one doctor in the region will tell you that it’s unlikely you will pick up anything from receiving oral sex (“But you can wear a condom to make sure”) while another doctor well encumbered by the facts (of course; he works in Olongapo, adjacent to the old Subic base, Philippines) will respond that you’d better believe you can pick up VD that way.

With half the VDs permanent and not wanting it myself nor ruining a loved one, I’ll err on the side of safety when it comes to sex workers who bed conceivably 1,825 guys over a 5-year period, assuming only one a night.

I know of a blonde beauty (thought she was management’s daughter), in Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, who was screwed by 30 of my troopship colleagues during our first night in port.)

Anyway, I’m sitting by myself in Martini Pub eating my supper, vaguely watching their movie, and ignored by the women.

As I’m sitting there, looking forlorn, I’m wondering whether I’m that unappealing. Whizzing by is a happy-looking and striking, golden-hued, lissome young whore, quite probably Vietnamese, dressed in jeans’ short (for Cambodia anyway) shorts with her midriff barren except for a bra-like appendage.

She was hot. I wondered whether she’s a superstar and available to only a few. But one thing I’ve learned in Vietnam, often the forbidden fruit, like cafe management’s teen daughter of a slim body, as precious as can be, turns out to be seducible. The gals at Martini Pub didn’t look underage to me.

But then one of the whores, looking rather like a real slut, stands by my table, glances down at me and sits down.

During our chatting, I ask her what the hell that was on her biceps. It was rather dark in Martini’s, but it looked like she’d been bruised up. She responded it says, “I love you,” in Cambodian. (She said it like she’d gotten it just for me.) Yes, having a tattoo, she’s an unappealing slut.

So I go from ignored to getting better treated than anyone in there as far as I could notice – she’s stroking through my jeans although we’re not in a discreet spot, being close to the counter where you order the food, I’m producing an engorgement, she fakes surprise at this and then volunteers she has a hairless pussy.

To confirm this, not that I asked her to, she raises her skirt to show me some dainty white thongs and pulls them to the side showing me her goods. My hand well confirmed she had a naturally hairless and small pussy. Her friskiness attracted the attention of a lady matron working there who eyeballed her. And a security guard was all of a sudden posted adjacent to us. It didn’t seem to bother her any.

I think she was on drugs, for she relentlessly begged me to go outside to a nearby short-time place and fxxx her; she just kept that up, with not even a minute’s break, getting on my nerves a little.

She was a real stuck record. I asked why she wanted to go out with me (knowing why of course), and she responded she liked to fxxx.

Judging from her pussy in an extreme stage of wetness, there could be a little truth in that. No way was I going out with that slut, particularly after then running my hands down inside the back of her panties toward her naughtier orifice and feeling something hard projecting out – God – maybe a fxxxing wart. My hand was out of there and fast.

With that type of attention, she then volunteers she’ll take it up the ass.

Rather unusual for a sex worker – I mean usually it’s the guys pining for that. And one thing I’m thinking is that incredibly you have all these guys going to Bangkok and actually falling for such tattooed and wart-encrusted sleaze and then recommending, that others come over and do the same.

She was Thai-style whore full of shit – lies and lies.

The mentally nimble wouldn’t believe her if she said Niagara Falls was wet. How did you learn your English so well I ask as though I didn’t know it was a function of the 1,825 guys or so she’d sleazed with over the past five years? “I’m studying it in school.” And she’d responded she was Cambodian.

I suspected she was Vietnamese and spoke Vietnamese to her. There are loads of Vietnamese in Phnom Penh; I even found a little Viet sector. Fluent in Vietnamese, she changes her story to she’s half Vietnamese. Her lies were oriented to her saying what she thought I’d like to hear, of course, and somehow thought Cambodian was the answer. And she wanted me thinking she was a good girl studying English who was out of money.

She said last night she hadn’t had money for food. With my responding to her question that yes, I’d just now arrived in country, she probably thought I was easy-pickings, and I was having fun, except for the minor problem of her nagging, stringing her along.

The way she was so relentless on wanting to fxxx, I asked her whether she took drugs but phrased it like I’d be for it. Yes, she was on drugs, she responded. I gave her some pocket change because it’s not fair to take all their time in a club for nothing. One thing nice about the bar whores in Phnom Penh is they’ll sit next to you forever without asking for a drink, not that I’d be unfair in that regard. Were it the Philippines, it’d be the girl, her two friends, her sister, and mamasan, with me paying for drinks for all; you know the routine.

Finally, she asked for a Coke of which one of us then knocks on the floor. I went to wash my hands after having my hands inside the pants of that sleaze, and she inquires, “You’ll be back won’t you?” Of course – even whores deserve some treatment.

With her stuck in the mode of forever trying to get me to take her out and my nerves having had it a little in that regard, I responded, looking out over the whole of Martini’s, that no other guys were leaving with women.

But then a guy gets up and walks out with one – so much for that argument. Well, she says, if you don’t want to go up the street, you can spend the night where I live. What a creepy thought. Having taken up a lot of her time, I give her a little more minor spending money and leave, without her of course.
I will say one thing she had going for her. She had that fabulously soft skin (flesh) of a baby’s that so many Vietnamese have even well into adulthood (forever?), and I mean precisely like a baby’s. I’m not talking hyperbole. Were I to breed the ideal woman, I wouldn’t go wrong using her gene for that attribute. Nice little pussy too, but she’s ruined goods.

My motorbike taxi guy spoke English pretty well and really knew and took me to all the places – Martini Pub, Sharky’s, Heart of Darkness, a whorehouse packed with young women, and more popular clubs. Now this guy stays on my ass wanting to get me fixed up.

Relentless he was too. Well I had hired him for Martini Pub, so come to think of it, no wonder he thought I was your usual male slut. Hence, after Martini Pub he stops at what appears to be at first a normal high house – Viet-style.

Inside are several young male Cambodian minders, we go upstairs to the third floor, and God there are 15 – I counted them – young Vietnamese but not ultra young. Pink-lit rooms were all over the place. I didn’t bite; maybe I’m spoiled from Hanoi.

Some of the enticements were ok, but I wasn’t drooling over them. Left there and went to Phnom Penh’s second favorite place – Heart of Darkness. But it was closed down. I’d heard before some violent stuff had happened there – some foreigners or a foreigner pounded by Cambodians or a Cambodian. A week and a half earlier than this night we went by, a Cambodian was shot and killed there and the cops closed it down.

Heart of Darkness had posted a sign euphemistically saying they were remodeling.

So then we stopped in Sharky’s (“No Weapons, No Drugs…Survive 3 Mortar Rounds – Get a Free T-Shirt”), and all the time on the way over there, my motorbike guy’s trying to get me fxxxed but with no luck – $15 he said. He continued, “Either Vietnamese or Cambodian, but I prefer Vietnamese for they perform the total servicing.” Maybe you could describe Sharky’s as like a Martini Pub but with plenty of pool tables.

Being new, like at Martini Pub, I didn’t feel frisky walking into the place, so went out on the narrow balcony upstairs that was devoid of customers. Right away, a good-looking young Viet homes in on me, and a split second later, a Cambodian, with one on each side.

This would turn out to be a problem. Ms Cambodian really wanted me, and so did Ms Viet but the latter a little cowed what with being in a country where they are quite possibly disliked even more than the Thais. Ms Cambodian was so affectionate, tried so hard, would take my hands, and try to get me to caress her. But I didn’t like her looks although she tried so hard and pushed all the right buttons.

Mr motorbike guy who’d I’d brought in this time, after having left him outside at Martini’s, was a problem – he kept saying I could go with either but in that I was so familiar with Viets, why not go with Ms Cambodian.

And I heard this relentlessly; actually either was okay to some extent in his mind; I knew it was a case of a decent kickback. Trouble is I was really falling for Ms Viet. Nineteen years old, cute, had nice white skin (sometimes I find myself in the locals’ mode of bias re skin) and teeth, and we had super rapport. We could chat easily in both Viet and English. We’d chat in Vietnamese when we wanted to make sure the two Cambodians didn’t understand us. Actually, I might have taken a little plunge with her.

Ms Cambodian had this nice affectionate demeanor, trying so very hard, and I didn’t want to humiliate her by rejecting her. She had that look some Thais have, looking something like they’re half Indian and half Malaysian.

She was a real darkie, but we white guys like dark-complexion more often than not. Just didn’t like Ms Cambodian’s looks although in the States guys would probably find her of appeal.

She reminds me of the first Thai I saw at NongKhai on my first my ground trip Hanoi-Vientiane-NongKhai-Bangkok. Man, these people look different from the Vietnamese, I told myself, looking at this Thai Immigration guy. He had that look similar to Ms Cambodian – dark and looking rather half Indian and half Malaysian. And he had some size.

Ms Viet was frank, I could understand her Southern Vietnamese well (she was from the Mekong Delta), she could understand my mostly Northern Vietnamese well – sometimes I’d remember and speak Southern – I know them both but have to concentrate to remember to use Southern.

I wanted to get into the pants of Ms Viet, but Ms Cambodian was there, but I was able to massage Ms Viet around her goods with shielding from my body and one of her legs. After all, Ms Cambodian wanted very much to be the one.

Ms Viet did do something a Korean I was in bed with had done years ago. At one point, she stuck her finger in her ear and vigorously massaged it in and out. She then looked at me and smiled about it, but I wasn’t liking what I was seeing.

Additionally, her throat was just a little raspy. What’s happened, drawing on my knowledge of pathology (disease) etc, and I’m just brain-storming, is quite possibly their having given head to diseased dicks and it’s spread to their ears, also the reason for Ms Viet’s throat condition.

And it’s sad in the case of this 19-year old adorable Viet. Her mission, she said, was to help her mother in Vietnam, and I found her believable. But what a price – she may already be ruined goods, and if not, it’ll happen and soon. Normally I find the women (the men aren’t relevant) in the region as boring as an English major on Ecstasy, but I found Ms Viet pure enjoyment, and obviously was falling for her. So how did it all end?

I brain-drizzled taking both of them out, and did ask Ms Viet whether she’d ever been in a threesome with a guy. She had. For curiosity, I asked her whether she’d ever made love with a woman. She had, but added she’d only make love with a woman she liked.

I’m not clear on whether she said she would or wouldn’t make love with her girlfriends, but I am clear that she said she’d only make love with a woman she liked. I asked her, “Are your customers nice?” She responded guys who give her $25 are nice and guys who give her $20 are not. Surprise; it’s all about money, to be a cliche-bore.

I wasn’t going to humiliate Ms Cambodian, so I was departing without either, but Ms Cambodian didn’t get the word. Out at the motorbike, she was looking happy, for Ms Viet was left behind, and then Ms Viet came down (the bar’s on the second floor) and departed on a motorbike taxi – alone, to sleep by herself. Ms Cambodia thought she was the one.

Miscommunication. I whispered to my motorbike taxi guy I was departing by myself. Sad Ms Cambodian. My fxxxing Cambodian driver had kept butting in and telling me to take Ms Cambodian, but in the long run, it worked well. When I met my wife a few days later, I was able to look her in the eye. Ms Viet stayed on my mind and stayed on my mind. I was approaching infatuation with her. This is about par for married guys living in the region.

Interestingly across the street from Sharky’s, there’s a barbershop owned by a fellow obviously into the US and ex-President Kennedy. It was named the John Kennedy Barbershop, and pictures of the ex-Pres and American flags were all over the place.
There was one more attempted enticement.

The next night close to my guesthouse, I hear music coming from this big building, walk in, and see that it was a dance place with stage performances. Thought maybe I’d get to see some classical Cambodian dance, but turns out it was Cambodians trying to do disco. Cute.

They are so un-evolved when it comes to dancing. Not much movement. It’s like they just started yesterday. (A few days later when brought my wife, an accomplished dancer, to check it out, she also thought it was hilarious in a sweet way.) And the girls on stage dancing – well it was like 1-2, 1-2 or no more complicated than the steps of 1-2-3-4. Very tame disco and semi-disco. I walk in and the mamasan, a hugely fat woman, and Mr security guard keep trying to fix me up. When you walk in, you go by all these young gals sitting at the side.

So I’m sitting there, as the only foreigner in the place, drinking a beer from a large pitcher, and all the staff – Mr security guard, Ms mamasan fatty, Ms assistant mamasan just normally fat, and Ms mamasan #3 – keep coming over, one at a time, trying to get me hooked. And they brought at two different times a young Cambodian (no Viets in this place), one a tall white one, to see whether I was interested. I just wasn’t in the mood.

Mr security guard volunteers that the girls there were good girls, not “taxi girls.” (Actually, I’m thinking was I to opt for one, I wouldn’t want one too pristine, for it would be nice to be able to take her out.)

It reached the point where I thought they might say something like was said to the author of “Life in a Chinese Village.”

Of all places, he’d determined that Saigon’s huge Chinatown, Cholon, was the most Chinese place in the world because of its relative isolation from the changes that had transformed the other Chinese locations.

Hence, he settled down in a Cholon hotel to observe and write his book. (Something about Vietnam; Thailand’s own scholars also go to Vietnam to find and study Thai more (traditionally) Thai than the ones in Thailand, tucked away isolated in the mountains of Vietnam’s rugged North.

They still wear the magnificent Thai clothes of old and have ancient Thai scripts. In the latter regard, if you’re an intellectual, these writings are deteriorating, and your assistance in preserving them is needed, assuming the paranoid Vietnamese officials would cooperate.)

The staff at the author’s hotel kept asking him whether he wanted a girl. And he never did. So finally, they asked him whether he wanted a boy.

I began to wonder whether this dance hall’s staff was going to give up on me and ask whether I wanted a boy. They were shaking their heads in exasperation and wondering what was wrong with me, and felt I should be as delighted as a pack of poofters in a Vaseline factory.

These three platonic sex tourist experiences reminded me of a phenomenon I’d noticed in Vietnam. Show the gals you really aren’t that interested in them and you’ve become the forbidden fruit, and they’ll go after you aggressively.

 

How safe can it be?

Many considering visiting Cambodia will, no surprise, mull how safe it is. I have a big ex-football (US variety) player friend, legs like young oak trees, who is half scared to death at the thought of going to Cambodia and Laos.

I was seeing an example of crime, attempted crime, or petty rip-off every day in Cambodia. Day one was the failed attempt to snatch my wallet half way across Cambodia, between Vietnam and Phnom Penh, at the ferry point. Then day two after paying 4,000 riel ($1) for a Phnom Penh newspaper from some little kid, I got back to my room, and noticed he or his minder had altered the 1,200 riel to 4,200 riel. Pretty clever, but pissed (rankled) me off.

Then day three I came across a nice bookstore of a fabulous selection of used books and counterfeits. A bright Cambodian gentleman ran it and talking to him was enjoyable and just the right place to ride out another mid-afternoon monsoon. We hear a loud female scream and he goes quickly outside.

What was that I asked? It hadn’t surprise him. He said it was probably a couple of guys on a motorbike snatching a purse or cell phone, adding that he hears or sees that weekly in Phnom Penh.

Anyway, these pickpocket type kids can be tricky in Saigon and also Cambodia I was about to learn. In Saigon, they’ll point to your forehead and then snatch something lower I heard. At the ferry where I was sitting in the first seat of the bus, I had my wallet out, and this little rapacious beggar (in consonance with official guidance, I never give to beggars) pointed to the feet of this Finnish girl behind and across the aisle from me, setting me up to snatch my wallet.

I was walking the streets late at night and also with a briefcase holding some essentials – a map, Lonely Planet, a book, glasses, one of those raincoats that fold up to the size of a thick envelope…, but still don’t know whether Phnom Penh’s dangerous.

OK – my guesthouse has posted, “We are not Responsible for THEFT on the street of Personal Property. Please USE our SAFE BOX (free) For safekeeping of Valuables. Many Thanks.” Of course, they aren’t responsible, so why are they saying that?

Could be so you’ll, like many of their customers I noted, stay in their cocoon in the form of their cafe and pay for their food, drinks, and more than double-priced internet. Hence, I can’t say their poster indicates unsafe streets.

Just after arriving, I go walking outside into the darkness, and a motorbike taxi guy tells me I should procure some transportation to preclude being robbed. But he could be like my guesthouse – have some self-interest there.

Later on during my stay I asked an apparently forthright motorbike taxi right outside my guesthouse about walking out into the streets, and he responded, “Okay (pause) but be aware of your surroundings,” that age-old and worldwide advice.

That night out with the motorbike taxi guy doing the rounds, it was around midnight and I asked him whether he was afraid of motorbike robbers coming up to him. After all, I’d read the police blotter in Phnom Penh’s daily. Not a bit, he responded.

The bottom line: after being encumbered by the facts and even being out all over by myself in the dark, I’m not sure whether Phnom Penh’s dangerous.

I can’t reason that because of my having no problem, it’s ok, for that would be flawed reasoning by analogy. And in broad daylight, I hear a woman scream about six shops down. There’s part of the answer, and the bookshop owner hears or sees that weekly. (After hearing, no surprise, that a bag will draw bad guys’ attention, I decided to dispense with it at night.)

On the riverfront drive, I asked the young man working in Food Mart why no customers, no tourists. He responded (i) corruption, (ii) gun hold-ups, and (iii) the soccer tournament underway resulting in the youth (i) losing bets, (ii) then having parents refusing to bail them out, and (iii) their then robbing tourists to gain the needed money.

What was the most powerful experience of my Cambodia journey?

You’d never guess in a million tries. Well it wasn’t in Cambodia. I came back by bus from Phnom Penh to Saigon where I had more than 24 hours to kill before leaving on the Saigon-Hanoi train. At first, I just wanted out of there, not that there was anything wrong with it.

Actually, Saigon was dynamic, but it didn’t interest me; been there done that. But then it hit me there was something different I wanted to do around there; something no other tourist would think of, and it’s not in Lonely Planet.

I took a cheap local bus 30 km north to Bien Hoa where I heard there was a massive and desecrated cemetery of the losing Saigon-administered troops. (Bien Hoa was actually too far; had to backtrack to Long Binh.)

I’d heard the cemetery was left to grow up in weeds and the pictures, of the losing soldiers on the tombstones, had been desecrated.

It took me three cemeteries to find the one I wanted – the one of the South Vietnamese losing soldiers. Cemetery #2 was of the Ho Chi Minh soldiers – wasn’t interested in them – hear too much from the commies and their propaganda and their banners noting their “quang vinh” – glory.

I searched it out (a motorbike taxi I’d caught at Bien Hoa helped me), checked in with a very young commie uniformed army guard who still had the old wire, hand-cranked, army field telephones like we had back when I was in the army, and then had a “delegation” tailing me of another commie army guy (in uniform too), the cemetery administrator (civilian clothes) and a guy in a uniform of I don’t know what.

The latter kept looking at me sternly until later when he loosened up, a function of my pretty good Vietnamese language skills that the Vietnamese find are a blast.

They let me prowl, didn’t interfere, but did stay pretty close by. Later it hit me that had I taken out a camera, they may have not been so relatively easy going. In fact, they might have become darn excitable!

(And I speak from a strong experience in that regard, but that’s another story that I won’t be telling in this medium.) But I had no camera with me, what with my finding them (cameras) to be a hassle.

Lots of the pictures on the tombstones desecrated – smashed or else just the eyes had been poked out. Elephant grass up to 6 foot. The tall memorial building hadn’t had paint in 30 years (cemeteries of the commie soldiers kept immaculately) – it looked like an element in a ghost town.
Some guys barely lost their lives – at the top of the cemetery where you enter were the newest killed – around March and April of 1975 when the war ended.

They came close to making it out alive. One photo was of a very young cute kid, with hair a little long (a southern difference), of 17 or 18 (date of birth and date of death always given) who had the biggest smile you’ll ever see.

Sad. Even those desecrating hadn’t had the heart, lack of, to damage the photo of this young kid. Many of the photos weren’t desecrated; many were. I was the only visitor, but when I came in, a carload of guys in a nice black car were leaving in maybe, if I may guess, the ultimate revenge – friends of a losing soldier departing in luxury.

Couldn’t help but think that the check-in procedures where you signed in and left with them an ID card (in my case my Viet driver’s license) wouldn’t intimidate mothers etc of the soldiers from visiting.

After all, it would stamp them as in bed with the losing side and provide an audit trail. There wasn’t a lot of the usual paraphernalia you see at a cemetery.

But there were a few vases and some burned incense. One little bright green vase had been knocked over and broken, perhaps more desecration.

I was surprised to see the place administered by army commies in uniforms.

I don’t have the answer of whether that’s good – is it that they are in charge and there will be no further desecration, or whether it’s bad – is it your typical Vietnamese commie application of the ultimate people control and people admin (the only thing the commies are good at my wife tells me) – based on their old East German Stassi model.

 

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