ABSTRACT
The Calypso. It’s the biggest theatre on Thanon Sukumvit, Bangkok’s Fifth Avenue. It has seats for three thousand; expensive seats so there will be businessmen and yuppies, German and Japanese and American and French and Hong Kong and Singapore and Saudi and Kuwaiti, in them. There is a cast of a hundred, a different show each night. Palaces, skyscrapers, desert oases drop upon the huge stage in outbursts of electric lightning. There is the Empress of China seated on the uplifted hands of naked bodybuilders metallized in gold. There is Mae West with a chorus line of nuns. There is Madonna competing with Grace Jones. Now the stage fills with ballerinas spinning out adagios and minuets from Swan Lake. Now gongs and the shakuashi propel the advance of a traditional transvestite dancer of Japanese Kabuki theatre. The Michael Jackson isreally-better still than the real one; Marilyn Monroe resurrects with puckered lips to coo for diamonds, your incredulous fingers want to feel for the wound to be sure. Vamps, divas, grandes dames, pop superstars, they are all, of course, men in their early twenties. You know that. Now there is the stripper. With rose-blushed complexion, under an auburn river of Farrah Fawcett hair, she uncoils in the cone of a spotlight, silversequinned gown cut to the navel revealing the contours of creamy breasts, slinking on spike heels. Her sultry eyes fix you as she approaches, her lips tremble and part, her silvered fingernails clutch at her sides, grip her breasts, slide down between her thighs. She unbuckles her waist-sheath with convulsive movements, flings off her skirt. You slide into the movement: artifice and style and props being shed to reveal flesh and nature. But now you find your mind getting twisted behind your eyes: at each stage of the strip the more is exposed of her body the more female she gets! Soft belly, ample thighs, full breasts are revealed. At each stage a more and more violent contradiction splits your head between what your prurient eyes see and what your mind knows. Finally she snaps off the cache-sexe: you see pubic hair, mons veneris. Her eyes are pulling at you with torrid magnetism. How the hell could she gyrate like that with her cock somehow pulled between her thighs? Then abruptly, for just a second, the cock flips out and the spotlight goes off and she is gone.
