Bangkok hits you like a wet slap the moment you step out of Suvarnabhumi — hot, humid air thick with exhaust, jasmine, grilled pork. Taxi queues snake forever, neon signs flicker in Thai script above laughing clusters of girls in tiny skirts.
It's been two years since you were last here.
Different passport stamp, same raw promise humming in the streets.
You're here on a freelance visa: an award-winning artist, dabbling in brand campaigns for quick money, chasing private commissions that'll have rich daughters stripping for "portraits." Bangkok's perfect — decadent, anonymous, crawling with socialites who want something scandalous on their walls.
Your hotel is tucked in a Sukhumvit soi, all dark wood, koi ponds, white cushions damp with tropical heat. The bellboy gives you a too-knowing smile as he sets down your bags. You toss him a tip, close the door, and stand there for a minute, breathing in the musky sweetness of orchids wilting in a ceramic bowl.
Reunion at the White Tiger
An hour later you're in a linen shirt, walking past street vendors grilling pork skewers, towards the White Tiger — a rooftop cocktail den on Thonglor that Kieran promised would be "filthy enough to be fun, classy enough not to catch syphilis."
Kieran's a fellow digital nomad — Australian, crypto marketer, fake tan. You met him in Seoul last year, bonded over blackout nights and a mutual weakness for rich girls with too much perfume.
He's sprawled on a velvet couch when you arrive, laptops open, a highball sweating in front of him.
"Look who crawled out of baggage claim. Christ, mate, Bangkok looks good on you."
You clink glasses. The whisky's sharp, smoky.
"So what's your play this trip?" he asks.
"Same as always. Paint a few bored heiresses, consult for some pretentious boutique. Fuck my way through whoever pays too much attention."
Kieran laughs. "Jesus. You sound like a sex tourist with a LinkedIn. You'll fit right in."
Under the table
A bar girl in tiny black shorts comes by with the next round. She's got long glossy hair, bare shoulders, a silver chain dangling between small breasts. Her name tag says Mew, with a little heart drawn on the end.
"Tip for me, mister?" she says, voice syrupy. Her hand lingers on your thigh. Nails tap higher.
Kieran just rolls his eyes, checking something on his phone. "Bangkok. Can't even drink without a girl trying to drain your wallet or your cock."
You hand her a folded note. Expecting a giggle, maybe a blown kiss.
Instead, Mew drops gracefully to her knees under the low table. A second later, her warm breath ghosts across your zipper. Then her mouth is on you — hot, slick, delicate. You let out a rough exhale, knuckles whitening on the cushion.
Kieran smirks. "Fucking savage. Try not to nut on my shoes."
Outside the glass railing, Bangkok blazes with life. Motorbikes roar below. A billboard flickers with an ad for luxury condos — perfect families smiling under scripted English: "Where Dreams Live."
Meanwhile, your cock is buried in a stranger's throat. Her tongue presses just right, teasing the underside. Your hips jerk. She pulls back slightly, eyes peeking up through lashes, before swallowing you deeper, cheeks hollowing.
You come hard, nearly choking a laugh. Mew swallows without flinching, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and winks — then vanishes into the lantern-lit crowd.
A darker offer
Kieran drains his drink, snorts.
"Still the same fucking monster. You're gonna love this city."
He closes his laptop, leans in.
"Listen — after this, I'm heading to a massage place. Not some tourist shit. Private floors, girls who look like influencers, probably half of them actually are. You want in?"
You glance at your empty glass, then back out at the neon.
Your cock still twitches in your pants.
"Yeah," you say, grin slicing your face. "Yeah, I fucking do."