Oh, You Silly Bitch
How I survived Walking Street, 808 Club, and my Trainspotting flashback
Yesterday, after my large set of ramblings (which actually took ages to edit), I didn’t get out the door until about 3 p.m., which meant the wholesome little boat trip didn’t happen. Still, not wasted time, I wrote some OK stuff, and I am really enjoying writing Substack at the moment.
So my nightly little mission continued: find somewhere genuinely nice to sit for an evening and have a drink. Determined not to end up in any cesspits this time, I plonked myself at Siam@Siam. On paper, perfect. DJ was great, the tunes were banging on the 24th-floor rooftop with an infinity pool. The lights went down, the atmosphere was cool, I could even smell barbecue somewhere.
Then…the guests just vanished.
By then I’d already done a round trip: left about 6:30 p.m., dashed back to the Hilton, changed into something more “night” (yes, that little black dress again, it’s literally the only appropriate thing I brought), and came back. Within half an hour it died on its feet. The waitress was lovely and kept chatting to me, she’d even tucked my glass of wine safely behind the bar while I nipped off to change, but I had to escape eventually.
I asked her, and this is where I got naughty: “So where’s the actual fun around here?” Because clearly it isn’t Tree View (horrible), it isn’t the seafront (just more bars), and it isn’t these hotels.
“Walking Street,” she said.
How I’ve managed to be this far into Pattaya without knowing what Walking Street is… oh dear God.
So I jumped in one of those little pickup-truck taxis, the shared ones, like a manual Uber ride-share. I’m sat in the back when a man jumps on with his girlfriend. At least I think she’s his girlfriend. She looked Thai; he didn’t look English or European, and he wasn’t Southeast Asian either. We chatted, what do I do, yada yada because I’m nice.
Then, I kid you not, he offered me money for sex.
Like, four times, in four different ways. I was like, “you what now? Sorry? What are you saying? What?” Hang on. Then it sank in. And I said...“Are you fucking joking?” I said. “I’ve just told you what I do for aa fucking living, do you think I’m turning tricks on the side, you fucking horrible man? Fuck off.” Then to his girlfriend I said: “Do you know your creepy boyfriend is offering me money for sex?” I took a photo of him and pixelated it. Thankfully, he got off shortly after.
My driver took me all the way round to Walking Street. Oh dear Jesus. You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the Las Vegas of Sleaze: neon detonating in every direction, bars stacked upon bars, clubs on clubs, everything I’ve seen in Pattaya cranked from level 5 to level 25. More sleaze, more noise, more everything.
I have absolutely zero interest in any of this whatsoever. But, ChatGPT had told me there was a place called the 808 Club there that plays hip-hop. I thought it might actually resemble a real place to go. I have to say: fucking terrifying. There’s an aggressive, weird atmosphere. If you’re someone trans like me, you quickly realise you fall into one of two brackets with the men in there: either a disgusting creature, or a fetish. Either way, not a human being. After 10 minutes I thought, this isn’t safe or fun; get out, and I did.
So I dived off around the corner to a much quieter area, to something that resembled a normal-ish looking restaurant. I did it again: the cheesy chilli chips came out. Much more pleasant.
Then, dear readers, I did a thing. Oh, you silly bitch.
I walked past a cannabis shop. Yes, they have them here, very much not like the UK/Ireland. I haven’t smoked a joint in thirty years. (I was very good at rolling them, but I don’t actually do that stuff.) God knows why I went in. Behind the counter: gummies, little edibles…and pre-rolled spliffs.
“Oh, fuck it,” I said. “Give me one of those.” I told the woman, “I haven’t done this in 30 years.”
I lit it. I think I took about six puffs. And immediately I was living the Trainspotting “Perfect Day” scene. He sinks into the carpet? That was me. I sat on their sofa and I am fairly sure an hour passed while I stared at nothing, jaw slack, motionless.
Then it hit me: I am in Walking Street. This place is full of predatory, horrible people. I am stoned out of my box.
Shit.
New plan: get out, find a safe-ish bit of wall, look normal (ha), and ride it out. I had a little mantra:
Bag over your shoulder, phone in your hand. Bag over your shoulder, phone in your hand.
It felt like an absolute eternity. I could see the same three girls dancing in front of me and there must have been a reflective surface behind me because occasionally they would walk up, look past me, look at the reflective surface and fix their makeup or something. I kept thinking, oh my god, am I remembering this or is this happening again because they keep doing this. That is the point when you clearly know you have gone too far.
So I sat, stared into the distance, closed my eyes, opened them, went on three cosmic voyages and discovered only six minutes had passed. So so slowly time moved forward, 1:00 a.m. → 2:00 a.m. → 2:30 a.m. The world stopped spinning quite so hard. I realized one of the three women in front of me that had been dancing was trans and she looked across at me and we chatted for a few minutes which essentially jolted me out of everything, thankfully.
I spotted a policeman, walked up and said, “Hilton, please?” He pointed me the right way (there are only two options on Walking Street). I got to the end, grabbed a cab, got back to the Hilton, cleansed my face, went to bed, and vowed: never EVER again.
When I was younger I never loved cannabis on its own. Whatever they sell now is not that innocent little stuff that we used to have back in the 1980s and 90s. This stuff felt like nuclear-grade weapons shit. I have zero tolerance and it sent me everywhere. I did not like it one little bit. Too much. Much, much too much. I’m vulnerable, and I need to be careful. Last night I was not careful. That was very, very, very stupid of me.
And there’s something I need to say. I’m noticing a pattern. Nights like this correlate with big rejections. When someone close to me rejects me, or I feel betrayed or isolated, I go wild. I’m not proud of it. I’m a little ashamed. I need to take a helicopter view and address it, because this is not how I want to live.
I won’t spell out the details here, but let’s just say existing relationships are strained. Messages fly in WhatsApp, words land so hard on me, and the absence of people who were once my life is so painful. And at moments like that as the messages land, it breaks my heart and yes, the correlation with nights like this is hard to ignore.
I need a better coping strategy. Preferably one that involves lifting weights, running or riding a bike.
There are some people close to me who despise what I write here, and wish I’d stop. I really don’t want to. And I won’t.