‘THE PING AND I ’“SEX AND THE SUBURBS
“You see pussy, you sleep better,” said a shifty looking man on a Bangkok street, thrusting into my boss’s hands a menu that included such delicacies as ‘ping pong’ and ‘razor blades’. Somehow I don’t think he was talking about his Siamese cat. This was one of the many cultural diversions available during the International Aids Conference this year, albeit not one of the official shows organised by UNAIDS.
Since watching The King and I as a child, I’d been desperate to visit Thailand. Okay, the chances of finding a despotic, yet strangely erotic, King in a skirt were slim in 2004, but I was prepared to take my chances. Armed with extra-strength insect and diarrhoea repellent and enough antiretrovirals to last me six months, I stepped off the plane humming “Shall we dance”.
I’m sure you’ve all read about the sensible side of the 2004 International Aids Conference - new drugs in development, political protests, and scientific shenanigans. But what about the other stuff delegates got up to, yet failed to mention in pious feedback sessions? I’m sure some were purely there to assimilate information and scuttle back to their hotel rooms for a wholesome night’s sleep. But not me. Despite being four months pregnant with a wonky pelvis, weak bladder and rapidly vanishing T-cells, I also wanted to have fun.
The conference venue was huge. Vast conference rooms were linked by alarmingly long corridors, heaving with armies of delegates, marching with steely determination to their next session. I staggered, waddled and limped between sessions in inappropriate, yet spectacular, four-inch heels. Panting, wheezing and gasping for breath, I inevitably arrived 10 minutes after everyone else and stumbled to a seat in the front row, causing maximum disruption. Some girls will do anything for attention.
One of the nicest diversions was the positive people’s lounge. Compared with the Barcelona conference, where the lounge was in a desolate basement, with only aging biscuits sprinkled with PCP spores to snack on, this lounge was heaven. Perhaps it’s the suburbanite in me that makes me revel in membership of any exclusive club. “You do know who this lounge is for?” asked the doorman eyeing me suspiciously. “Absolutely,” I replied imperiously, expecting a doorway HIV test to prove my eligibility. Inside I was met by bubbling water features, inviting lounge areas and gloriously diverse people living with HIV.
Again I shared my hotel room with my best mate Robert. Perfect, until my partner Paul turned up on the last night. Usually I would relish the kinky possibilities of sharing a room with two men, but it didn’t seem quite so ideal with two tiny single beds and a developing foetus. Even less ideal for Paul, who had to listen to Rob and me giggling incessantly and witness Robert’s 3 am comedy bedroom outfit - magenta bra and ginger pubes.
After the conference, Paul and I holidayed on the island of Phuket. Perfect, apart from the monsoon madness (no, I don’t mean the annual high street shop sale). There was nothing to do in the torrential downpour, apart from watch cheesy hotel porn. You know the type (or perhaps you don’t if you are the Taiwanese nun who I now know reads my column). However it was sufficiently diverting to cause me to fall down five stairs in the hotel room, as my eyes were glued to the screen instead of looking where I was going. Must have been God punishing me for being a perv. I also managed to infect my minging moloscum from frolicking in the Jacuzzi with Paul. I can’t decide if that was again divine punishment, or because the filthy water was probably bubbling with the last occupant’s Germanic cheesy sperm. Probably a combination of both.
I’m ashamed to admit that I did go to one of those ping-pong “shows” with a gaggle of gay men. The very talented, albeit ageing, ladies performed a number of mind-boggling tricks for the audiences’ pleasure. Bottles were opened by vice like muscles (handy if you can’t find an opener), dizzying lengths of fairy lights were pulled out from orifices (again, great for parties) and two particularly gifted ladies proceeded to play a trumpet and whistle in unison with phenomenal fanny farts. I know how I’m going to entertain guests at my next soiree.
