It’s difficult to admit but I really don’t understand some people at times.  I mean, we are all made from the same mould, so to speak, and yet somewhere within our deoxyribonucleic acid is a ‘weird gene’ which affects our behaviour and outlook on life.  This gene is different in each of us and so far I have detected six billion diverse variations.

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One trait I find particularly strange is displayed almost exclusively by men.  I have a friend (don’t look so shocked!) and he and I enjoy going out occasionally for some R&R at a few Go Go bars around town in Pattaya Thailand.  We sit, ogle, drool and fantasize for some time before coming up with a similar order of attractiveness for the female entertainers on display.  Our ‘male shallowness’ genes are therefore in synch.  When it comes time, however, to let our flirtatious spirits loose on the lady we would most like to get to know better, we are poles apart.  I invariably opt for the dancer with the best body, wearing the prettiest smile and usually, the least clothing.  My friend, on the other hand, will chat up the service girl in the jeans and sloppy t-shirt.  On two occasions, his target was the cleaning lady!  When asked why, he replied they were more of a challenge.  More of a challenge?  He said he knows he could have any of the ladies on the stage but the service staff were likely to play harder to get.  He preferred the thrill of the chase to having the prize handed to him on a silver platter.  For me, this does not compute.

To put it in perspective, let me take you back a few decades.  In my adolescence and young adulthood, when my testosterone levels far exceeded my appeal to the opposite sex, I followed every scheme known to man in order to get laid.  I went to the ‘hip’ places and wore the ‘grooviest’ attire my mother could afford to buy me.  I spent hours studying all the Rock ’n Roll music clips.  At the ‘swingingest’ disco in town I would use the first hour to mentally select a victim while building my confidence with glasses of liquid courage.  On one forgettable night, I approached the lady of my choice, mentally rehearsing my best ‘come on’ lines in the process.

“Hi.  Can I buy you a drink?”


What was that noise?  It sounded like something fragile being savagely crushed beneath a woman’s high heel.  Oh, no problem; it was only my ego.  Hoping nobody had witnessed my shame, I turned away and headed to the far side of the room where my ‘liquid courage’ became my ‘liquid salvation’.

My mates were not sympathetic either.  “Why did you let her get away with that?  Why didn’t you stay and keep talking to her?”

“Because she said ‘No’ and turned her back to me.  Duuh!”

“She may have said ‘No’ but she really wanted you to try harder.  Look, I’ll show you how it’s done.”

With that, my close friend (who looked like a young Elvis Presley, by the way) went over to introduce himself to the lady in question, chatting and laughing with her for about ten minutes.  Eventually, she bought him a drink and my humiliation was complete.

During a recent conversation, the editor of this prestigious magazine confided that things were the same for him when he was a lad back in London Town.  On Saturday nights he would park his horse and enter the candlelit hall wearing his most dapper gear.  Once the town crier finished delivering the latest news of the Duke of Wellington’s victories on the battlefield, the young potential media magnate would approach a buxom wench and ask her to dance.  She would invariably refuse his advances and he would spend the rest of the night in some dark corner slurping Nelson Pale Ale from a wooden mug.  To all those readers whose psychological development was severely retarded by experiencing similar problems, you were not alone.  Feel better now?

My personal ‘weird gene’ does not understand the idea of ‘playing hard to get’ nor ‘the thrill of the chase’.  I like life to be easy; the easier the better.  Whenever things get difficult, I take the hint and, if at first I don’t succeed, I give up.  Dreaming the impossible dream may have been fine for Don Quixote but he was delusional and, if alive today, would be occupying a padded cell.  Perhaps George, a character from the American sit-com Seinfeld, summed up my philosophy best:  “I’m a quitter.  My father was a quitter.  My grandfather was a quitter.  I come from a long line of quitters.  I was born to give up.”

This brings me to present day Pattaya where, pimple-free and worldly-wise, I have found my salvation.  No more deliberating over pick-up lines or what apparel will best attract the ladies.  No more drunkenly dragging my bruised ego home from a bar or disco after once again breaking my personal record for the most number of rejections achieved in any one evening.  Nowadays, while my ‘thrill of the chase’ friends are pitching woo to the cleaning staff, I am being titillated by a Goddess in a leopard-skin g-string.  And when I ask if I can buy her a drink, she never says, “No.”  Here, at least my initial interaction with a female lasts longer than five seconds and furthermore, should the circumstance arise when I find the urge to invite my latest flame to my room to review my foreign stamp collection, I am pleasantly confident my invitation will be met with enthusiasm rather than contempt.  Sure, it is more of a business transaction than a romantic spark, but I don’t care.

How to Make Money in Thailand

Agoda Thailand Review

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To those people who say the winning of a woman without a challenge or a fight is meaningless, I respond in the words of Woody Allen:  “Sex without love is a meaningless experience but, as meaningless experiences go, it’s pretty damned good!”
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