A 35 year old American lyricist Jay Armstrong, who is vacationing in Thailand, visits a cabaret called Slice of Life. He falls in love with a beautiful Thai singer cum cabaret performer called Dream. However, Jay eventually realizes that Dream is not like other young women in the cabaret. One by one, Dream’s secrets start tumbling out: she used to Deng, a young male who aspired to be an English teacher. However, Deng was forced to transform into “Dream” and perform in the sleazy cabaret as a result of the strange contract the owner of the hotel made him sign by deceit.

A Slippery Slope in a Cabaret
Series: Forced to Work in Girls’ Uniform
by Yulia Yu. Sakurazawa

Chapter 1 – In a “Dream”

It was literally like being in a dream. Thailand, with its beaches, magnificent Buddhist temples and go-go bars, was an entirely different world from New Orleans. Its eastern magic, combined with the surreally beautiful women, was just what the doctor ordered for a burnt-out lyricist like me. At 19, I had penned a song, which had struck a chord with the audience and had made me an instant success. Over the years, I had worked with top artistes and had written songs that had generated herculean amount of royalties. Now, at 35, I no longer had the same magic. With composers and recording artistes breathing down my neck like hyperactive collies, I desperately needed a hit.

Slice of Life, an offbeat Moulin Rouge-styled cabaret, was my refuge. It was an intimate little setting, with thick cream curtains, little maroon toadstool shaped seats and flamboyant pistachio-colored walls. A hypersexual emcee, flit in and out of the little wooden stage like a restless butterfly, wearing nothing but a pair of tight pants that clearly outlined his huge cock. Ron was a slender, pixyish man of about my own age whose penis was in total shocking contrast with his waif-thin body. This, combined with his red-varnish painted nipples, created an ineffably provocative effect.

The French-styled Thai cabaret was owned by a huge, big-bosomed woman called Nong. Apart from being the owner, Nong also participated in the cabaret. She personally appeared in front of each of the men (Slice of Life was mostly frequented by men), bent her knees a little bit and rocked her ample hips from side to side in a comic-raunchy manner. The way in which Nong’s large, pendulous breasts jiggled under the flimsy fabric of her top was even more provocative than the sight of Ron’s trousers. Once in a while, Nong would walk up to unsuspecting guests and would perch her ample weight on their laps, wriggling her disconcertingly large buttocks on their lean, muscular thighs. Much to my embarrassment, Nong had once walked up to me, placed both my tanned palms on her twin peaks and forced me to squeeze them. The comedic, orgasmic faces and sounds that Nong made afterwards drew hoots of laughter from other guests, and brought a beet-red flush to my face.

In spite of these disconcerting experiences, I continued frequenting Slice of Life. The reason I did was the young Thai dancers, wearing exotic shimmering costumes, elaborate headgears and exaggerated plumage, swaying away to tantalizing Arabic, Chinese, Japanese and Indian tunes. There was something about their youthful creamy skins, nubile delicate bodies and sweet dazzling smiles, which kept me going back to Slice of Life. The seductive way in which the girls’ thick-lashed eyes teased, tantalized and beckoned, caused me many sleepless nights. But the primary reason I frequented Slice of Life was….Dream.

Dream came on stage sometime midway during the 65 minute show. She was, sometimes, dressed in a red sampot (which is a traditional Thai cloth that is worn by wrapping around the waist, stretching and twisting the ends together before pulling the twisted fabric between the legs) and a little golden blouse. She would bend her shapely knees a little bit; rock her rounded hips from side to side, swinging her elegant derriere towards the floor as she swayed. Dream would then send me into a tizzy, by rotating her pelvis in a circle as she sensually swung her hips from side to side. Just then Ron would come on stage and beckon Dream towards him. Dream would move towards the emcee like a gazelle, turn her back on him, bend a bit forward and grind her shapely buttocks against his very noticeable groin region. Dream’s raised sculpted arms, creamy cleavage peeking above her tiny golden blouse and the suggestiveness of her movements would mesmerize me beyond words. As I watched the irresistible Thai beauty in a trance, Dream would turn to face Ron, run her lovely arms along the contours of his body and drape one shapely leg around the side of the hypersexual emcee’s leg. At this moment, I desired to be Ron, so that I could look at Dream’s sweet heart-shaped face and run my fingers through her lush midnight black hair. I fervently ached to be Ron, so that I could look deep into Dream’s smoky eyes and caress her lovely oxbow lips. Yet I had to stay glued to my toadstool, my burgeoning manhood twitching in my pants. Many a night in my dreams, I long to touch her, but Dream would give me a sweet seductive smile and would elude my touch like the mythical chimera. Oh, but I would go mad!

Dream, incidentally, had a great singing voice too. As she poised the microphone in front of her and parted her lips, rich vibrant notes of music filled the cabaret hall. The husky lush notes alternated with an enrapturing falsetto that sounded like the siren call of mermaids. As the delightful drops of pure music fell on each jaded ear, people regained their energy and ached to be close to Dream.

One night, Dream stood on the wooden makeshift stage, dressed in a simple blue Thai tube skirt (called the Sinh) and sheer silver top, unbelievably still, except for the gyrating of her gently rounded hips. The fast hip hop beats of the background music slowed down to a languid, sensual lull. Dream’s smoky black eyes, under the pair of finely arched brows and languid droopy eyelashes, looked straight at me. An amused smile tugged the corners of her oxbow lips, as she slowly, seductively ran her hands over her perfectly spherical breasts, curvilinear waist and rounded hips. The mischievous succubus knew very well that she was tormenting me—that she had been for the last fortnight. And it was clear that the sadist in her took pleasure in my plight. As Dream bent over and caressed her perfectly shaped calves showing through the slit of her sinh, I lost control. I dashed to the stage, caught hold of Dream’s slender arm and coaxed her off stage. At first, Dream gently resisted, and looked towards the big fat Nong as if for guidance. Upon receiving a firm nod from the latter, Dream smiled (a dazzling smile) at me and followed me out of Slice of Life into the fresh salty air of Pattaya.

We walked for some time in silence, quietly looking at the liquor shops, massage parlors and tuk-tuks as we passed. I reveled in the perfection of Dream; her height (she was quite tall for a Thai woman—about 5’7 in her bare feet), her flawless figure and perfect face. Dream glanced up towards me, the suggestiveness in her eyes replaced by shyness. She smiled again. The little crowfeet that formed at the corner of her eyes told me that Dream wasn’t as young as I had first thought her to be. I estimated her to be about the same age as myself. The fact that Dream was older than I had previously thought increased my attraction towards her, for I always believed women developed a good personality only after thirty.

As I inhaled the briny sea air commingled with the musky scent of womanhood of my companion, I began to feel a bit strange. The aura of femininity around Dream was a bit too overpowering. It was almost as if Dream was standing on top of the rooftops and hollering “Look at me, I am a woman!” quite unnecessarily, when the fact was more than conspicuous to the onlooker.

“So, are you a local?” I asked kicking my own sandals off and reclining on the beach.

“Not quite” Dream answered in perfect English “I’m from Ko Samet Island, located on the Eastern Gulf Coast”. Dream’s voice, which had sounded haunting and siren-like as she had sung, sounded a tad unnatural to me now. It was high pitched, yet I felt subtle masculinity lurking beneath the carefully cultivated surface. To be more apt, Dream’s speaking voice sounded like someone caricaturing a female voice. Now this was a crazy line of thought to pursue, considering I had been fantasizing about this woman—body, mind and soul—for over a fortnight. However, these seemingly irrational thoughts flooded my brain, almost against my will. They felt insane, disrupting and nearly delusional. Was I finally losing it? Was the fact that I was losing my creativity making me go mad?

Please click here to read the rest of the story!


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *