Yes Virginia, There is a Ping Pong Show
“The Ping Pong Show doesn’t exist,” insisted my colleague. After extensive research on both our parts, our conclusions remained at odds. Fabled to be popular entertainment in Bangkok, the Ping Pong Show is depicted as an alarming mix of feats of vaginal strength - one act, for example, involves the launching of ping pong balls across a stage. I had read several personal accounts online, as well as anecdotes in other works of more genteel literature, and I was determined to find a show so I could experience it firsthand in all of its glory.
Bangkok is a potpourri of contradictions. Prostitution is legal, and the red-light districts are thriving, but when visiting a temple just a few streets away, a lady must cover her shoulders and legs. This was terribly inconvenient and left me with a borrowed scarf and sarong atop my shorts and tank top. Rounding out the triad of two opposing flower prints and a solid was a black leopard print scarf. I was a fashion disaster, but nonetheless, I stayed in the good graces of the local monks, and my outfit sufficed to repel any lustful glances.
Spending nearly two full days seeing temples and palaces, taking boat rides, and watching sunsets, we generally behaved ourselves. Regrettably, however, we would have to return to work in Hangzhou, China, in a couple of days, and it was becoming evident that we needed a night of unbridled debauchery to lift our spirits. There were three of us, so finding common ground on what type of debauchery to participate in was a struggle. My two hetero male colleagues had both written off the Ping Pong Show, but I stayed focused in my quest.
After dinner, the first item on someone else’s list was a Ladyboy Show; young male performers made up to like women with long flowing hair, attractive feminine faces, and some very impressive tuck jobs. My companions quickly became uncomfortable in this environment, and we left before I could say Tsing Tao.
Next on their list was a Go-Go bar, which I discovered was code for “strip club cum brothel.” I grew restless when they asked for #17 to come down from the stage to join them, and I made a quick getaway. There was a sports bar on the first floor with soccer on the television, a guy with a guitar singing Jimmy Buffett, and everyone had their pants on. I pulled up a barstool next to my soon-to-be new best friend.
During our second beer, I found an appropriate transition to demurely mention the Ping Pong Show. Towards the end of the third beer, I convinced him to take me to one. Before long, we were jetting across the city between Nana Plaza and Patpong in a tuk-tuk, one of those speedy motorized rickshaws. The driver pulled into a long, dark alley and stopped in front of a one-story warehouse-like building with about 15 people out front; both men and women, none of them looking particularly sketchy. We courageously entered the building, and the hostess seated us in the second row. In lieu of a cover charge, she brought us a single over-priced beer to share, and I focused on the spectacle unfolding in front of us.
The buxom woman on stage was using her talents, pelvic muscles, and a ballpoint pen to create a poster board sign that read “Welcome to Thailand.” At the bottom of the sign, she sketched a happy face. We looked on in wonderment and reverence. In the next act, a second woman on the stage took a perplexing below-the-belt drag from a cigarette, then handed it to a gentleman in the first row; and yes, he smoked the rest of it. Subsequent acts involved the blowing out of candles, an awe-inspiring coital cartwheel involving both a male and a female performer, something akin to the never-ending ribbon a magician would pull from his hat (only this ribbon was pulled from somewhere entirely different), and, of course, the launching of ping pong balls. After about thirty minutes of this edge-of-your-seat drama, the show began to repeat itself with the same acts all over again.
I wandered back out into the night with my new friend, feeling slightly unsettled, but wiser, nonetheless. During breakfast, my two colleagues were groggy and noticeably silent about how their evening had unfolded. I, on the other hand, had my “I told you so” moment. As I gobbled down a plate of scrambled eggs and local fruit, I recounted the occurrences of the previous night, substantiating my claims of the bona fide existence of The Ping Pong Show.
