Drenched in Phuket

So I wrote this little story about Cambodia and won a 3D/2N stay at this rather swanky resort in Phuket. 

I arrived and it was POURING in rain. It rained non-stop right until the day I was to leave...then it shone so brightly, the bald heads set on fire when they step out.

Sigh. Story of my life.

Anyway, I know I've mentioned it before, but seriously, how come Malaysia cannot emulate other countries (e.g. Thailand and Cambodia come to mind) when it comes to public toilets? They have plenty of them, with water taps and it's still dry and unsmelly. For Patong beach, I just need to pay 5 baht. ONLY. Sometimes, even the RM2 toilets in KLCC is rather suspect.

Patong was its usual touristy heaven - or hell, depending who you talked to. Massage was aplenty - they range from 250baht up for an hour of foot massage. Some are good, some are pure crap but hey, I'm not complaining. 

So as I was at this foot massage place which was in an open area so it was a relaxing session of getting your feet nicely tended to while watching the tourists going about. There I was, being kneaded by this girl, when I saw a bunch of farangs - what we call Mat Salleh walking past. They were obviously tourists - they were loud but their shirts are louder. One caught my eye. 

It's not be he was shirtless and buffed. He was shirtless but Adonis he wasn't. He had a physique of a retired rugby player (you know, short and stout just like that teapot song); with wavy blonde hair and a bit of a gut. His body was covered with tattoos. Loads of them. Well, he had the look of a retired rugby player who is now a full time motorbiker. The Harley D types. Or something more meaner looking.

Still there was nothing unusual about that. By "that" I mean sepetang di Bangla Street di Pantai Patong in Phuket.

What was unusual, apart from the fact that he had the nerve of steel to be parading around shirtless with that body that was, ahem, something short of the Adonis scale (and by short, I mean, by a coupla hundred kilometres at least!) was the fact that he...

had boobs. 

Not manboobs - the kind that tautly hangs on to a large man with even larger bellies. This is the OMG it's grabbable types. The kind that fits a C-cup bras nicely. 

The girls at the massage place started to giggle and I was so perplexed, I asked them:

Is that a man or a woman?

One giggled and said woman which elicited a whoop of WHAAAATTT? from me. 

The girl who massaged me said, NO, he is a man. 

"I know! I asking him this morning. He say he man. I say I dont belip him. So I say, I wan touch him. He say OK can touch. I touch him and he man! He man but put silicone on his here!" (While pointing to the general area where boobs should be).

Kau mampu?!