Most men only see naked women dancing in strip clubs. They are places where the power of sex is transactional. It is never more transactional than in Patpong, Thailand. I was 23 and after spending three months in a Buddhist Monastery, my friend decided that on my first night back he needed to take me to hit the go-go bars of Patpong Road. After dinner at Cabbages and Condoms we took a cab to Pussy Galore—the most notorious strip club in Bangkok. Arjuna knew everyone in Bangkok and we were ushered to seats by the bar immediately. All around us were women topless in only bikini bottoms dancing on the bars, in cages and around poles. The crowd of men were all whooping it up watching various gyrations. Beers were ordered and a woman brought them to us. Then right in front of our faces, she put the top of the bottle up into her pussy and popped the bottlecap right off. The owner of the club a middle aged Thai woman came over to us and greeted Arjuna. They started to speak in Thai and she asked about me and who I was. I must have been an interesting sight with a shaved head and eyebrows—looking exactly like a young Thai male who had been in a monastery. The only difference being I was farong—a foreigner. Marco explained and the Mama-san smiled. She spoke to a couple of girls. I was now a center of attention. At an earlier point in my life I probably would have loved the attention. Thai women are lovely and what hetero-normative male didn’t enjoy the attention of topless ladies. However, I was just 24 hours from the monastery and being mindful. The Mama-san asked me about my life in Montana. We discussed politics, Buddhism and marrying a Thai-woman. She acted as a translator of sorts and I was able to talk to the women working the bar and dancing. I was complimented on my blue eyes, told I was cute and even asked out on dates. Arjuna just laughed seeing me deflect what were clearly attempts to get me to become a John. I looked around the room and all of the women were putting out an energy in reaction to the men that was transactional. Here is my beauty—you can pay to spend time with me but you only get the body—not the mind. The combination of booze and boners made the men easy marks to convert into Johns. One farong came over to Marco and I saying—“How the hell are you guys getting all these women to circle you?” He was drunk out of his mind. “I want to fuck that one.” He pointed to the star of a sex show who had just used her pussy to power a blow gun which she used to pop balloons held by volunteers from the audience. “Can you get her for me?” Looking around the room 50% of the women there most likely had AIDS. Listening to their stories over the evening, several had been sold by their parents to pay for the education of their male siblings. Many were escaping sexually or physically abusive families. They had no power and in a few years they would be sick—turned out on the street and most likely dead. I explained all of this to the farong next to me. He didn’t care. He just wanted a piece of ass. He got what he wanted. The woman he bought probably had HIV. That night maybe the virus had been transmitted between the two. The transactional power of the exchange is something it is difficult to forget. Pussy equals death of not just the physical but also the mental.