Chapter 1:

Mali; Go-Go Girl

A fellow go-go dancer once told me that I needed to create a new name for myself, something feminine that would be easy on foreigners’ ears. ‘Mali’ is what I came up with. It means jasmine, a little white flower with a sweet scent. I was hoping the dainty word would add to my charm and take me one step further from the buffalo herder I used to be.

I’m a prostitute, but not a victim. If you entered the bar where I work, you would see ‘real’ women—worn-out, stretch-marked mothers, weary of men and of life. And then you would see me: smiling, vivacious, positively shining with the joy of being a woman, even if I have to hide my genitalia to be one.

One of my earliest recollections is of my mother bringing me to live with my grandparents and a collection of aunts before I was six years old. To me, they are my real family. I don’t know who my father is, but it doesn’t bother me in the least. I vaguely remember that my mother had short hair, and wore a shirt and pants, unlike other women who had long hair, and wore sleeveless blouses and colourful sarongs. When I asked my ya (grandmother) why my mae looked so different from other women, she said that mae wanted me to have a father figure. But she wasn’t around enough to instill masculinity in me; she was living with a female partner and pouring her time and energy into that relationship.

People sometimes ask me what made me what I am today. Growing up with no father and a mostly absent lesbian mother would be the easy answer, but I honestly don’t blame them. I was born to be a ladyboy just as sure as I was born in poverty-stricken Isan. There, in the northeast region of Thailand, my family have been farmers for many generations. If I’d had any masculinity to begin with, I was certainly given every opportunity to develop it. My family trained me to become a farmer and do manly things, but I showed my femininity from an early age. While other boys used banana stalks as imaginary horses, I tore the leaves into strips and wore them as a skirt. As far back as I can remember, friends and neighbours have called me a kathoey , and I willingly accepted the label. I can’t imagine a different identity.

I lived with my grandmother and aunts in a small hut in the middle of our rice field. The house is built on stilts next to a canal where I went to fetch water every day. My uncle and his wife lived in another hut nearby with their three daughters, who used to play ‘ khaikhong ’ with me. One of us would play the female vendor, and the rest of us would be customers. We didn’t have toys, so we traded leaves and branches. I used to wrap my grandmother’s sarong around my head, twisting it into one long tail that I let hang over my shoulder so I could stroke it and pretend it was my hair. On rare occasions, the adults would burn empty bush land to expand the size of our field. This was a special treat, as my cousins and I would use the leftover ash as make-up, taking it in turns to play the mannequin. And even better was when the village organised a bunbangfai , a ceremony of bangfai —rockets—that we decorated and sent into the sky to induce the gods to bless us with rain. For such an event, nothing would do but real make-up, so I borrowed lipstick and powder from my aunts and danced gleefully in front of the rocket procession.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t all playtime, and as I grew older, my responsibilities increased. When I was nine years old, my grandfather and uncle made me a buffalo herder. It’s a male job, and since my uncle was occupied with more important work and my grandfather was simply too old, they decided that I should be responsible. It was not my idea of a great birthday gift.

Since I was still in school, I only herded at the weekends. Early in the morning, I would wrap a long scarf around my neck and put on a bamboo hat to shield me from the sun. Then I would drive the five buffalo to the feeding field. My cousins often came to play with me there while the buffalo were eating, but by the time the sun reached its highest point in the sky, I was left alone to collect wild vegetables that grew nearby. My aunts had already told me which ones were edible. When I’d gathered enough, I would sit under a big tree, enjoying the relief its shadow provided from the glaring sun, and unwrap the banana leaf that held my lunch, usually a lump of glutinous rice with a spicy paste. It was perfect for dipping my vegetables in. When the heat lessened, I left the shade in search of flowers. These I weaved into beautiful garlands, like my grandmother had taught me to do. If I was lucky, I would also find some moist bark to paint my face with.

Just before the sun started its descent, I guided the buffalo back to the canal next to our house where they could bathe and drink. Sometimes I swam with them. Then I tied them to the fence before I ate dinner and went to sleep. It may sound idyllic, but imagine how hard it was for a small boy to wrestle with these longhorn animals. Buffalo have mainly been replaced by machines now, but they used to be invaluable for ploughing, pumping water and drawing carts. They were precious assets, so if one strayed, we had to go after it, even in the pouring rain.

When I was 13 my grandmother and I started our summer job called damna , transplanting rice in the paddy field with bare hands for 45 baht a day. It was long, hard work. The mud weighed down our feet, oozing around our ankles, and the sun burned our backs as we stooped and inserted the young plants into the mud one by one. My ya always complained about her back, saying this would be the last time she damna , but I never saw her quit.

On school days, I rode six kilometres on a bicycle from my remote house to a downtown school. By 7.00 a.m. I was pedalling hard to reach school on time, and the red dirt I sent flying generally stained my white school shirt. I was a mess by the time I got there, but I performed well at school. The teachers liked me, and so did the other kids. I was helpful and caring, and I had a few brief tastes of stardom when I performed in school shows. They were pitiful shows with no stage and no costumes. My school was so poor that we used to make cheerleader uniforms out of hay! There were a few other kathoeys in my school, but I was too shy to make friends with them. I tended to play with my cousins and their friends instead.

When I came home from school, I always found one of my aunts in the family’s kitchen, and in time I became her permanent helper, cooking the rice and preparing ingredients. As a result, I can cook many dishes, including my favourite childhood recipe of sticky rice coated with coconut shreds.

The adults in my family trained me in skills they thought necessary for a farmer. One aunt taught me how to catch frogs and fish for our meals during the rainy season. During drought she taught me how to dig into the cracked soil to find bugs, which were delicious when fried. My dear grandmother taught me how to make flowers and brooms from banana stalks. We offered the flowers to the Buddhist monks to make merit. Because they were handmade, the flowers would earn us extra merit.

When I was about 14, my only uncle taught me the hardest part of primitive agriculture: ploughing rice paddies. It was difficult for me to not only manoeuvre the buffalo-drawn plough through the thick mud, but also to walk on the slippery surface of paddies. After a long day in the field, I often pampered myself by carefully scrubbing my feet and hands so I wouldn’t get rough skin. It was a confusing time for me, as I tried to keep my femininity intact while being trained to become a hard-working man.

I was also beginning to explore my sexuality. I had always felt comfortable around girls, but I found myself seeking out the company of boys more and more as I experienced the discomfort of desire. I liked hugging them, and seeing them in their underwear excited me. I wondered if they were experiencing the same thing.

When I was 15, I had my first sexual encounter. A friend of mine came over to our hut when no one else was around, and we lay together on the same bed. I wanted so badly to touch him, but I was still very shy. I finally put a tentative hand on his thigh. He didn’t resist, so I went further until I ended up giving him oral sex. He didn’t protest.

The local festivals presented more opportunities. Men I met there began asking to sleep with me, and I consented to the attractive ones and turned down the others. I wish I had that luxury now. Although I developed crushes on some of these men, none of them ever met my need for companionship. They were a sexual outlet and nothing more.

I was becoming restless, and the overwhelming need to express myself had increased, until one pivotal day we received a letter from my uncle in Bangkok. He had sent us a photo depicting him in a magnificent Thai female costume, complete with a golden, crown-like chada upon his head. He had transformed into a beautiful woman. I already knew that I didn’t want to plough my life away in the rice fields, but at that moment I realised I didn’t want to be a man either. I decided to pursue my true identity.

Isan was no place for such a pursuit, so at 15 years of age, when I had completed all the schooling my family could afford, I asked my grandparents for their blessing and caught a bus to Bangkok.

I got my first job working in the kitchen of a pub in Wong Wian Yai. The manager hired a cabaret act the first week I was there, and whenever I could sneak out of the kitchen, I tried to catch a glimpse of the ladyboys performing. They were beautiful. I think seeing how glamorous they looked gave me the courage I needed to start wearing make-up. So began a very awkward transformation. I trimmed my eyebrows, applied false lashes and painted my lips and eyes. People often laughed at me because everything from my neck down was obviously male—I wore a shirt, trousers and tie just like all the other men—but my face was heavily and clumsily made up. I was very much the amateur.

I don’t know how I could have borne the self-consciousness this phase created if it hadn’t been for the friends I made there. There was Fon, a regular at the pub, and Mee, a fellow waiter. I hit it off instantly with Fon; I liked her so much I even tried kissing her, but it was as if I were kissing one of the cousins I grew up with. We didn’t take it any further. Mee, however, was different. He was my soul mate. He was the first person to fulfil both my sexual and emotional needs.

I was struggling financially, so Fon introduced me to Patpong, a red-light district which is located between Silom Road, Bangkok’s major business centre, and Surawong Road. Mee and I both applied for work as go-go boys at one of the bars. I was 18 and still naïve, so I wasn’t prepared for what the job involved. We strutted around the stage with numbers clipped onto our skimpy underwear, making eye contact and gesturing flirtatiously in the hope of securing a customer. I was still very muscular from my work on the farm, so I attracted a lot of male admirers. The most unbearable part came when a customer bought me and expected me to penetrate him. I just couldn’t bring myself to perform the male role.

Those kinds of admirers disappeared when I grew my hair long. Unfortunately, Mee also ceased to be sexually attracted to me, and we became more like close siblings. We still keep in touch, but I can’t deny it hurts that my identity makes us incompatible as a couple.

Since my long hair and make-up made me unsuitable for my job at the gay bar, I started waiting tables at a karaoke bar to fund my ongoing transformation. While working there, I met gay and transgender patrons who imparted a lot of make-up tips. I learned to walk like a woman, and broke many heels in the process. People still laughed at my awkward appearance because, although my make-up techniques were improving, I still had a muscular build and a manly face. Only this time I didn’t care because I was focussed on becoming beautiful, like my uncle in the photo and like the cabaret singers in the bar. Nothing else mattered.

The next step was to take hormones. I started out with yellow Premaline, and I greedily took them by the handful, like a sweet-toothed child reaching for candy. I took so many at a time, they made me dizzy. The hormones were more expensive than the make-up, so I started thinking about looking for a better-paid job. Working as a go-go boy had been lucrative, but I’d hated pretending to be a gay prostitute. Coincidentally, a patron told me about a well-known ladyboy go-go bar in Patpong. Once again I decided to sell my body, but this time as a ladyboy.

We danced in bikinis, so I was told I would have to learn how to taep. I didn’t even know what that was, let alone how to do it, so imagine my astonishment when the other ladyboys demonstrated the procedure: they slowly and carefully pulled the penis down between their legs and secured it with surgical tape before putting on tight-fitting bikinis to keep the crotch looking flat.

Although I came to master the art of taep , I didn’t have the confidence or the competitiveness to do well at the bar. I stumbled for words when I solicited, and I didn’t look womanly enough. Discouraged, I left Bangkok and returned to Isan.

My family were open-mouthed in shock when I first appeared before them as a ladyboy. Despite my obvious femininity, they had never called me a kathoey like the other villagers had. I suppose they still thought of me as the buffalo herder. It was hard to see this reaction on the faces of the people I loved so much, but I will always be grateful for how quickly they recovered from their shock and accepted me.

The elderly women in the village eventually began to compliment me on my beauty, while the uncouth boys still plagued me with vulgar propositions whenever I returned home, ‘Can I do you?’ ‘Come suck me off!’ ‘Seeing your face makes me so horny!’ I learned very quickly that the best retaliation was to ignore them and, in typical Thai behaviour, avoid confrontation.

Soon enough I got another job in the province Ubon Ratchathani, this time as a female morlam , a dancer to Laos/Isan music. My wage was about 200 baht a day, and they only paid me on the days that we had gigs. The job was fun to do and a real boost to my self-confidence, but I was barely making ends meet. I worked there for a year, just scraping by, when a make-up artist called Yhing discovered me. She said that I had more potential than just being a dancer and offered me a job at her beauty salon for 3,000 baht a month.

I worked at the beauty salon and moonlighted as a morlam for months, honing my make-up skills and feminine movements. When a doctor came around offering collagen injections, I leaped at the chance without even asking to see any credentials. I had no way of knowing whether he was a real doctor or whether what he was injecting into my face was actually collagen or not. Everyone treated it like getting a new pair of shoes, so I joined in the fun.

With my new feminine face, plumped with collagen and skillfully accentuated with make-up, I was chosen to be a female model in a flower parade. As I donned the extravagant Thai costume, I remembered the picture of my uncle and smiled.

My time in Ubon was good for me. Not only had I become more feminine, I had also developed poise and improved my interpersonal skills. Armed with my new confidence, I was ready to go back to Bangkok. Yhing wished me the best and even gave me 2,000 baht to start my life in the city for the second time.

I needed every baht of it too, because finding a job in Bangkok was not easy. As a kathoey with little education, I was not a desirable candidate for respectable employment. I was down to my last baht when I took a job in a Patpong bar as a performer in an erotic show. My role was to fake sex with a male performer in a bubble bath. The bubbles covered the underwear we had on. For this I received a monthly wage of 6,000 baht plus whatever tips I collected in my basket. I didn’t even feel embarrassed about this job; I’d chosen to do it, and I was earning money. I was happy enough to continue until the police closed the bar in a crackdown on ‘couples’ shows’. That ended my ‘performing’ career, and I reverted to prostitution—not as a gay man nor as a ladyboy, but as a woman.

‘Where are you from? How long do you stay? Is this your first time in Thailand?’

I’m not just making conversation; I’m trying to figure out how much money I can make. If he’s new to Thailand, he won’t even know the price of drinks, and I can charge up to 4,000 baht for a quickie. I’d charge a regular only 1,500. These are my thoughts as the conversation turns to me and the customer starts asking questions. To gain sympathy, I often tell them my abusive husband left me to raise my children alone, but I try not to talk too much or my baritone voice will give me away. If they ask, I tell them I have a cold. Some are observant enough to note the different bikinis we wear. In my bar, the women wear white bikinis, while the kathoeys agree to wear black, which makes our waists look smaller and is a sexier colour anyway. I tell suspicious customers that the black is for newcomers. From a distance I can flash my pubic hair, which I’ve trimmed in the shape of an upside-down triangle. In the dark it looks like a vagina, if you don’t look too close. Despite all my precautions, sometimes a client will ask me straight out if I’m a man. Sitting on my penis, I look him straight in the eye and assure him I’m a woman.

The other girls aren’t allowed to rat us out, or we’ll tell the manager. The mamasan doesn’t care that we deceive the men; she just wants the money we make for the bar. The customer has to pay a 500-baht fine in order to take a girl away from the bar, and that’s after he’s already spent money buying drinks. The way I see it, we kathoeys make the bar more money because we’re prettier and more aggressive, and the mamasan respects that. The real women in my bar are past their prime and are only there because they’re no longer young or pretty enough to dance in the downstairs go-go bars. They hardly even try to solicit customers, whereas I genuinely enjoy getting to know them. The customers are often lonely, and of all people, I understand loneliness.

‘I can massage and have sex with you. Do you want to go to heaven with me?’ Once he pays the fine to take me away from the bar, we can either go to one of the rooms upstairs, or back to his hotel room. They almost always choose the hotel, which poses a problem for ladyboys. One time the staff wouldn’t even let me into the lobby because they could tell I was a kathoey , and to them the term was synonymous with ‘thief’.

Their prejudice is not without basis, as a lot of kathoeys have resorted to pick pocketing and other petty theft, especially if they’re uneducated and not pretty enough to work in a bar. I should pity them, I know, but mostly I feel resentment because their actions contribute to the discrimination I suffer. I know I’m no saint, but at least I earn my money fairly!

Once the client and I are alone, the charade is even harder to keep up. When I go to the bathroom I have to carefully untape my penis and squat over the toilet, trying to pee as quietly as possible. I generally satisfy a client with my hand or mouth, telling him I’m having my period if he wants anything else. I’ll only consent to intercourse if he’s drunk enough not to know what he’s penetrating. Then I’ll cover my penis with a blanket and hold it against my lower abdomen while he does me from behind. I’ve been caught a few times, but usually the guys are too close to coming for it to matter. If it turns them off, they can get a refund, but once they ejaculate they can’t complain. One client was so mad when he saw my penis that he dragged me down to the mamasan screaming at her that he’d been tricked and wanted a refund. I triumphantly presented the condom full of his juice, proving that I’d provided the relief he’d paid for, and that put an end to the matter. Even if they don’t ask for a refund, some men are so furious that they forcefully throw me out of hotel rooms or taxis, hurling profanities at me as I stumble away.

Although I occasionally have to suffer that kind of humiliation, I still think I’m better off than the women at the bar. They can only solicit straight men, but I can solicit everyone—the ones who like women, and the ones who like ‘women with penises’. These tend to be German men, and not only do I not have to deceive them, I also get to have a bit of fun, as they like to give me a ‘helping hand’ or even fellatio. If a client wants to be penetrated, I have to use a strap-on dildo. All the years of hormone-taking and taep -ing have resulted in a small and drooping penis, but I still have orgasms.

My least favourite clients are Indian men. I find them very aggressive. I’ve had a case where one client squeezed my little hormone-induced breasts so hard, it felt like he was trying to destroy them. His only redeeming quality was that he was quick. The Japanese tend to be quick as well, unlike the German men, who have stamina. The older men take a long time too, but for different reasons. They also like to cuddle afterwards, an activity the younger, straight-to-the-point guys seem to scorn.

We service all kinds of men, but the white farangs are the most popular. It’s not that we find them especially attractive, they’re just so generous with money. They also tend to be more fun-loving and treat us with respect, something we’re not used to receiving from the locals. Thai men regard their women as inferior, both culturally and religiously. Ladyboys suffer an even lower status. Thai men expect us to please and serve them—in other words, we do all the work in bed. They wouldn’t think of trying to give us pleasure. Besides, they’re very stingy with money. No one would choose to solicit a Thai unless she were truly desperate.

Kathoey or not, every bar girl scans the crowd, hoping to secure the most lucrative client for herself. If she’s really lucky, she’ll hit the jackpot—someone who’s willing to become her sugar daddy. The women in my bar aren’t too optimistic about finding a patron because they are already saddled with kids and husbands. Ironically, the surgical women have a better chance.

The ladyboys who have had a full sex change think of themselves as real women. They no longer feel the need to socialise with the likes of me, but I don’t acknowledge their superiority. I just don’t think rearranging your penis into a vagina makes you a higher being. It doesn’t make you any happier either.

‘I want a cock,’ declares one friend, her way of bragging that she has a vagina to put it in.

‘Give me back my cock,’ laments another, who never expected to miss that part of her anatomy.

They can be touchy as hell too, stalking off in an indignant huff the minute a customer starts questioning them about their gender. I try to get along with them, but I’ll never join their ranks. I’m 30 years old—too old for this game. If I’d intended to get rich by selling my fully female body, I’d have had the surgery years ago, but I’m happy with the way I am. The thought of being cut open on an operating table is terrifying, and that’s not even the worst of it. I’ve heard it’s tough to keep the vagina from closing up, and you have to go through the surgery all over again if it does. My only feminine upkeep is a weekly hormone injection, which keeps my breasts plumped, my skin soft, and my penis small. Unfortunately, the sharp pangs I often feel remind me of another side effect—the hormones are weakening my bones. I try to counteract this by taking ginseng and other nutritional supplements, but I don’t know if it really works. It’s mostly for my peace of mind.

While I don’t feel the need to have the sex change myself, I understand the ambition of those who do. They say kathoeys have three times the drive of anyone else, man or woman. We can be fiercely competitive creatures. The urge to be even more feminine than a biological woman is strong. And the desire to succeed materialistically also plays a role. Many ladyboys undergo the operation in order to sell their bodies for more money. Money and material goods earn you ‘face’ or respect in Thailand, and that kind of respect is not something kathoeys are used to.

This competitive quest for money means most kathoey bars are known for vicious catfights. I’m lucky I work where I do. Mamasan doesn’t allow fighting. If we quarrel over a customer, all the drinks commission and tips we earned from him go to the bar. We find it cheaper just to give a small amount of money to intruding colleagues so they’ll go away peacefully.

I used to be set on making at least 3,000 baht every night, but it was an impossible goal and I was so hard on myself when I failed. I’ve learned to be content now—most of the time. When I’m really down, I think to myself, Why am I stuck here where I have to ‘smoke’ men just to have rice on my plate ? Life is uncertain, especially for a kathoey , and I know I can’t be a prostitute forever. I need a more practical, more honest way of living.

Two years ago I decided to enrol in ‘Sunday classes’, an informal education programme that helps you complete your Matthayom (secondary) levels. I had to replace a lost ID card in order to register, so I went back to my village in Isan to apply for a new one. When I entered the administration office, I bowed to the official before handing him a copy of my family registration. He began typing at his computer, then frowned at what appeared on the screen, adjusted his glasses and said, ‘Wasan, you are late for the army recruitment by seven years.’

I thought he was talking to a man sitting next to me, so I didn’t even react. He ironed the paper by hand and gave it back to me, ‘Isn’t this your name on this paper? I’m talking to you.’ I had been Mali for so long, I had forgotten that I used to be Wasan. I apologised, and he continued, ‘This is the month of recruitment (April). You should be processed. If not, you could face jail time.’ I was stunned, but he assured me, ‘Don’t worry too much. They won’t recruit the likes of you.’

Thai law requires men to register for the Army Reserve within a year of turning 17. This doesn’t mean that all Thai men have to serve in the military; the army only recruits to reach each year’s quota. And of course there are exemptions. This was what I was counting on. I knew being a kathoey was grounds for exemption, but I also knew there had to be a medical exam first. With my penis still intact, I wasn’t sure how I could prove my case. I decided to bribe the recruiting officer with 500 baht, just to be on the safe side.

On recruitment day, I was the last to be processed. There were many onlookers, including my friends from the village, whistling and chanting teasingly, ‘Take it off!’ over and over again. The guys who were processed before me had taken their clothes off to be measured. The rows of shirtless young men were sitting on the floor, staring at me.

I knew I didn’t need to take my clothes off in front of everyone because the doctor usually examines the ladyboys in the privacy of a separate room. It turns out I didn’t have to take my shirt off at all. When it was my turn the doctor just told me to sit down.

‘Do you have breasts?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

That was it. He didn’t even ask me about a vagina, which was fortunate, since I doubt my pubic-hair trick would have worked on him!

Before they released me they told me to serve the high-ranking officers on the recruiting panel with glasses of iced water. I think they meant to humiliate me, but I was so pleased to be exempted that I cheerfully obliged. Finally they gave me my exemption card, and I held my breath as I looked for the official grounds for my disqualification.

‘Misshapen chest,’ it read.

I breathed a sigh of relief. They used to stamp ‘insanity’ on the cards of kathoeys in the past.

I expect to finish my upper secondary level at the end of this year, and I intend to enrol in an open university to complete a bachelor’s degree some day. I don’t know what I’ll do with this degree yet, but I know I’ll be proud to have it. It will be my way of earning face.

Last year I signed up at Niranrat School of Design with a friend. If I can make beautiful clothes and sell them, I’ll give up prostitution. I want people to think me worthy of respect and admire me for my ability and creativity. I like to think I have a gift. A teacher told me that when you design a Thai costume you should think of the roof of an ubosot (convocation hall) in a Buddhist monastery, and that would give you the right colour scheme of orange, red, green and white. They contrast beautifully with one another and are very Thai. I took her advice and won a first-place prize for my design in a Thai costume competition.

My inspiration can be found in Thai literature, especially stories that feature female characters. I like to think that the costumes I make are my unique interpretation of these characters. My favourite is Manora who, like the heroines of countless other tales, marries a prince. But there’s something special about Manora; she’s what’s called a kinnari —half bird, half woman. My favourite part of the tale is when she lays aside her wings to bathe with her sisters in the pond called Anodat, said to be clear as crystal, just before she’s captured by a hunter. Later she was presented as a gift to a prince who fell in love with her at first sight. Manora is a symbol of feminine beauty. I like to think that I’m something special and beautiful too; not just an aberration of nature.

When I’m dreaming of the future, I see myself in a modest house where I spend my days creating beautiful dresses, wedding gowns and Thai costumes. The neighbours come to see me when they want their clothes repaired, or when they want me to make something special for them, or just to say hello. I am not isolated like many other kathoey s become. I am known for the Thai-oriented crafts that I display and sell in various exhibitions. As for love? I hardly dare to dream of it.

I don’t want a farang sugar daddy. There was a farang who was interested in me, but although I was flattered, I ended our relationship abruptly before it could go too far. He courted me believing I was a real woman, but I didn’t want a relationship based on lies. Besides, there was the language barrier. There’s no way a farang can understand me the way a Thai man does. I see baimai , but the farang sees a leaf. The object we see may be the same, but our perspectives are different.

I don’t mind selling myself to farangs , but when it comes to love, I want a Thai man. Relationships are about more than just sex. We should have kind words for each other. Are you tired? Have you eaten yet?

That kind of relationship has proved unattainable thus far. In my experience, men who are willing to have a relationship with kathoeys are neither sincere nor decent, but rather cunning and depraved. I’m dating a younger man now—he’s only about 20 years old—who I hope will be different from the rest, but I don’t know if he really loves me or only sticks around for the bit of money I provide. He says he’s not ashamed to be seen in public with me, but I know we can’t be a real couple. I don’t even like to call him my boyfriend because I don’t fully understand my heart, and I can barely support myself financially, much less a boyfriend.

There’s another man I’m also seeing. He’s gay and has a boyfriend on the side, but we understand each other. I don’t go out with straight men in public because it would damage their reputation. I do have them on-call though. When I need sex and some conversation, there are a few straight go-go boys that will come to me with the understanding that I give them a few baht in return. Ironic, isn’t it? One day while one of these guys was in my room and I was in the shower, he answered his mobile phone and said, ‘I’ll be there right away. Please believe me, honey, I’m with no one.’

‘Who the hell am I then? An invisible woman?’ I thought. He later came crawling back to me, but I don’t tolerate that kind of disrespect, so I turned him away.

Mee is still my confidante. Our relationship is purely platonic, but we’re very close. He knew me before my transformation, and he continues to be supportive. He is richer than me now and lives with his boyfriend in the country. When we go out, we dance, get drunk, and look for cute men together. My life would feel incomplete without him.

It took me years to learn not to give a damn about what people thought of me. I didn’t choose to be born into this compromised status, and I’ve no wish to offend anyone with my presence, but this is the way I am, and I can’t pretend otherwise.

I’ve learned how to be content. I’ve only myself to feed, so I don’t have to join the race for money. Many of the people I see around me seem to be obsessed with making money. They are like empty glasses that cannot be filled, or a desert full of sand that never appreciates a drop of water. They forget that life isn’t about amassing earthly possessions to leave behind them when they die.

Kathoeys are like trees that grow wild. Their growth is a lifelong process of self-observation and exploration, and their final shape is unpredictable. I still have a picture of myself dressed as a male waiter, and whenever I look at him I know that I have been true to myself. I don’t know what else lies in store for me, but I’m proud of this: I’m my own gardener, watering, pruning and shaping my own tree—my own life. How could I ask for more?