Jealous bitches

Yesterday I played a very frustrating game of beach volleyball with a whole bunch of Thai guys who had bodies comparable to 11-year-old pre-pubescent girls. I can hold my own on a v-ball court and -- oh my God, trust me when I say this -- I would never ever ask to play if I didn't think I was up to their skill level. Still, they made it pretty clear by their actions that they didn't really think I could keep up to them.

"Hab you eber playyyyed beporrre? Like, is dis yorrre pirst tyyyme?" one of them asked me, while eyeing me up and down with an extremely skeptical look on her his face.

"Uh," I answered, "yes, I can play. But only if you have room for one more."

I should have taken my hint by the fact that there was another white guy playing before I got there. I watched him play a couple of games with them and -- despite the fact that he was one of the best players on the court -- they would never set the guy. When an errant pass wandered in his direction and he had the chance to hit, he always put it away. But when they made a conscious decision on who to set, he was never the lucky recipient. God, after a while it got embarrassing to watch him get ready to hit, but never have the opportunity.

But still I decided to give it a try myself, and they reluctantly allowed me to step on-court. They put me in the back row and clearly have no idea about the concept of rotating I stayed there for the entire game. They appear to play a customized Thai style of the game that sees all front row players stay in the front row, while the back row players similarly never rotate out of no man's land. I tend to be a better front row player -- hello!! I am 6 inches taller than any of the Thai boys who were playing -- but never got the chance to prove it.

Oh ya, and the three back row players just alternate serving for their team. Front row guys never serve at all. Except that, apparently, not all back row guys get to serve. I, for instance, never got that chance at all for some reason related to their need to keep foreigners at a disadvantage unknown to me. Yup, the two other back row divas just took turns serving repeatedly into the net and ignoring my puppy-dog-eyed looks that pleaded with them, "Is it my turn to serve yet?"

What the fuck was this set of rules all about? Not exactly the best way to make a visitor feel welcome. Oh well, I bet none of these guys have 6 medals from international (well, North American) volleyball tournaments shoved away in a trunk somewhere hanging on their walls.

Jealous bitches. They'll never again know the joy of sharing a volleyball court with the likes of me.

Oh, but not all was lost. One of them made it quite clear he would be happy to treat me to a private massage in my room, guaranteeing a happy ending. Uh, no thanks.