The first time I saw Momay was the first time I experienced the power a gogo dancer can wield over a man. She was thrashing about on a pole in a way that I can only describe as the act of sex set to a nightclub beat and minus a partner. At the same time, she seemed to defy gravity, on the tips of her toes, her pelvis moving as if it had a mind of its own, all while she sported an expression of detached, relaxed abandon, resting one hand on her hip bone like a gunslinger. My heart leaped into my throat.

As if that weren’t enough, she appeared to be constructed perfectly. Every muscle, bone, sinew, strand of hair, toenail formed as if Da Vinci himself assembled her parts. She wasn’t a 10, what with her bucked teeth and tiny boobs. But she was damn close. And her sweet moves more than made up for her small flaws. With skin like a baby’s behind adorned with an ornate Japanese fish tattoo on her back, in tiny shorts and wife beater cinched in a knot below her bra, she looked like a Christmas present waiting for Seven to unwrap.

John Mayer once wrote a song called “Your Body is a Wonderland.” In my Thai experience, I’ve come across a lot of gogo babes whose bodies were like roller coasters or trampolines or playground apparati. Most had no idea their physiognomy was so hypnotic, so wondrous, so fun to play on. But Momay did. In fact, she often behaved as though it was her only purpose—to provide entertainment for people by way of her lovely physique, from head to toe. And she was neither abashed nor vexed by it. Rather, she embraced her role as muse, mistress, doxy, distraction, seductress, and succubus without qualm. If sex were a war, she’d be an assassin. A magnificent courtesan and munificent paramour, if only in 30-minute increments.

Momay was the first Patpong gogo dancer I took to bed, and afterward became a regular part of my harem for five years. Always fun and easy-going, she was a blessedly stress-free playmate for all that time. Then, inexplicably, she left the pole. But for those few glorious years, I was fortunate enough to watch her work that bootie magic onstage at EB, and in between sets she’d usually sit with me for a drink and let me fondle her naughty bits, or have a meal catered in, or just chit chat. She was surprisingly low-maintenance, quick to laugh, slow to anger, an all-around good-time gal. And when she came to my room, which happened on the regular, her demeanor remained the same. Sometimes she and her gal pal Ploy—another of my harem—would team up appear as a pair, which made for some memorable nights, I tell you what. She was up for pretty much anything, no matter how wild my imagination got. Her signature move was to grab the headboard with both hands and hang on for dear life, without a hint of protest. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Things changed for Momay when EB closed. First, it was the only gogo she’d ever known, and getting her to consider other venues was like pulling teeth. In the end, she just gave up the life all together. Second, around that same time one of her wealthier customers bought her fake boobs. Gigantic, glorious fun bags. On her tiny frame, they looked like something a comic book artist would draw. And she discovered a new way to hook customers—simply by sitting at home and Tweeting nude selfies and along with a stipend from her hi-so customer, she was able to earn nearly the same income that she got from gogo dancing.

And so, Momay disappeared from my life—for a while. About a year after EB, she began messaging me again, asking to come over. Apparently her fake-boobs benefactor cut off her allowance, and she wasn’t getting as much for her nudes, and needed rent money. So I obliged, but it just wasn’t the same. Sure, those silicone monsters were a fun new distraction, but Momay had changed. She was less happy-go-lucky, more fidgety, and seemed generally unhappy. In short, she was kind of a downer. So after one return visit, I determined to permanently cut her from my harem. She, however, had other plans. From then onward, she bombarded me with text messages, begging for loans and hand-outs and generally harassing me for cash on a constant basis. In the end, I had to block her. I admit, it made me sad to close the book on my Momay chapter. She helped indoctrinate me into red-light culture, inadvertently taught me some pimping techniques, and put a rose colored shine on all things gogo-related from day one. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her. I do. But not enough to bring her back around. The only constant in our lives is change, and all gogo dancers eventually outgrow the life. Momay might not be ready to admit it, but her dance card is already expired.

Thank God for the memories, though. And the photos. Whoooooo doggies, those photos! Swing by on Friday for a frowback, and in the meantime keep your balls warm, your beer cold, and cheers to Momay—from her sweet dance moves to her willingness to get undressed in front of a camera. May her legend never die. Peace!