I had managed to stay out of trouble for most of my trip. We were 20 University of Montana students studying tropical sustainable agriculture throughout Thailand. We spent three weeks traveling, meeting influential people and studying alternative philosophies and innovative techniques. I had planned for extra time in the country after the class was over and I was eager for it to begin. We were on a strict itinerary while representing the University, and I longed for the experience I had envisioned since I first saw The Beach starring Leonardo Dicaprio. My first experience in adversity came when I accidentally boarded the wrong bus leaving Bangkok. I had yet to feel real fear since I got to Thailand, but the raw honesty of being alone in a foreign country hit me all at once, and after a mad dash to make the #7 to Hua Hin on time, I spent the four hour bus ride southbound trying to catch my breath.

Hua Hin is a rapidly growing tourist city, popular among middle-aged Swedish couples and a common first-stop for backpackers southbound from Bangkok seeking the mainstream lonely-planet guided vagabond culture. Originally the city where Thai people went when they needed a break from their westernized rat-race lives, Hua Hin has evolved with globalization and the tourist economy, contributing to its new place dead-center in the middle of the beaten path. I had booked a room in a guesthouse (hostel) online. Though I had no idea where it was, I had all the time in the world to wander around until I found it. The bus dropped us off abruptly, and before I knew it I was walking between night-market stalls just opening at five in the afternoon. The country’s bustling nighttime economy has evolved to cater to us drunken foreigners stumbling through the city with little inhibition for purchasing cheap souvenirs and overpriced foods.

It only took about twenty minutes and two dead-ends before I found Karoon Guesthouse. Out of habit I took off my shoes before I entered. I could see the light coming through the floorboards, sand and waves underneath. Once in my room, I fired up the air conditioner, connected to the Wi-Fi, and proceeded to compulsively unpack and repack my backpack, something that I had become so good at that I felt like I was carrying less and less every time. I picked an outfit from the few clean clothes I had left as I took pulls from the most bitter alcohol I’d ever tasted. Called “Lao Khao” by locals and pretentious backpackers, this particular batch was a gift from one of the farms that we stayed with during our study abroad. I snagged a bottle for the road out of thriftiness as I was already running low on funds. It was mixed with honey to lessen the burn, but I still found myself chasing it with water from the tap. Despite becoming increasingly lubricated, I remembered to lock my valuables in the armoire. It didn't look particularly secure, but I figured if someone had the key to my room and wanted to steal my things, they likely had a key to the armoire as well. This is the type of logic you adopt when you've been in Thailand for almost 17 days.

Hua Hin’s main nightlife sector, which surrounded my guesthouse on all sides, yawned and stretched, waking up as I emerged from my hostel. It was around 7:30. I wandered through streets barely wide enough for a car, but plenty wide for pedestrians and motorbikes. I knew I’d have to eat soon so I kept track of restaurants that I passed which looked full. Earlier in the trip we decided that there was something suspicious about an empty restaurant in Asia. Safety first.

Eventually I had seen the majority of Hua Hin. I’d been to three major Thai cities and a number of smaller towns by now, and they were hardly unique at street-level. Cramped thoroughfares were dotted with tailors, restaurants, gift shops and massage parlors all geared towards tourists. Mangy stray dogs scampered around. They all had the same look of fear in their eyes. Once I’d seen enough I walked back to the guesthouse and sat down on my unbelievably firm mattress. I knew I’d have to go out eventually: This was what I’d been waiting for, but my nerves had me stalling. I hadn’t been on my own in three weeks. I pulled out my computer to check messages on Facebook. I browsed my news feed, checking in on friends and family back home. I glanced at the sidebar where Facebook lists the trending topics and top stories. One in particular stood out to me: “Greg Anthony arrested for soliciting prostitution”.

Greg Anthony is a respected NBA basketball analyst who I’ve watched on television often. He enjoyed a mildly successful career as a player and became a TV personality in his retirement. I read the article over and over, shocked that someone like that would risk his livelihood for something so absurd and disgusting as paying for sex. On television he is well-groomed, well-dressed, polite, concise and intelligent. I was reminded that I had been in Thailand for almost three weeks and hadn’t really thought about the sex industry, something the country is famous for. That is, not since a greasy-looking mustached fellow on the plane seemed a little overeager to get to Bangkok. Before I came to Thailand I did research on a number of topics regarding culture and the experience. Learning about the sex trade was incidental. There are a number of shady internet forums full of information about Thai sex tourism, written mostly by experienced travelers; self-proclaimed authorities on the subject.

As the largest economy in Southeast Asia, Thailand is a story of success in terms of economic growth over the last few decades. As a result, rapid urbanization has prompted younger generations to flock to the cities in search of the promise of Western “success”. It’s the idea of the American dream, but in a context where the means of achieving that dream aren't very realistic. The consequences of this are extreme urban poverty, overcrowded cities, poor sanitation and a lack of sustainable employment, leaving those unprepared with little choice but to sell their bodies. For men, this usually means dangerous construction jobs, where high-turnover manual labor is abused for low wages as the country tries to keep up with a demand for infrastructure. Work-related deaths are common. For women, the sex industry has emerged as a societal norm, an evolved form of a centuries-old business, and an inevitable end for many women growing up in a country known worldwide for its liberal sexuality.

The forums I browsed suggested that the lady-of-the-night is not nearly as prominent in Hua Hin as she is in Bangkok, but would still be relatively easy to find if one were interested. In my browsing I read that Soi Bintabaht was the de-facto red-light district of Hua Hin where bars with names like “Love”, “Valentine”, and “Get Lucky” might be found. I didn’t bother looking up where the street was, snapping my computer shut and locking the suspiciously lightweight door behind me as my hunger finally won. I enjoyed a personal pizza and a mojito in a dimly-lit bar called Fat Cat where a Swedish expat in a white sportcoat improvised jazz trumpet and three-quarter bass over songs he played off his iMac.

As the mojito settled in, I wandered through narrow, crowded streets, giggling incredulously as women in skimpy outfits tried to pull me into their respective bars. In the daylight, the coed workforces of legitimate massage parlors all wore matching t-shirts. At night, those establishments closed, and the women outside of massage parlors wore skin-tight dresses and high heels, implying the legendary “happy ending”. Ages ranged from (hopefully) 18 to 40+. Women appeared seemingly more desperate with age. Perhaps they were just more confident salespeople. They stepped into my path almost on instinct in attempts to bait me in. I noticed other westerners seated inside open-air bars with women hanging all over them. I kept my pace, looking for something less sinister. I found myself wandering down a street where hundreds of people mingled between bars and clubs. It was lit with red neon, saturated with plastic tourism and Thailand cliches.

Most women in the sex industry are independent contractors, dressed in suggestive clothing, hanging out around certain bars trying to get you inside. Once that’s complete, their job is to keep you buying drinks. A drink is around 150 baht, which is roughly the price of a drink in the U.S.. According to societal norms, you might eventually pay what’s called a “bar fine”, a fee payed to the establishment permitting the girl to leave for the night. Until the bar fine is payed, the girl is stuck there. Presumably once you leave the bar the girl is free to negotiate whatever for however much she pleases. While the over-the-phone and internet prostitution that occurs in major cities is common to the discreet traveling businessman, the lifeblood of the industry is based in this “bar girl” culture.

I was skeptical, though, every time I saw an attractive girl. Common to the sex industry in Thailand is the elusive and mysterious “ladyboy”. Lady-boys are incredible creatures. They are as beautiful as the most beautiful women you've ever seen, but cater to a specific type of sex-tourist. Many have had extreme procedures done to appear as women: breast implants, hormone therapy, even cosmetic surgery. Yet, they have a certain something that keeps them men no matter how female they might appear. I can’t even count the number of people who tried to warn me about them. “Make sure you check for Adam’s Apples.” The Adam’s Apple was a universal symbol for masculinity. “They might look like girls, but you cant get rid of an Adam’s Apple.”

After another loop around the block, I felt the end of the night looming and worked up the nerve to sit down somewhere. I arbitrarily chose a bar called Heaven. I plopped down on an empty couch near the back. Actually, the entire place was empty aside from two men shooting pool behind a wall of hanging beads. The couch resembled one you’d see in a thrift store back home. I already had a good buzz but I ordered a Bombay and Tonic. The female bartenders, well aware that I was the only paying customer in the room, poured it exceptionally strong. A girl in a red dress sat at one of the tables looking at her cell phone. She delivered my drink and then sat down next to me, uninvited. She was extremely beautiful. I checked her throat carefully. All clear. As an American I wasn’t used to women being so forward, but I appreciated the attention.

We sat in awkwardness for a few seconds before she spoke. “Where you from?” she attempted in broken English over the music. Her voice was high-pitched, but I figured that could easily be faked by hormone pills. I checked her up and down for signs of masculinity. Her curves seemed undeniable. Her name was Pak. I never got a spelling, but that’s what it sounded like. The language barrier kept my flirtations limited to the non-verbal; raw, instinctual. The drinks kept coming. I rested a hand on her leg. It felt just like flirting with an American girl but without a fluid conversation. She touched my arms, which are covered in tattoos. She seemed impressed.

“Do you have?” I said, pointing at my tattoos, then back at her. She immediately lifted up her dress revealing teal g-string panties and a butterfly tattoo on her lower back. It was in this moment that I realized that she might be a working girl, but the alcohol attenuated my suspicion. It was irrelevant, I thought. I was having fun. She pushed up my left sleeve, pointing at the one on my left shoulder. I knew she wouldn't know the English word, so I pulled out my phone and typed “jellyfish” into the translator. Thai letters appeared. She knew what it was immediately and giggled. I typed in “butterfly” and pointed towards her back. She laughed again. I got another round of drinks. I had 2000 baht in a hidden pocket in my shorts (about $70), and wasn’t feeling fiscally conservative. The two guys in the back had taken off, and she pointed towards the pool table, inquiring if I wanted to play. I fancy myself a decent pool player, so I agreed, polishing off my drink just as another round arrived.

Pak explained that she was actually from a small village in Cambodia, right on the border of Thailand. She emigrated for work so that she could send money to her family. When she confirmed that she worked in this bar, I was initially surprised, then disappointed that her interest in me was strictly professional, but our interaction continued because I liked her. I doubted that she came to Hua Hin to be bar girl. She lived in Bangkok first, but couldn't find good jobs so she went south, hoping to eventually become a bartender. I asked her if she liked Hua Hin. She smiled and said “Yes”. I couldn't help but think about Greg Anthony. My gut reaction to the news of his arrest was shock. I thought this guy was someone to look up to, but upon reading the news my opinion of him changed in an instant, and he quickly went from respectable to complete dirtbag. Yet here I was, a respectable guy, about to shoot pool with a woman who was likely a prostitute, and yet I didn't feel like a dirtbag. I didn't feel like a bad person. I was just a young man in a bar with a young woman. I wrestled around inside this moral gray area as I took another drink. She slid me the chalk while she racked.

I thought I’d impress her with a good break but I underestimated my blood alcohol content. She made her first shot, missing her second. Yes! A chance at redemption! I was stripes, and made my next two. She hit her next four solids, missed one, and handed me the cue. I missed. She finished out the rest of her balls and stared the 8-ball right into the corner. I was impressed. I underestimated her. Then again, she probably does this for a living. Another round of drinks came, and we played again. She won the second game easily.

I don’t know if I was too drunk to compete or if I’m actually really bad at pool, but I was losing my ability to function. It was getting late. Bars in Thailand close at one a.m., as far as I’d read. I still couldn't get my mind off of Greg Anthony. I went from respect to disgust, but the more I got to know Pak the less I thought of him as a scumbag basketball analyst. She was a real woman, not the subject of my predatory desires. I didn’t feel like I was taking advantage of her. On the contrary, I was in her world, and felt as if she was taking advantage of me. I was in the mood for dancing, and I could hear a distinct dance beat coming from the club across the Soi. While we tried to play our third game I pulled out my cell phone/translator and typed “Dance with me”. She tried to dance with me at the table. I pointed across the street. She shook her head no and rubbed her thumb against two fingers. I leaned in and whispered a slurred “Tao Lai, Khap?” How much? It was one of the only things I knew how to say.

I don’t remember how I got back to the guesthouse.

I woke up face-first on that rock-hard mattress with a throbbing headache. Unsure how the night actually ended, I reached for my pocket to realize I wasn't wearing pants. I became increasingly concerned with the circumstances in which they came off. I found them bunched up at the end of the bed, diving into the pockets with urgency looking for my stack of cash. My memory became a haze towards the end of the night, but I vaguely remember being front-and-center of a tourist-packed nightclub called “Click”, near a DJ who played terrible American pop music. I danced until I was sweating, and left as soon as I lost my balance and fell backwards onto a grinding twosome. I found my money stash in its entirety, less the cost of drinks, relieved that I didn't spend it all in one night. I flashed back to Pak trying to convince me to take her with me. I think she even offered a discount, but I kissed her hand and said “khap kun krap,” (thank you) before stumbling out into the street.

I can’t say I didn't have a good time. Despite my complex moral dilemma I thoroughly enjoyed her company. The idea of buying sex filled me with discomfort and disgust when reading the Greg Anthony story, but I realized that it might only be disgusting from an American perspective; from a culture and economy where there are so many alternatives to prostitution. But in Thailand, where poverty runs deep and opportunities are horridly limited, who is to say there is any better option? Its a harsh realization, one that most in the Western world will never be faced with, but realities are relative, and its possible that the alternatives to working as a bar girl might be worse than playing three games of pool against a drunk tourist. These women aren't slaves; they aren't forced into this industry by a maniacal authoritarian pimp with threats of violence. They are victims only of circumstance, limited in opportunity and driven by survival instincts. It’s not to say “prostitution is a good thing”, but for a desperate girl with a hungry family in a poor village in Cambodia, it may not be as simple as getting a job at Wal-Mart or McDonald’s.

I hope Pak gets everything she came to Thailand for. I hope her family loves her as she does them, because I got the impression that her sacrifices were solely out of love. We are all doing the best we can with the opportunities we have, and as I walked into 7/11 for a bottle of water I wondered what circumstances surrounded the woman who was solicited by Greg Anthony. Maybe she solicited him. I wondered whether morality can be as black and white as the Western world would have us believe.

I finished packing and checked out of the hostel, sauntering towards the main drag of Hua Hin in the direction of Sam Roi Yod National Park. I intentionally followed the streets I remembered from the night before. The town was silent and empty, but the ghosts of the previous night zoomed past in both directions as my memory came flooding back. I walked past the alley where Heaven was, and glancing through a mess of electrical wires at an obscured street sign I realized that I had unintentionally spent my evening on Soi Bintabaht, the red-light district I’d read about. I had found it completely by accident. Maybe it found me. I reached for my cash again, reassuring myself that it was in fact in my pocket. I turned the corner from the quiet alley onto a busy thoroughfare, hoping to soon stumble across a different kind of service, free of all ethical dilemmas: coffee and a greasy breakfast.