By the time of my second visit to the Philippines, a well-intentioned friend of mine with a similar predilection for preteens, had recommended that I take a side-trip to a little-known village a few miles outside Manila known as Mango Park. If the idea of sucking a nice juicy but still firm mango and sliding your tongue into and around the barely resisting flesh conjures up an image of exoticism and eroticism, then the tiny village was aptly named. Though my friend didn't go into details, he made it clear that I would never regret the time I spent there.

In its early years, this hamlet-sized brothel (reputedly owned and protected by the local police chief), teeming with lovely young Filipinas, had catered very much to the local market. There, until the country started being invaded by hot-blooded GIs on the rampage for sex, a girl could be had, and invariably was, for as little as 50 US cents. Not your old worn-out hags, either, but everything from the prettiest young, giggling, innocent, clumsy, nervous almost-virgins to the more mature, confident, highly experienced and confirmed prostitutes. The demands of these lusty soldiers (strip tease, blow-jobs, girl-girl-action, anal sex, etc.) were perhaps a little more unorthodox than the girls were used to, but whatever your taste ran to, it was almost always available for the right price.

It was like the Far West. I remember how, as I drove slowly along the one street that was wide enough, girls by the dozen wearing the skimpiest garb would swarm like bees around, onto and inside the vehicle, literally dragging the willing occupants into their lairs. For all their acute business sense, the girls could be a delight, and many a happy hour was spent romping and laughing with people who couldn't understand a word of your language nor you of theirs. There you could sit and joke and drink Coke with as many girls as you wanted, fiddling and fondling to your heart's content until you eventually decided which one (or ones) you wanted to make better acquaintance with. When you had done whatever you came to do, you were politely handed a bill that rarely came to more than 20 dollars, plus drinks, and often much less (the going rate was, and is still, 5 dollars for one girl and 7 dollars for two), and crawled back to your vehicle a happy, sated man.

After most of the young GIS returned home at the end of the war, the place reverted pretty much to being a sleepy-town brothel serving indigent but horny Filipinos and the occasional world traveller. Then, as tourists began to flock in ever increasing numbers to the country, more and more of them found their way to Mango Park. Business boomed, two cafes opened up to serve the kind of fast-food the predominantly American and Australian tourists seemed to like and new brothels sprung up on every available square metre.

One enterprising young Japanese guy went so far as to run a regular minibus route for enterprising tourists from the centre of Manila to the very doorstep of this den of iniquity. Prior to that, you could choose between a one-dollar ride in a taxi and the Jeepney, in which you would sit surrounded by a mass of Filipinos giggling at your foreignness and wondering aloud, to the accompaniment of loud guffaws, whether you would be getting off at Mango Park? This was fun, but the hour it took to reach the place tended to be longer than your sperm-packed balls and straining cock could wait. ......(cont)