Sarong Party Girls (10 page)

The waiters all wore ties; the waitresses had nice black dresses and deep red lipstick. Everyone had very clean fingernails and everything was quite quiet. We could hear some violins or classical shit playing in the background. When I touched the edges of the white tablecloth before we sat down, the corners made me think of the sharp origami cranes Cikgu Hamidah had just taught us to make in art class. Sher, Fann and I didn't really know what to do so we just followed everything Imo did and let her mum handle everything.

“You girls like sausages, right?” Auntie said. “Like hot dogs but without the bun?” We all just nodded. Since Auntie was paying, whatever she wants, of course we will just follow along.

Auntie had invited one of her girlfriends to come, so once she ordered the sausage plate—­no soft drinks because, as she noted, one lousy Sinalco was four dollars each!—­for all of us, the two of them just sat in a corner and started yapping. The rest of us were just left alone. Usually, the four of us always had a lot to talk about. There were the St. Michael's boys on the bus, of course—­all of us at the time were wondering whether Simon, the Eurasian boy in Primary Four, would ever notice us—­and our stupid teachers, especially Mrs. Ting, who always made us do extra sit-­ups in PE because she probably knew we stuck out our tongues at her whenever she turned her back. And actually, that year we had just started playing dirty Barbie—­the week after exams were over we always were allowed to bring toys and books to share with each other. At that time, no matter how poor you were, you also got at least one Barbie. It's the one toy all parents, even if you are working in a longkang shit job, also know that you must buy for your daughter. So when we could bring toys, we all brought our Barbies to school. Since we were still quite young at first, our Barbie games were still decent. Actually, when I think back to that time I also don't remember what was so fun about it—­we just sat around combing our doll's hair and exchanging clothes. For fuck? But in Primary Two, Jill Ong's mum bought her a Ken doll. At first we just had the Barbies all fighting for his attention but then one day Veera Yap brought in a magazine she found under her parents' bed. Wah—­naked pictures of women all over the place! Some also had men in the photos, rubba-­ing here and there. We weren't quite sure what was going on but I remember it making us feel very excited, even though we didn't know why. Set lah! After that our Barbie storylines suddenly became damn happening. For some of them we even called Ken “Simon.”

These kinds of topic, though, how to discuss in such a nice restaurant? So the four of us just sat there—­Imo looking at me, me looking at Sher, Sher looking at Fann, that kind of stupid thing. All of us were also not sure what to do. That's mainly what I remember about the lunch—­I can't even recall what the sausages tasted like, whether Imo's one slice of nine-­dollar black forest birthday cake that we all shared was good or not. I just remember feeling scared.

All around us, everyone was so proper. And there I was in my lousy pinafore and my moldy school blouse. I bet the waitress could smell me. If I could definitely smell myself—­I forgot about the nice lunch that day and was wearing the one blouse that was starting to get yellow stains at the armpits—­then so could she. Die lah.

I had never been around so many ang mohs before—­and all were so nicely dressed! Not like those tourists in shorts and slippers that you sometimes see at the botanical gardens. No, these ang mohs were all tall, looked damn smart, wear glasses type. The guys were all good looking—­not say cute like Scott Baio but good-­looking in a normal way. And not too hairy. Or red-­faced and pig-­nosed. The women looked so sweet; each handbag next to them had a shiny logo. Everyone was smiling, quietly chitchatting. Sometimes you could hear a bit of soft laughter—­the refined kind, not like those noisy Ah Cheks in kopitiams who, I tell you, if one of them tells some joke, then the whole gang of them will start shouting and laughing so loud that even if you're on the tenth floor, you confirm also can hear.

I guess it was then that I realized. I told myself, Jazzy, if you are going to want anything in life, this is what you should want. All this—­this world.

Which is why even if I think Kin Meng's friends are all jokers, if they are meeting in Relish then I don't mind coming. This is the life, this is the world. Once my eggs Benedict came I decided to try and at least be nice and make some conversation. Not that they really asked me about my job or that I remembered anything that they said lah. But still, it was nice. For an hour, at least I could somewhat pretend that I already belong.

On the way home, in Kin Meng's new Mercedes SUV, I was still thinking about brunch. The bright airy restaurant, sunlight coming in the large colonial windows, the clean white furniture that was atas country house–style, like the ones you see in those actor's houses in
Vogue.
Kin Meng had the air-­con on so high in his car I wish I'd brought a sweater. “Why—­cold ah?” he said, leaning to press a button. The leather seat underneath me started to throb.

“Crazy ah,” I said, laughing a bit. “Singapore so hot—­why the fuck do you need seat warmers?”

“They offered what—­so why not?” he just said, pulling down his Dolce & Gabbana aviators from the top of his head and turning to smile at me. “Also, hello—­it's called foreplay.” I whacked him on the arm.

I was looking out the window, watching the wide sleepy Bukit Timah streets roll by. On each median the grass was perfectly green, each tree was evenly spaced apart, all bushes were nicely shaped. Yah lah, the government street workers really know how to take care of landscaping everywhere—­even in my longkang housing estate, lorries of Malay workers come by once every two weeks to prune everything. But somehow in the expat neighborhoods the bushes always seemed more perfectly round, the trees fuller, the grass brighter.

I didn't feel like talking but didn't want Kin Meng to think I was treating him like a taxi uncle. “How's work?” I asked.

“Busy, but boring,” he said, sighing. “Clients keep coming in. Night after night I have to go to KTV lounges—­after a while, even that can become damn boring. Also, must be careful lah—­you see the same girls over and over again. Give them the wrong impression only. Uncle over here is not the ‘Let's be texting friends, I buy Gucci for you' type. Please, I already have one of those bossy women at home.”

This one, I knew was not entirely true—­the last time I saw Kin Meng, we were having a beer at Bar Bar Black Sheep, this outdoor pub in Bukit Timah that was kind of like an ang moh kopitiam. Guys in slippers and shorts were sitting by the roadside on British pub-­style benches, having an early Sunday beer with chips. Even though they were by a longkang, this was still atas in a way. No nose digging or foot scratching. The conversation was civilized. I can't remember how Kin Meng and I got on the subject—­not hard, actually, considering it's his favorite topic—­but he was telling me about the KTV lounges he was going to these days.

“Eh—­how? Cute or not?” he had said after we'd been sitting for half a pint and he'd already finished his first cigarette. Kin Meng pulled out his iPhone, swiped the screen with his finger a few times before showing me a photo. The girl was one of the more high quality ones, I could tell—­fair skin, but just dark enough to be a bit Korean-­ish. For a long time, the Japanese girls used to be the most expensive—­if you go to any KTV lounge, if the menu has Japanese girls, then you'd better make sure you have a platinum card. If not, maybe you can settle for the Japanese-­looking girls—­white white complexion, eyes big big one. If she has a dimple on one cheek—­wah, those are the best. (Those look the most like porny schoolgirls in Japanese blue movies.) But these days, with K-­pop girl bands and all, the Korean-­Korean look was starting to become damn happening in clubs and KTV lounges. Long light brown hair, wispy fringe falling all over your face, sort of fair skin, big eyes, full lips—­those were the girls that were now making guys like Kin Meng steam.

I looked at the girl—­she looked like she was about sixteen. Her face was tilted to one side so her fringe was draped over one eye; her dark pink glossy lips formed an O, as if she was sucking a lollipop that wasn't there.

“Steam, right?” he said, taking the phone back from me, looking at it and letting out a big sigh. Then he swiped his finger across the screen again and handed it back to me. “This one also not bad.”

A different girl this time—­same complexion, with a little darker hair but with her head tilted the same way so hair fell over the side of her face. This one had a demure slight smile; the way her eyes looked up in the camera, I could almost imagine her peeking up at a client, offering herself.

“Akiko,” Kin Meng said. “We all know she's not Japanese, of course. The moment she opens her mouth, hello, anybody can tell she's just Chinese. But she told us she chose the name to fit her bedroom personality. Wah—­with a girl like that, how not to steam?”

Now, I don't care about Kin Meng in that way lah—­and I definitely heck care about his gambling den wife so I don't give a shit who he's fucking. But I didn't know that KTV girls were so daring—­sending pictures to clients and all. Wasn't the point of a KTV lounge that it's a one-­time business transaction kind of thing?

“Oi, Kin Meng—­how come you have all these pictures of KTV girls? Your girlfriends ah?”

“No lah—­crazy!” he said, quickly taking his phone back from me. “Just text buddies. These are their WhatsApp profile photos. Now and then, if I'm bored, I'll just send them an SMS. Just flirt flirt only. No harm.”

No harm? As if it wasn't enough that we had all these guniangs in clubs and bars to compete with and the China girls coming over to spoil our market. Now we have to think about KTV girls trying to climb their way out of their lousy lives by stealing decent guys like Kin Meng?

“But these girls are so dirty! Don't you know how many guys they entertain each night?” I asked. “Why don't you just do the usual thing and get a regular girlfriend?”

Kin Meng laughed so hard he snorted. “Aiyoh, Jazzy. These KTV girls are pros!”

I must have looked confused—­after all, yeah, who wouldn't know these KTV girls are working girls? What do you think? They are rubba-­ing you because they genuinely like your backside, is it?

Kin Meng took out another cigarette and lit it, putting both elbows on the table and leaning forward to get closer, looking serious for a moment.

“You see, it's very simple,” he said. “Girlfriends? Please. They're too much work! Especially Singaporean girls—­whatever you give them, they just keep expecting more. And if it lasts longer than a few months, forget about it—­either they want you to leave your wife, they get jealous if you go to a KTV lounge or go out with other girls when your wife lets you out of the house, or you end up paying big bucks. The presents they expect will only get bigger the longer you are fucking them.”

He stopped to take a long drag from his ciggie before shaking his head and continuing. “Even the Malaysian girls these days are getting to be more like Singaporeans. It's all too much. But these KTV girls—­so sweet, so friendly. When you text them just to say hi and chitchat a bit, they confirm will text you right back. And they know the boundaries. I tell you, if they bump into you on Orchard Road on a Sunday when you're out with your wife, they won't even look you in the eye. They'll walk right by you like you're any other guy on the street. Like I said—­they are pros.”

Until then, I hadn't even considered KTV girls seriously when we were watching out for all the women getting in our way. But clearly I had been wrong.

“But aren't you afraid they'll get too attached to you and start expecting things?” I asked. “I mean, even KTV girls still have that
Pretty Woman
dream of meeting a rich guy and getting married and all, right?”

Kin Meng laughed again. “Of course lah—­girls everywhere, all the same one. But you have to just manage their expectations.” The way he was talking, I could see how he'd risen so far up in his company.

“You see, the girls only get attached if you form a professional relationship with them—­if you just text them now and then, it's no problem. But if you go and keep requesting the same girl each time, for example, you're just asking for trouble. After a while, they start to feel like you're a ‘­couple' or some shit like that—­then if you go sometime and decide you want a different girl, my god, sometimes they'll give you a pouty face and all. Kani nah—­if you let it get to that point, it is all habis already.”

“But don't you go and . . . you know?” I asked, pushing my fist in the air a few times to illustrate a bit, just in case he didn't understand me. “That level of girl—­they're all looking for rich guys. Even if you just pok them one time and start texting them after, wouldn't they still think you want something more, no?”

“That's why you must be smart,” Kin Meng said, shaking his head as if I'm so toot. “I never fuck those girls. The most I'll do is get a Japanese bath. They just strip me, bathe me and, aiyah, you know lah. Like that, I can still come home and answer questions honestly. A blow job, some ­people still consider is sex but jerking you off—­confirm is not sex! When wifey actually bothers to come home from her mah-­jongg game and ask me whether I did anything bad, I can honestly say ‘No.' ”

In Kin Meng's car, I thought about reminding him about this conversation and all his photos and KTV text buddies. But he was in such a good mood, I thought maybe better not. But I did want to ask him something though.

“Kin Meng—­at these KTV lounges, do they allow girls to come inside?” I had been thinking that I'd never been to one. But so many guys I know—­and probably guys that I want to know in the ­future—­go to KTV lounges all the time. Maybe if I see it once, I can at least understand the system a bit.