Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  But Singaporean guys, aiyoh, if you hook them properly and fasterly, they will pamper you for a long time. So when I told Louis we wanted to go, he texted his guy at Lunar to book a VIP table. Since it was our first time there, Louis agreed to come out earlier to meet us. This wasn’t easy. His wife, Mary, usually doesn’t start her mah-­jongg game until 11 P.M. so Louis cannot leave until then. But tonight was a special case—­we were not meeting at the usual club and in this Lunar world, we quite toot, China girls are quite fierce. So, Mary—­once she heard where we were meeting, even she was OK with Louis coming out early just this time. After all, she probably thinks, if us girls slowly one by one get married, maybe Louis will see his friends settling down and he’ll start staying at home more. Even though Louis never talks about it, we all know that it’s getting to be time for him to pop out a son. And Mary, of course she wants that too—­once that happens, she’s really set for life! Dowager status—­earned.

  “Eh, Jazzy, tonight is really happening ah?” Louis said when Imo, Fann and I finally got there and made it through, past the VIP bouncer. I tell you, this was the first time he was so on time. Must be he’s a bit worried for us. Louis of course was nice as usual, holding up the bottle of Chivas after we double-­kissed. We used to just hug when we saw each other, but then last year he and Mary went to Paris for a holiday. When he came back, he started doing that Frenchy double kiss that you see those atas ­people do. So now, like that lah.

  “Jazzy, you’re looking good,” he said, running his right hand through his nicely styled fringe and smiling. He was not bad-­looking for a Singaporean guy, actually. Married lah, but I still might have considered. His family is so rich—­who wouldn’t want? Except that we all knew Imo had her eye on him. She never told us if anything happened, but sometimes we could see her drinking very little and then waiting for Louis to offer to send her home. Sometimes she had to wait for hours, watching him drink Chivas after Chivas, pulling random girls from his office or sometimes me, Fann or Sher close to him if we happened to be nearby during one of his favorite songs. Whoever it was, he would wrap his arms around the girl as he sang each word, his mouth so close it sometimes felt as if he was eating our ears. Imo never got upset—­pointless, after all. Dancing is just dancing. And she knew she didn’t have any real right to be upset. Not that we knew whether anything was going on, or wanted to ask. These kinds of things, better not to know too much. It made it easier on those few nights when Mary actually agreed to set aside her mah-­jongg game and come out with us. If none of us actually officially knows anything about Imo and Louis, when his wife is out with us, we all can still smile, say hi hi and everything is OK one.

  “Of course lah,” I said to Louis, pulling back my new sexy black tank top and puffing up my small boobs. ­“People went shopping all—­just for you!” Louis rolled his eyes, stuck out his third finger and then held up his other finger to ask me whether I wanted one shot or two. “Aiyah, two lah, two lah,” he said, shaking his head and starting to pour. I could see him looking around to mentally count how many drinks he had to pour, and he had a slightly confused look for a moment when he saw that Sher wasn’t there. “Married,” I said. I could see him sighing and blinking his eyes; he shook his head and started pouring.

  After handing out glasses to the three of us, he rubba-­ed my neck a bit and whispered in my ear, “China girls! They are havoc, man. You sure you want to be in their territory? You can still change your mind, you know. Terence is holding my table at Studemeyer’s until one A.M. if we want it.”

  “Crazy! You think I’m scared?” I said, holding up my hands and hitting my left palm into my right fist. “Lumpar lah!”

  Louis thought for a moment, then just raised his eyebrows and nodded, smiling. He raised his right hand and gave me a big thumbs-­up. He should know better. He’s known me for how long already—­and he still dares to ask me this kind of rubbish question? China girls are nothing compared to us!

  Actually, to be honest, we were a bit scared when we walked in. When we walked in, the first thing we heard was this damn loud Hokkien singing. Yes, I know some Hokkien but walao, this song was so cheena that even I couldn’t understand what the guy was singing about. Something about girls and love and other cock stuff, I’m sure. The waitresses were all wearing these bright red glittery cheongsam-­style bodysuits that were super tight and super short. From the looks of them—­hair dark dark and straight straight, fair skin, flat nose, crooked teeth, concave chest—­I could tell that they were all really from China.

  When we first started seeing China girls popping up in the 1980s—­at first in Geylang around the brothels but then after a while, everywhere—­we at first thought these girls were so plain-­looking, what harm could they be? With faces like that, how can they win? Especially back then, those SK-­II type face creams were all still quite expensive so not everybody had fair skin—­some were still a little dark-­looking, like those coolies in padi fields type. But I tell you ah—­these girls are quite cunning. They only look simple—­if you see their eyes close-­up . . . scary! Each and every one of them, they all have that hungry look. Even if a guy has a wife, girlfriend, kids, grandkids, they also heck care one. All they care about is what they can take—­Singapore citizenship is number one. Coach handbag, condo, car and cash even better—­nice, but not so necessary. If they win the man then everything set already—­no need to go home to their longkangs in China.

  At Lunar, the whole place was filled with these girls—­the cheongsam sluts were fawning over the guys, some even daring to sit in their laps out in the open. Walao eh, we couldn’t believe it—­this place is a decent club in Clarke Quay, you know. It’s not say super atas like the Orchard Road bars—­but it’s also not sleazy like Geylang at 3 A.M. Kani nah—­so daring! And in all the little white shiny banquettes on the side there were groups of China girls just sitting around, looking pretty—­as pretty as they can try and look lah—­and trying to catch guys’ eyes. Fann and Imo were quiet, looking around quite shocked. We were dressed up rather nicely—­that day, Imo came from stylo work drinks so she was wearing a little black dress (new one—­Marc Jacobs, don’t play play!) and Fann, well, Fann was looking as nice as she can. And I was feeling quite chio in my new Seven jeans. If any guy is not staring at my backside tonight, I tell you, he is confirm agua.

  When we came out, we knew we were looking damn steam. But these cheongsam sluts—­walao. The competition really was a bit unfair. I stared at Louis and he shook his head, leaning over to my ear. “Woman,” he said, “don’t forget—­it was your idea to come here.”

  Aiyoh. Well, since we were here, we might as well stay, I thought. Better don’t waste a Friday night. Louis poured another round of double shots to make us feel better. It worked. After a few sips, we could actually relax a bit. Soon after, when a few of Louis’s guy friends showed up, we were already a bit high. So high in fact that we actually forgot why we went there. Until the Ah Beng emcee in the sparkly purple suit and the Elvis Presley hairstyle got in the middle of the stage and started shouting some nonsense in Hokkien that we couldn’t really understand. But from the way he was pointing at the crowd and shaking his mike around, we could tell that something was about to start.

  In our VIP section, Fann, Imo and I all stood up so we could see better. We were all squinting squinting at the stage, trying to see what was going on but eh? Nothing was happening. At this point the lights had gone down and the place was quite dark except for these two bright red circles of spotlight that were chasing each other around the room. This kind of light show—­fucking toot, man. I was just about to whisper to Fann, “My god, this is damn boring,” when Louis tapped me on the shoulder. “Guniang, look over there,” he said, pointing toward the center of the room. When we first walked in, I had noticed this big divider in the middle of the room—­there were two long lines crisscrossing in the middle, separating the room into four parts. Quite strange. Usually the
se clubs like to have a large, more open space so ­people can have more dancing dancing and all. But then I thought, well, Lunar is owned by some old man from the Mainland, after all. These kinds of modern stylo design features, how is he supposed appreciate?

  The lights suddenly all came on at once and the Ah Beng emcee started singing this old Hokkien song—­I could understand the first part, since sometimes ­people sing it at weddings. Some love song about two ­people sharing an umbrella—­a bit toot, yes, but when someone explained the lyrics to me recently I was actually quite touched. So I thought, OK, this is not bad. But only the first few lines were sweet and slow—­after that, this Lady Gaga–type disco beat suddenly started and then the umbrella song become half romantic, half Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” And the red spotlights started moving around like crazy again and everyone started cheering and clapping because these long rows of China girls started coming out from the four corners of the room, dancing down the aisles between the tables and then climbing onto the crisscrossed divider in the middle.

  Each girl was wearing shiny black shoes with a small button strap across them, like those shoes you see schoolgirls in England wearing except these had very high heels. Some more they were wearing knee-­high white socks and tight white buttoned shirts that were so see-­through you could see that underneath them, each girl was wearing a sparkling red bra—­their tetek were all so big the bra is confirm push-­up one. They all had hair tied up in two ponytails, eyes painted big big, super long eyelashes—­fake one lah. But the thing that all the old Ah Peks and Ah Bengs were really staring at was their skirts—­aiyoh! These China girls—­kani nah! Not shy! Each of their little black skirts was so short it couldn’t even cover their whole backside—­whenever they moved you could see their white frilly panties underneath. And then the way they purposely danced, they kept pushing up their backsides for everyone to see.

  Walao! By this point, Louis and his friends were all out of control, shouting and clapping like crazy. One of them even started loudly saying over and over “Teng kor! Teng kor! Teng kor!” (As if those girls would actually take off their panties—­mad! I almost told Kelvin, “Hello, you buy them a Coach bag first then maybe can negotiate. If buy Louis Vuitton, then they confirm will suck your pretend big cock.”) Fann, Imo and I just looked at each other—­we had nothing to say.

  Like this—­how can we win?

  Just the other day, my mum was lecturing me about life again. These days ah, in my house, ­people cannot just quietly drink kopi and eat toast. Now, every day, breakfast is my mum’s big lecture time. The topic never changes: my future.

  That day, mum had clipped out this Singapore Airlines advertisement from the newspaper. They were doing their annual recruitment, looking for new Singapore girls and stewards. Every year when this advertisement comes out, every year my mum confirm will cut it out. “Huay ah—­you see?” she said, pushing the paper to me.

  “Aiyoh, please lah. Guniang here so old already—­as if they want me!” I said. She should know this better than me—­Singapore Airlines, they usually want those twenty-­one-­, twenty-­two-­year-­old girls. “Old birds like me? Please lah. If I apply, they sure laugh until fall down.”

  “You cannot think like that, Ah Huay,” mum said, trying to push the advertisement in front of my face again. “The cutoff now is a bit older. Not like my time, when only young girls can apply. You got chance, why you don’t want? Flying can really change your life you know, Ah Girl—­SQ will teach you how to dress, how to put on nice makeup, how to eat properly at those nice restaurants, look pretty, meet the right kind of men. You not young anymore, you know—­please lah, why you don’t want to find a good husband? Your ah pa and I won’t be around forever to take care of you, you know.”

  This argument ah, she every week also say. I don’t know why she still tries. She knows I listen until tired already. Cannot listen anymore.

  Yes, of course I know she always wished she could have joined SQ. Then maybe she could have done something more with her life than be a hairdresser in a sleazy Excelsior Plaza salon where only cheapskate housewives go for those 1980s tight spiro perms. My ah pa is an OK guy lah, but he’s not rich, definitely not handsome, boring job, whole day watch football or go downstairs to the kopitiam to drink Tiger beer and smoke cigarettes type. Of course when you add all those things together, my mum was not happy. This kind of life, my god, if you dare to offer to me I confirm will tell you, “Eh, thank you ah—­but balls, lah!”

  But my life is actually not bad—­I don’t know what my mum complaining about. Be an executive assistant to newspaper editor, you think it’s an easy job? Boss is always grumpy, I sometimes end up staying late because there’s always some news breaking somewhere. And now with texting, I’m somehow always on call—­late at night also sometimes get text from the boss to ask me to book a table or buy a present or make an appointment or something. This one is not an anyhow kind of job you know—­it’s a real career! Got future! My boss is a big guy, which means I am actually quite important. If my boss someday becomes publisher, then I’ll be the publisher’s assistant. Serious one! Don’t play play.

  Yes, I know some of my school friends, all the smart girls, they managed to grow up to be lawyers, accountants and banking types. Even one of them actually became a surgeon—­I also don’t know how. When we found out about it, we were all damn stunned. I mean, I didn’t go to the most terrible school in Singapore but even I also know that judging from the kinds of girls who went to my government school, for any of them to become a surgeon is almost as difficult as winning the Toto big prize. (Although if you saw this surgeon girl and the kind of backside face she has, you can tell that she’s quite smart.)

  But me, I may not know much but at least I know what I can do—­and I know what is just crazy to consider. I know I’m smart enough to be a secretary or executive assistant. But to become a doctor, lawyer or banker? I’m smart enough to know not to dream about it.

  Don’t talk about becoming a doctor, I can’t even imagine marrying a doctor. Usually they are not the types of guys that you meet at the clubs and bar. At least not the ones we usually go to. But then again the doctors who come here from America or Australia are usually older, married already, stay-­at-­home type. I guess it’s a bit weird if you see them at Clarke Quay at 1 A.M., chionging in the SPG clubs. And the doctors who are Singaporean—­my god, please, those are the most boring. Sure, if you marry one then your life will be good money-­wise, but I tell you, those guys are the ones with the bossiest mothers, who will live with you and interfere with every single thing you try to do with your husband and kids. Give me that kind of life—­hallo, I’d rather stay at home with my parents until I drop dead.

  This Singapore Airlines issue though, I’ve explained it over and over to my mum until I’m fucking tired. It’s just wasting my saliva to even try telling her again.

  But seeing the China girls at Lunar tonight, I started thinking that maybe my mum actually has a point. Maybe joining SQ or some shit like that is better than us trying to run around Singapore and anyhow hit balls. So many girls out there, so many different things to fight. I suddenly felt quite tired. And I also suddenly wished Sher was there at Lunar with us.

  If Sher was here, confirm she would find something funny to say. (Also, usually when Sher is around, more guys talk to us, even if there are other chio girls around for them to look at.) I was trying to think where she was tonight. The wedding was a few nights ago—­where did she say she was going for her honeymoon? Langkawi? Or Batam? Typical Ah Beng honeymoon. Marrying an ang moh means you get a honeymoon that’s not a cheapo Malaysia or Indonesia trip. Our friend Dolly last year went to Paris for her honeymoon when she married that American guy, OK! He’s not even that rich but he said Paris was very romantic, so honeymoon must go there. By the time Dolly came back, she was pregnant already! Talk about number one win. But if you marry an Ah Beng, aiyoh—­they just want t
o bring you somewhere nearby so you don’t need to fly for so long and there’s cheap local food so they don’t have to pay big money for Western crap. All they want is to garabing garabung—­fast fast one so then they can smoke a cigarette, text their friends and play Candy Crush.

  What time is it now? One something in the morning? I’m guessing that Sher’s Ah Huat confirm must be snoring away already. If he had anything to drink then he’s probably been sleeping for hours and hours. Whatever lah. Her life; she chose it. As long as Fann, Imo and I don’t end up like that, I heck care what happens to Sher.

  Just thinking about Sher made my blood boil all over again. No—­no matter how fucked up Lunar and its China girls were, my mother was not right. Sher was not right. There was a better future for me, Fann and Imo out there—­there had to be. We just had to push out there and get it. Cannot be scared.

  “Eh, girls,” I said, tapping on Fann and Imo’s shoulders and pointing at the Lunar VIP section exit. “Come, let’s siam.” We tried to air-­kiss Louis goodbye but he was still staring so hard at the dance show that even Imo couldn’t get his attention. So we just left. Nobody looked even once at us—­not even at my chio Seven jeans backside—­as we squeezed our way through all the guys to get to the door.

  Outside, I was so angry I just started walking. Fann and Imo quietly followed—­I didn’t know if they were drunk or just being blur. As long as I could hear their click clack heels behind me I didn’t quite care. Before we went to Lunar, I was thinking OK lah, we go, we try to understand their game, then we can try and figure out how to beat them. But those bloody cheongsam and schoolgirl China girls—­they have no standards! Even the ones who were not performing, those just there to flirt and hook husbands and boyfriends, they’re all the same! Unless we are willing to just do anything to hook a guy, we have no chance against them.