Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  Now, we avoid Orchard Towers (unless we’re craving Thai chicken wings from that stall on the second floor) but that one time years ago when we decided to go just to see whether the place had cute guys or not. The scene—­my god—­was damn scary man. First of all, all the corridors in the entire mall were filled with the smell of smoke—­you know that kind of smell where you step in the building and you know right away that you confirm must wash your dress the next day. Then, everywhere we looked, you could see ang moh guys with these very young-­looking girls in super short skirts—­schoolgirl schoolgirl type—­in very high heels just walking around, arm in arm, the guys sometimes rubba-­ing the girls’ butts as they walk. All along those narrow corridors there were bars, yes, but also massage parlors, cheap Thai restaurants and also these small provision shops that not only sell all the kinds of cigs you want but also had gigantic displays of condoms. You know me—­I very not shy. But when I saw these condom displays—­my god, even guniang over here started to feel a bit embarrassed.

  We decided to go into one of the bars, even though Imo and Fann didn’t want to, saying they were worried about what kind of guys were in there. But Sher and I thought, we’ve never been here ­before—­at least check one out. What’s the harm? Maybe it would at least be a bit entertaining—­and from the looks of just the outsides of the bars, I could tell that we could emerge with many stories to tell our friends even after just one drink there! So, why not?

  Also, I know it’s a bit crazy to think this in Orchard Towers of all places, but you never know where you can find love. Sometimes even nice ang mohs also go to sleazy places—­maybe they’re there because their friends have brought them or it’s some compulsory office party they have to attend or some shit. And we had already been talking about how, if you want to meet guys, sometimes you must adventure a bit. Cannot be so close-­minded and judgmental. Anyway, since we were already in Orchard Towers, I said, “Let’s go.” So we just picked one of the bars that looked more open—­not one of those with blacked-­out glass windows or bitchy-­looking Thai girls standing outside to check your ID and charge you a thirty-­dollar cover fee if they think you’re a girl that is potential competition. The one we picked seemed decent—­it even had a large barrel painted on the side of the door, giving it the same look as some of those touristy English pubs near Boat Quay. But once we walked in, we almost walked out. My god, the place was damn fucking sleazy.

  The bar was filled with girls—­all wearing high heels and short flared-­out skirts. Most of them had long black hair, some tied up in sweet little ponytails. And their faces all had that fresh, clean kind of makeup to make them look even younger. I couldn’t tell how old they were, but if I had to guess—­maybe seventeen or eighteen? And that’s because I’m Asian—­I can tell they are actually not as young as they look. If I weren’t Asian, I confirm would think they look more like fourteen or fifteen years old. And the whole bar was filled with these girls! Except for one—­this woman who looked quite ragged, maybe thirty years old or something. She was wearing simple black pants and one of those patterned auntie blouses and she had one of those big bulky fake Coach handbags on her arm. The moment we walked in she just sat in one corner and stared at us the whole time.

  We ordered a drink—­we figured since we were there, we’d better order something or mamasan confirm will come over and whack us one time. When the drinks—­and bill—­came, we instantly regretted it. One simple gin and tonic—­fifteen dollars! Some more the drink was damn watered down. “Never mind lah,” I said to Imo when I saw her making a face. “Research is never free.” Once the drinks came, we didn’t know what to do so we decided to just sit there and look-­see look-­see. Fann got excited when she saw there was a small pool table in the corner. “Hey, maybe we can play a bit!” she said, starting to get up. Luckily, Sher acted quickly and pulled her back down before Fann could make a move.

  “Guniang,” Sher quietly said to Fann. “Don’t be so blur. Look around the table—­is anyone actually playing pool?”

  It’s true—­even though there was a game in progress, and there certainly were ­people walking around carrying sticks, the only action we were seeing was when the girls would come and bend over the pool table, stretching for a really long time, sometimes even propping one of their legs up on the table until can see panties and everything. No one actually seemed to be noticing the game. The girls were just anyhow shooting—­striped ball, solid ball, anything also whack. Ball never go in also never mind one—­this game was really damn toot. Since when do you have ­people playing a game and not caring about winning?

  If the girls missed a ball, they just covered their mouths and giggled like those teenagers in Japanese toothpaste ads. We watched this carry on for a bit, not quite sure what to do—­Imo at some point just gave up and started texting with god knows who—­until Sher suddenly elbowed me. She nodded her head very slightly toward the dark corner near the pool table. I had to squint a little bit at first but there was some tall, a bit fat oldish ang moh guy sitting on a bar stool and rubba-­ing this girl. At first, it seemed normal—­not like anything we hadn’t seen in Attica before, except this guy was balding, had super gray hair, at least two chins and such big boobs that no decent Singaporean girl would ever give him chance. Hallo, even though he’s an ang moh guy, us SPGs still have some standards, please.

  This was all still sort of OK, but then once or twice when the girl started moving away from him, he would grab her wrists and pull her back so she was facing him, her thighs wedged between his legs. This guy wasn’t even wearing pants or jeans—­he was wearing bermudas! Some more they were not even branded berms—­got no logo! As we watched, the guy got more daring—­he not only started reaching underneath the girl’s skirt to rubba her backside but at some point he turned her around to face his friends on the other side of the pool table. His fat fingers were all over the front of her shirt, rubba-­ing her stomach and everything and then moving down to her skirt. Sher looked damn angry. We thought all this was quite bad already, but then the guy lifted up the girl’s skirt and started rubba-­ing her through her panties, pretending to try to pull them down. His friends just started laughing and cheering. Aiyoh! No shame! We thought the girl would give the fat guy one tight slap but she just giggled a bit and patted his hand, firmly moving it away. Mamasan in the corner was keeping an eye on all this, even though she had this heck care look on her face. What kind of mamasan is this? Where got ­people give things away for free?

  “Should we do something?” Imo asked. When I looked at her, she looked like she was going to cry. It’s true lah—­the four of us have seen all sorts of public rubba-­ing in our lifetime of clubbing (and also participated—­a bit—­of course) but this, my god, this really made me want to vomit blood. The girl was so young, the guy was so old and ugly—­some more from the looks of him, he confirm is not rich. Not even middle-­class. Where got point? No amount of money he gives you can be worth that shit.

  Then suddenly we saw mamasan raise her right hand and rub her thumb against her fingers. Cash sign. The girl turned around and kissed the guy on the cheek then whispered in his ear. He smiled, nodded; then she took his hand and led him around the pool table, right past us and headed to the darkest corner of the bar. We had seen the door in that corner earlier—­some thin wooden one with a slightly frosted glass window. At first I thought it was a karaoke room because through the large window we could see a couch and coffee table. But then there was a sign on the purple wall saying STAFF REST AREA. Quite weird, I thought at the time. Working as a bar girl—­is it really that strenuous that you need a rest area? But once the girl brought the ang moh into the room, closed the door and turned off the lights, I realized how toot I was.

  Which is why, once Harry’s opened—­thank god. If you want to meet ang mohs, then you didn’t need to be so LC as to go to Orchard Towers. All Harry’s bars are confirm not low-­class—­they have nice tables, wai
ters treat you like normal girls, and the menu even has atas drinks with happening shots like Lemon Drops.

  Of course, if you are truly happening at Harry’s, you don’t need to look at the drinks menu. In fact, Charlie was so famous here she didn’t even need to order her drinks. The moment the bartender saw her walk in, he already started mixing. So by the time she pulled out a ciggie to put in her mouth, the waiter had already brought over a vodka green tea. He even stood to one side, waiting for her to be ready and all so he could pull out his lighter to light her cigarette. Imo, Fann and I all looked at each other—­kani nah, this woman was damn impressive.

  Charlie looked sexy. In fact, I don’t think we had ever seen her not nicely made up, but tonight she looked more chio than usual, wearing a tight short dress. “Is it one of those Harvey Leggy types?” Fann whispered to me. I wasn’t sure but with the stretchy bandage-­straps crisscrossing her chest, showing off her B-­cup tetek, it very well could be. Her hair at that time was quite short, in a very straight bob, fringe long long one, swept to one side so when she leaned over to talk to you, she always had a fan of hair brushing across one side of her face, making her eyes look even bigger. For those guys who like those Sailor Moon kinds of blue movies, Charlie is the shit lah. Since secondary school days, she was always quite cute—­but back then, her kind of cute was mostly the sweet sweet type. It wasn’t until she came back from Ozzie that she suddenly became so sexy. I don’t know what happened to her there, man—­or why she never stayed. But when she came back last year and we met at Zambo the first time, we almost didn’t recognize her. All the guys we were with that night got super steam the moment they saw her. But because none of them were ang moh, all also knew they had no chance with Charlie.

  Midway through her cigarette at Harry’s, Charlie was leaning back, crossing her legs, looking quite bored and blinking her eyes a bit as she slowly smoked. Fann and Imo looked at each other, then looked at me, both not sure what to do. Toot is toot. So I just started explaining. “Um, Charlie—­you know, we’ve all known each other how long already . . .”

  Charlie just rolled her eyes and sighed, leaning over to put out her ciggie in the ashtray. “Please lah—­cut the crap,” she said. “I naeioo you how long already—­no need to bullshit me. You just want to naeioo my secrets, just admit it.”

  I could see Fann’s face was starting to turn black—­I knew she never really liked Charlie. Charlie just blinked again at Fann and looked back at me.

  “You want my advice?” Charlie said. “Then listen. Stop being so desperate. Please—­you girls keep going to the same places over and over, meeting the same groups of guys over and over. And when you go there you’re always in the middle of everything, chitchatting with the same arses each weekend, dancing with them, going home with them—­or not going home with them but then seeing them the next weekend anyway. Aren’t you bored? If you want ­people to notice you—­really notice you—­then you must hang back a bit, be in the shadows, let the guys discover you and want to naeioo you. These ang moh guys, hallo, all they want is the chase. If they want to run after you—­let them run! The harder they have to run, the more they want you. Even after you get married, must still make them run! When they stop running is when they run away.”

  Wah, this was the longest I had ever heard Charlie talk. But it made sense. I was thinking about that guy I just pok’d—­what was his name? Obviously, that one was a mistake. Even though in the end he seemed like maybe a decent guy, at this point, guniang here cannot start over with him again. My flower—­all give away already. I even stayed over on the first night! The chase hadn’t even begun but everything—­aiyoh—­everything was over already. If the guy didn’t have such a hairy nose I might feel a bit sad. But my god, that nose!

  “Hallo, Jazzy, are you even listening?” Charlie suddenly said. So I made sure to look back at her again.

  “Also,” she said, looking around at all of us and scrunching her nose, “language, ladies. You and I know how we always talk. But kopitiam chitchat is different from ang moh chitchat. Guys don’t like it. Even if they think it’s a bit exotic, they in the end will think that you are just too LC for them. Want them to take you seriously, then you must give them the impression that when they bring you back to Melbourne, Chicago or whatever shit longkang like Manchester they came from, that you also can fit in and be the perfect wife. So yeah, among yourselves, you can talk talk however you want but when you want to hook ang moh guys, you must sound more atas.”

  This one is true. When we get to the point of hanging out with ang mohs and their friends, whenever we talk, they sometimes catch no ball, asking us to repeat what we said—­slowly. Quite embarrassing. Charlie was right. If they cannot see us fitting into their world, then confirm we have no serious chance.

  “Plus, this”—­Charlie started saying again, pointing her second finger at all of us, making a circle in the air—­“I can tell you, is not going to work.”

  “What do you mean?” Fann said. Her dark face came back again.

  “You three are too similar!” Charlie continued. “You think this one is what—­army is it? Everyone all the same one. No, your approach must be different—­your role model should be girl bands. See, even though they are one group of girls, all around the same age, all chio, you can always tell them apart. Each girl has a distinct personality—­got Posh Spice, Sporty Spice, Baby Spice . . . I’m not saying you should dye your hair different colors and wear costumes or some cock shit but maybe each one of you can find something to play up.

  “Like you,” Charlie said, taking out another ciggie and waving it at Imo, “pretty face, nice clothes—­maybe you are the atas one. So maybe talk less, be standoffish a bit. Jazzy, you are more of the spunky type. Many ang moh guys like daring girls.”

  Charlie gave Fann a hard look—­we could see her eyes going from her hair to her face to her body and back up. “You,” Charlie said, “you—­aiyoh. OK, I’m sure if you really put your mind to it, you can find something interesting.”

  The bartender had come over with another vodka green tea for Charlie. All of us were sitting right in front of her and none of us had noticed that her glass was almost empty but somehow the guy managed to arrow it with his eyes from the other side of the room and fasterly make a new one for her. After he set it down, he lit her cigarette, waiting for her to take her first puff and smile sweetly at him before he walked away.

  Charlie was quiet now. Her advice was good but it was a lot to think about—­things to practice. Maybe must even go shopping. But tonight—­tonight was still early. I guess maybe we could hang around a bit and have some drinks. It wasn’t even 11 P.M. after all—­although this was quite late for Harry’s. Usually ang mohs like to go there for after-­work beers or earlyish drinks and then run home to their wives before it gets too late. If not for Charlie, who knows the whole staff at this Harry’s, we wouldn’t be here. We didn’t like this particular Harry’s bar, in Boat Quay, because it was very touristy. And all SPGs know tourists are like sailors—­in and out so quickly, confirm will have no results. My whole life I only knew of one guniang who managed to hook an American sailor on shore leave who wrote her love letters for six months then came back and asked her to marry him. Wah, that one is damn lottery! Now she lives in some chee bye little town in Virginia lah—­boring military wife and all. But still at least she managed to make it out.

  Tonight though, the ang moh crowd at Harry’s was older; many of them had wives or girlfriends by their sides so it was all a bit pointless. Just when the Filipino band started playing “Wonderful Tonight” and we were wondering whether we should go somewhere a bit more lively, some short Malay guy popped up by our table, winking at Charlie and all. We thought this was quite funny—­even Fann started smiling. If Charlie doesn’t even want Chinese-­Singaporean guys—­Malay guys where got chance? But Charlie just laughed and patted the cushion next to her and he sat down.

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nbsp; “Rahiman—­girls; girls—­Rahiman,” Charlie casually said.

  Rahiman jumped back up, leaned forward, smiling and shaking all our hands quite hard, asking each one of us what our names were. Even though we were quite stunned, we managed to be polite.

  “Babe,” Rahiman said to Charlie, “drink?”

  Charlie nodded and waved him away. The three of us just stared with our mouths open as Rahiman ran off to the bar.

  Imo was the first one to ask. “Charlie, who is he?”

  Charlie just shrugged. “Auntie tonight too tired to work hard—­this one, always eager, always shiok,” she said, bending closer toward us, cupping one hand by her cheek to whisper. “Big tongue.”

  Three of us didn’t care about being polite now and started stretching our necks to get a better look at Rahiman, who was at the bar chatting with the bartender. Every time his mouth opened, all I could think about was what was inside.

  “Eh, girls,” Charlie said, snapping her fingers to get us to look back at her. We had been staring at Rahiman for so long that he was already picking up the two vodka green teas and heading back to our table.

  “Advice session over,” Charlie said. “Now bugger off.”