Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  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 al
ready.”

  “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.

  “My god, no lah,” he said. “Other girls are competition for their business! Unless . . . it’s a work situation. You know how it is—­nowadays there are women managers and everything. Sometimes we cannot help it. Must let them in otherwise they might scream sexual discrimination or some shit like that. KTV entertaining is business, after all. The lounge managers don’t like it, but they know they have to let them in sometimes.”

  This was my chance. “Bring me,” I said.

  Kin Meng turned to look at me. “You serious? Why?”

  “I just want to see. Why not, right?”

  He was quiet for a bit. I was just thinking he was going to just say no.

  “You can behave or not?” he asked.

  Wah, guniang here was damn surprised. Of course I nodded.

  “You’ll dress exactly as I tell you and do everything I say?” he said. “If so, I could actually use a non-­KTV girl in the group for some clients I need to bring out tomorrow night. See how.”

  Set lah!

  After that I quickly switched the subject so he couldn’t change his mind. But when Kin Meng dropped me off at my block, he kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ll text you tomorrow, babes.”

  Walking through the gray concrete void deck underneath my apartment block, past the wrinkled uncles playing Chinese checkers, past the aunties burning joss paper offerings in the giant red communal barrels by the dustbins, I began to wonder what the scene would be like at a KTV lounge. If going to Lunar and seeing those shameless China girls was already so terrible, leaving us all feeling so bad, then wouldn’t a KTV lounge be worse?

  But Jazzy, I thought, you cannot be so scared. Must “yong gan de zhou.” Bravely walk.

  Thinking about our mums—­maybe not Imo’s but definitely mine, Sher’s and Fann’s—­they just did the same thing their mums did. They all had the same boring tunnel-­visioned approach to finding a suitable man and figuring out the husband landscape. So in the end, nothing happened for them! They never went anywhere. They just ended up having the same lousy lives that their mums had. And now Sher was doing the exact same thing. I can tell you her Ah Huat is never going to bring her to brunch at Relish. Ever.

  Just thinking about Relish made me happy again—­so white, so clean, so perfect. Then the lift doors in my building opened and some small sweaty fat fuck ran out, almost knocking me over. His mum just casually walked behind him, not even bothering to apologize. When she noticed that I was staring at her, she just stared back and said, “Got problem is it?” and walked away.

  Getting into the tiny five-­person lift, I could feel the air, hot and sticky, seeping into my hair. As the lift went up, floor by floor, I felt like I was swallowing warm clouds of urine and cigarettes. Bloody hell. And as usual, when I got to the flat, before I could even open the door, just from the turn of my door key, it all started back up again.

  “Ah Huay?” my mum shouted from all the way back in the kitchen. “Finally come home already ah?”

  chapter 8

  Bloody hell. Kin Meng, as always, was late.

  Not that I was that anxious to get to the KTV lounge or to see the fucker’s face. But I had already told Albert I had to rush off to an appointment and now fifteen minutes later, guniang was still standing on the curb outside of Front Page waiting for Kin Meng. If Albert comes out for a smoke or something, he will think I was lying! Since it was Monday, it was a fairly quiet night at Mohamed Sultan—­on weekends, forget about trying to walk a straight line along the neighborhood’s narrow pavements outside the rows of little prewar townhouses. The bars in those old shophouses are always jammed, which means the pavement is confirmed also jammed. Tonight though, there was almost no one around. So if Albert looked out, he’d definitely see me still standing there. What’s worse, my toes were damn painful from the office pumps I wore just for Kin Meng. In this heat, I’m not used to closed-­toed shoes lah—­but as Kin Meng instructed, if I want to be less slutty for KTV mamasan approval then confirm cannot wear strappy heels. So, no choice.

  But the main problem was that I was damn grumpy. That weird conversation with Albert on Friday—­aiyoh, I couldn’t stop thinking about it today. Was Albert really thinking it’s time for me to go? Why else would he be bringing up circulation as a good move for me in the company? Everyone knows that the girls in circulation are basically complete fucking idiots or are leftover girls from other parts of the company who are just shoved there to be forgotten about. And what was up with all that lecherous rubba-­ing? Did I somehow give him the impression that I wanted something? Of course he was right—­I know that I’m not getting any younger. Of course I understand that it’s high time to grow up already. But it’s not like I’m just sitting around waiting for my wrinkles to appear, not doing anything. Why else would I be trying so hard to hook an ang moh now?

  Even though guniang here was upset I still had to touch up lipstick and pretend to be happy once five o’clock came because I had already promised Albert I would help him to entertain his guests, who in the end were quite interesting lah. The main guy was the foreign editor of some Ozzie or Kiwi newspaper. I know I should remember these things, but to be honest, Ozzie and Kiwi are all the same to me—­seriously, is there any difference? The guys usually look the same and sound the same. Unless it’s an ang moh I think I might pok, once they tell me they are Ozzie or Kiwi I don’t really care which one is which. All I know is that unless the ang moh is very rich, if it’s a Kiwi guy, I definitely don’t want. If we get serious and get married, then how? Who wants to move there one day and live in a country filled with sheep and grass? Fate worse than death, man.

  Whether he’s Ozzie or Kiwi, Leonard the foreign editor guy was bloody charming—­longish white hair combed back, high nose, nice wire-­rim glasses. Very cultured-­looking. If he wasn’t so old I might consider. Albert also brought along his foreign editor, a Eurasian guy he went to uni with a long time ago. Even though Sean is half ang moh, he grew up here so he talks like a Singaporean—­not like me or Fann, but more like Imo, when she’s at work and must impress ­people, that kind of thing.

  Sean usually just ignores me—­when he needs to see Albert he never even says “Hi” before knocking on his door. And in the cafeteria he only talks to other editors or ­people higher than him. Sometimes, Eurasians are just like that—­just because of that little bit of white blood from how many donkey’s years ago, they think they are better than most Singaporeans. But who can blame them? They are part ang moh after all. (Some more the ones who are guys usually know they are very good-­looking—­aiyah, this is from years of sarong party girls thr
owing themselves at them. Even if they are not fully ang moh, for those SPGs with lower standards, half or quarter ang moh guys sometimes also can.) So I guess, at the end of the day, they do deserve that special treatment anyway.

  But that night Sean was quite nice to me—­probably because even though he and Albert kept trying to ask Leonard questions, Leonard only wanted to ask me questions. Before Albert’s bottle of Chivas appeared, Leonard already started interrogating. “So, Jazeline, what is it like to be a modern Singaporean woman?”

  Hah? What kind of nonsense question is that? When I first heard it, I felt quite blur. This kind of question, nobody has ever asked me before. Usually Albert’s guests mostly just want to flirt a bit with me, maybe touch my knee or elbow now and then, but the serious questions? Those they will only ask Albert. Why should they ask me? Everyone knows that guys are the ones who actually know these things.

  “Well . . .” I started to say, trying to smile and think at the same time. How to answer? Ask me where to eat the best chicken rice, which Hotel 81 is the cleanest for one hour or where to buy the best Vietnamese girls, these kinds of questions I confirm know what to say. But what it’s like to be Singaporean woman? Aiyoh. We’re all in a bar situation, you know—­it’s not an O-­level exam! I could see Sean turning his face to one side so Leonard and Albert couldn’t see it. I bet he was rolling his eyes. Kani nah.

  The truth is, even if I felt like I could speak honestly, I didn’t know how to explain everything—­or anything, really. How to tell him about a society where girls grow up watching their fathers have mistresses and second families on the side? Or one in which you find out one day that it is your mother who is the concubine and that you are the second family? A society that makes you say, when you are twelve or fourteen or seventeen, “No matter what, when I grow up, I am never going to be the woman that tolerates that!” But then you actually grow up and you look around, and the men who are all around you, the boys you grew up with, no matter how sweet or kind or promising they were, that somehow they have turned into the men that all our fathers were and still are. And you suddenly know what you have to accept—­that yes, no matter what you hoped for before, well, fuck, lumpar, kani nah etc., this cock road is just how my life is going to turn out also. Unless, unless . . . you can find your own way out to a different life.