Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  “Of course you don’t,” Tucker said to the Chinese guy. “Small limp dicks, tiny tongues. I can tell you right now, my friend—­you have definitely never made any woman come.”

  The whole table started laughing again—­even the two Chinese guys. And even Roy!

  “Now, just ask Vanida over here,” Tucker continued, putting his arm around Vanida, who was so skinny and small to begin with but looked even skinnier and smaller when she was mashed into his armpit. “Ask her how many times I make her come every night. What is it—­three times at least? Four times? You should hear her when she’s really going!”

  I didn’t know what to do. I looked at Vanida, still squeezed under Tucker’s arm. She was smiling a very small smile, her eyes looking downward, but she nodded anyway. Everyone started laughing even louder now.

  “Roy,” I whispered, squeezing his thigh under the table so he would stop laughing and listen to me for a minute. “This is not right.”

  Roy just looked at me a little apologetically, whispered the words “Not now” and kept laughing along.

  I waited for Tucker to release Vanida before taking out one of my business cards. Looking at what it said made me sad again: “New Times, assistant to the editor.” Would I have the same phone number on Monday? I didn’t even know. But at least this was a way to get ahold of me somehow. I must remember to tell the new girl to forward all messages to me in case Vanida calls. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if she did but surely there must be some way I can help her.

  I thought back to all the women I had come across just in the last two weeks—­the girls at the KTV lounges, having to flash bits of their ass, legs, more for lousy garlands from drunk businessmen, the China girls at Lunar having to put on that show night after night, the modern SPGs on the bar counter at Carlyle’s in their heels and little skirts, kicking up their feet for guys to enjoy. And then, Jazzy. The Jazzy who would never become an event planner now in all probability. The Jazzy who was getting shipped off to circulation on Monday like yesterday’s fish. The Jazzy who was pushed to invite Louis in. The Jazzy that Sean thought he could add to his sex-­toy harem. The Jazzy everyone liked having fun with and no one wanted to keep. Who would protect Jazzy now?

  “Vanida,” I said as quietly as I could while Tucker was telling his next story—­I couldn’t really hear but I’m sure it was about sex and his amazing cock. I saw Roy look at me whispering to Vanida, frown very nervously and then look away.

  “This is my business card,” I said. “If you ever need help, you can always call me. OK?”

  I wasn’t sure if she understood what I was trying to tell her but she took my card and looked at it for a long time.

  “What’s this?” Tucker asked, grabbing the card and looking at it closely. “Oh, New Times, eh? Exchanging business cards—­how cute. You want to keep in touch to swap blowjob tips or go shopping? Or are you one of those bleeding-­heart feminists in the media who actually thinks she can help whores like her?”

  No one was laughing now. Vanida actually pulled away from me and moved closer to Tucker, her small fingers holding on to his elbow.

  “I have to say,” Tucker said, chuckling a bit. “Singaporean women like you really crack me up. What do they call you—­‘sarong party girls’? You think you’re so great that you won’t date one of those losers sitting over there,” he added, pointing at the two Chinese guys at the far end.

  “You think only white guys deserve you. But please—­you and Vanida, the two of you are the exact same kind of girl. All you’re both after is more money, more power in your little world. And you’ll do anything to get it. And I’m the sleazy one?” Then he laughed a bit louder, tossed out a loud “Control your woman, Roy!” before giving Vanida a big loud kiss and going back to cutting his steak.

  Guniang here was tongue-­tied. But then I looked at Roy—­wasn’t he going to say something to defend me? Roy just gave me an embarrassed look and turned to the guy next to him, asking him to pass the asparagus.

  I looked at the plate in front of me. I had only eaten a few bites of steak—­it really was damn shiok lah, buttery and fatty fatty. And I hadn’t even tried the truffled mashed potatoes yet. But I slowly folded my stiff napkin and put it by my plate.

  “Mr. Tucker?” I said, leaning past Vanida, who quickly shrank back the moment she saw me moving toward her, as if I was going to try and talk to her again or some shit.

  “Thank you very much for this delicious dinner,” I said. “But I really have to go.”

  The whole room was quiet for only half of my long walk to the door.

  “Let the bitch go,” I heard Tucker loudly saying to Roy just before the door closed behind me. “We’ll find you ten better ones tonight—­the kind that knows the only acceptable time to open their mouths is when your cock comes out.” The last thing I heard was everyone starting to laugh again.

  I couldn’t even look at any of the waiters around me as I walked, all by myself, through the big restaurant. Did any of them see how that guy had grabbed me? All the things he had said? If they did, I’m sure they’d have a lot to gossip about. Kani nah! Now I really could never come back to Manhattan.

  Outside, I stopped by the escalator and decided to wait a bit. Maybe Roy was stunned in there and didn’t have time to react? And then maybe after I left he realized he was wrong and told Tucker off? If he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t stay. So, OK. I decided, let’s wait a bit.

  Guniang waited five minutes. Ten minutes. Then, OK. I guess, it’s just like that.

  As I got on the escalator down, I didn’t know how to feel. There was a jabbing pain in my chest; my heart. And I felt like crying—­but Jazzy cannot cry! Maybe I just really needed a hug. Maybe I needed someone who could cheer me up a bit, make me smile. So I took my phone out and texted Alistair: “Free tonight? Fauntleroy? ;)”

  He replied right away. “Wish I could, my dear. But the wife has booked us on a sudden weekend trip to Bali. Not sure why. Leaving first thing tomorrow. Text you when I’m back Monday?”

  Bali . . . I guess Sharon was taking my advice after all and was trying to mend things by booking a romantic holiday. Good for her. Good to see her trying—­trying to win her man back from the fucking slut who borrowed him.

  “OK,” I texted back. Even though I knew right then that I didn’t plan to see him again.

  chapter 20

  Saturday night. Again.

  I was feeling bloody bored.

  Whole day long I was damn quiet. I wanted to tell someone, to talk to someone, but I also didn’t know what to say. All these things—­everything that happened, where to begin? After that awful night at Manhattan, Roy had texted several times to apologize, saying that he had to be polite to Tucker, there was no way he could have said anything to contradict or embarrass him and hey, would I please just let him take me to a nice dinner—­a real dinner—­so he could explain? I didn’t even bother to respond. This kind of no-­balls loser—­worse than dating an Ah Beng, I tell you!

  That Saturday at home I was so quiet that even my mum started to worry—­she wondered why I didn’t go to the kopitiam to drink kopi and shake leg, why I didn’t go shopping with the girls, why I just sat in my room, not talking, not singing, not complaining at her when she burst into my room with her “Ah Huay!” nonsense.

  ­“People here are tired lah,” I said for the sixth time in the afternoon, pulling the blanket over my face again when she pushed it off to try to get me to sip her energizing lotus root soup.

  I could hear her standing there for quite a while, probably trying to think of something she could do or say, then very quietly leaving the room. She didn’t even slam the door as usual.

  To prevent her from making even more soup—­or worse, taking me to her Chinese doctor for acupuncture or some shit—­I figured I’d better get out of the house on Saturday night. If guniang actually stayed at home on Satu
rday night—­aiyoh, to my mum this confirm means that I am very sick, maybe even dying.

  “Tonight, Barracuda, usual time,” Louis texted us all at 7 P.M.

  At first, I thought, should I not go? I knew from Imo that Louis had been quite sweet with her this week. After sending her flowers that Sunday he even took her out for drinks one night after work to see if she was feeling better. (Fann and I asked her to pretend that she was still sick a bit, to see whether he might send more flowers or—­even more best—­buy her something that comes in a little blue box. But Imo, I tell you—­she was so happy she forgot how to play game. This toot girl—­my god, she really is his lapdog now. And Louis knows it.)

  But those were the only updates I got about Louis until his group text. I just hope things weren’t going to be awkward with him. I mean, yeah, what happened was a bit weird. But I’d already forgotten the whole thing. Or tried to. What’s the point in thinking about it? In the end, we’ve all been such good friends for so long—­what’s the point of making things weird over one small thing like that. Better to just pretend it never happened.

  Anyway, it’s good that Louis sent the first text—­if he is organizing, that means he confirm is coming. If he’s coming, then we not only have a good table but also free drinks all night.

  Even though we all know Louis’s “usual time” means he wants us to come at 11 P.M. but he actually arrives at midnight or one—­so that when he walks in like a superstar we’ve all already been sitting there for a long time waiting for him—­we all decided to meet at eleven. Because Melvin was at a stag night with his friends anyway so he wouldn’t be free tonight until much later, Fann agreed to come out. And Imo—­aiyah, anytime Louis is showing up anywhere, she confirm will want to be there on time.

  And me—­if I don’t go to Barracuda at eleven, where the fuck else do I have to go?

  When I got there at eleven though, I regretted being so on time. I should have known that even though the three of us decided to not be late, everyone would be late. Never mind lah—­I figured I’d start whacking Louis’s bottles first and all would be good. After last Saturday, if anybody deserves to drink his booze, it’s me, after all. So when the waiter asked, “Which bottle would you like us to bring out?” I just said, “The most expensive one. No, two. Yah, bring them both.”

  Guniang here is not usually the one mixing drinks for myself or other ­people, so when the bottles came, I didn’t know what amount to put in. I sometimes see Kelvin being damn toot, carefully measuring measuring to see whether the glass has two-­fingers-­high worth of liquor before adding the mixers. But aiyoh, guniang here was lazy lah. (Plus, I didn’t want to look toot.) So when the waiter brought out two bottles of Glenfiddich I just poured a little in a shot glass and did a bottoms up. Wah—­it felt like fire. Shiok! I did two of these fast then decided to sip the third with some ice.

  I was happily sitting there at Louis’s table, listening to that Coldplay song that everyone loves—­I don’t care who you are or what car you drive or who you are. Ah Bengs, ang mohs, atas bitches all jump up whenever they hear the song start and sing each line out loud loud type. Kani nah. All these fucking happy ­people. I decided to just close my eyes and listen to the song. OK lah, maybe life is not so bad after all.

  “Miss? Miss?”

  I opened my eyes. Aiyoh. Of course it was an Ah Beng—­his eyes all big big, hopeful hopeful type.

  “Fuck off,” I said, closing my eyes again.

  “Hi,” another voice said this time. “Here alone?”

  This time I started talking even before my eyes opened. “I said—­fuck off!”

  When I opened my eyes I realized it was actually quite a good-­looking ang moh trying to talk to me! Aiyoh! By the time I tried to say, “Wait, wait!” it was too late already. The guy was shaking his head as he walked away.

  At first I thought, Aiyoh, like that—­so wasted. But then I realized, even if I talked to the guy, maybe go home with him, maybe don’t go home with him tonight but we have a date later, and then another date, and another date—­in the end, is anything is actually going to happen? In the life of Jazeline Lim, let’s face it—­probably not.

  The moment I thought that, I tried to mentally slap myself. Aiyoh, Jazzy—­come on! Cannot be so negative. Somehow or other, must try to stay positive! Just then, Imo and Fann arrived, so this guniang’s mood improved a bit. And Kelvin and Andrew were right behind them. Andrew had even invited Kin Meng out and all. Wah—­tonight, really is a big night if the gang is all there! So I decided to just heck care everything. Focus on tonight! Especially since I was wearing something especially nice—­tonight I was in one of my new fake Herve Leger bandage dresses, which looks like I have tight red stretchy bandages wrapped all around my boobs, waist and backside. The waist looks smaller, boobs look bigger, backside—­aiyah, backside just the right size for making guys steam. Not bad!

  “Did you cut your hair or something?” Kin Meng asked when he air-­kissed me. “You look damn steam! My god, if I didn’t know you only like ang mohs I might try and get lucky with you tonight.”

  “And if you weren’t married, I might think you’re not a lecherous old man for saying that!” I said, pinching his cheeks and slapping his backside.

  Kin Meng look a bit shocked. I guess I’d never called him a lech before. (But hallo, truth is truth.) When he recovered a minute later, he gave me the third finger. I just blew a kiss at him.

  Fann had gotten the rest of Louis’s bottles from out of his locker and made a round of vodka sodas. “Come,” she said, passing one to each one of us. “Bottoms up!”

  After two rounds of this Louis finally showed up with three girls behind him. “Gang, this is Akiko, Emi and Naomi,” he said. “Ladies, this is the gang.”

  Until this point, Andrew was in a corner, flirting a bit with Fann while Imo was dancing with Kelvin and Kin Meng but trying to keep her distance, especially from Kelvin, who kept coming up from behind and grinding his socks crotch into her backside. But the moment the Japanese girls showed up, all three guys immediately moved over to talk to them instead. I tell you, Japanese girls—­the decent, nice ones, like not the ones you find in KTV lounges or one of those sleazy bars looking for a loaded husband type—­are like ganja for guys like Kin Meng and all.

  I still remember for Kelvin’s stag party a few years ago, Louis flew everyone to Tokyo for a last havoc weekend before the red bomb. They didn’t really want to talk much about it when they came back—­which made us all think, aiyoh, really serious things must have happened there. Every time we tried and bugged them to tell us about it Louis always stopped everyone from talking by saying, “Fellas—­what happens in Roppongi stays in Roppongi.”

  But since Kin Meng tells me everything because he’s just a big gossip, I knew what happened lah. Basically, every kind of Japanese girl they saw, they just tried to whack—­but they were very strategy about it. Louis went and did all this research to find out where the decent young chio Japanese girls like to hang out, then they went and pretended that they were just being tourists, want to get to know local girls, buy them lots of drinks—­and then aiyah, you know lah. I think they were quite successful—­Louis and Kin Meng know how to speak a bit of Japanese, since they often have to go to Tokyo for work and all. So they could automatically talk talk flirt flirt until the groups of chio nice girls were a bit more comfortable with all of them.

  For the guys in the group who were less successful—­they never said who exactly these were but I suspect Kelvin was one of those of course—­Louis also had a backup plan. He had a list of KTV-­like bars—­but with high-­quality local girls. So, worst comes to worst, everyone in the stag party also had someone to party with each night.

  I tell you, when I heard this, I wondered why I was so unlucky not to be born a guy! My life where got so easy—­having hot ­people to sleep with me just handed to me on a plate?

/>   Since the guys had disappeared, Imo and Fann both came back to the booth and sat next to me. Imo grabbed the Glenfiddich and poured three full shots, picking one up then pointing at the two of us to fasterly pick ours up.

  After we bottoms-­up, I was starting to feel quite happy. But Imo’s face was damn sour. She had poured a second round of shots for us but instead of downing it she was just sipping—­sipping and staring, sipping and staring. But no matter how hard she stared, Louis never looked over at her. I could hear Fann giggling now and then next to me.

  “Eh—­guniang, you possessed by love magic, is it? Whole life text­ing Melvin!” I said. “Can you pretend a bit that you actually like hanging out with us?”

  Now Fann was also sour-­faced, but at least she put away her phone.

  I regretted scolding her lah. I know I should be happy for her. And I’m sure she thinks that I’m just jealous or some shit. In fact, I think Imo was also thinking that I’m jealous of Louis and her lumpar bouquet of flowers. Which only made me feel like telling her, “Hallo—­he was only sending you flowers because he was feeling guilty for forcing your best friend to fuck him.” But then, when I think about it more, doesn’t the fact that he feels guilty mean that he’s maybe getting serious with Imo?

  I guess they were right perhaps. Maybe I am just not being a very good friend to them.

  “Eh, guniangs,” I said, grabbing the Glenfiddich and topping up all our glasses before holding mine up. “I think we should do a cheers.”

  Imo and Fann looked a bit confused. I guess they were still a bit unhappy, wondering what kind of cock thing I’m going to say to make them snap out of it. Even so, they followed me, picking up their glasses and all.