Tinkerbelle’s owners must have decided it would be a good thing to let their dog stroll about the streets of Kuta at 3 am every morning and Tinkerbelle, God bless her, decided that my street and specifically the front of my apartment was the perfect place to hang out.
I must have complained about Tinkerbelle a lot in those days and one night, during a drinking session with my brother Billy and his wife, Tinkerbelle happened to stroll past with her huge bell. Ever protective, my brother’s Indonesian wife turned to me and asked, “Is that Tinkerbelle?”
Thinking little of the question I replied that it was and went back to my conversation. I failed to notice my brother’s wife pick up the air rifle that I had in my room, or the handful of bullets, and step outside. What I did notice, however, was Tinkerbelle’s yelps of pain and the little white dog’s bell ringing frantically.
“What the fuck?” I said to Billy, and we raced outside to see what was going on.
We saw Billy’s wife chase the little dog down the street. She stopped and raised the rifle to her shoulder, fired a couple of shots into the poor dog, then followed in hot pursuit. Poor Tinkerbelle took two shots in the side, she yelped then dodged left and right. Billy’s wife stopped, took aim and fired again—she scored another direct hit.
Tinkerbelle finally escaped and Billy’s wife marched back to where we stood with the air rifle over her shoulder. “I shot that Tinkerbelle,” she said with an air of pride.
“Thank you,” I said, slightly bewildered by what I had witnessed. I hated the dog but I didn’t want to kill it. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
My brother’s wife walked back inside, placed the rifle down as though she had just returned from an African safari and announced: “That fucking Tinkerbelle was disturbing my brother, so I shot it.”
I’m not sure if my brother’s wife killed Tinkerbelle but the little dog never disturbed me again.
I also learned a valuable lesson: do not get an Indonesian woman angry. Cute and fluffy or not, they will shoot you.
Losing Helmets
In Bali there is a grey area between prostitution and girls who want a fun time and sometimes ask for money. Not all the Indonesian girls who party at nightclubs are prostitutes, despite the fact that they will sometimes ask for money, drinks or to be taken shopping. An Indonesian girl who cannot afford the entry fee or who doesn’t have monery for drinks or clothes may ask for money or some form of payment if she thinks a man wants to date her or sleep with her. She will see this as a normal and if the man refuses she will see him as tight.
She may not see this as full prostitution; after all, she wants what any Western girl takes for granted: to be able to go out with her friends, dance and have fun, and eventually to meet someone she can form a relationship with. This took me a long time to learn and for most Western men it is a hard concept to grasp, but as with most forms of generalisation the reality rests with the individual.
Traditionally, Indonesian women are taught that it is the woman’s role to look after the man when it comes to home life and it’s the man’s role to look after the woman financially. Indonesian girls are paid very little money and they are expected to work very long hours; six days a week and twelve-hour shifts are the norm and many a young Indonesian girl has rotted her life away slogging it out for one hundred Australian dollars a month in a mini mart. She can’t afford to go out and she is too tired to go out. All Indonesian girls are expected to send at least part of the money they earn back to their family, what is so bad about the man she is willing to give her body to, if not her heart, helping out a bit, especially if he is a rich Westerner?
Naturally there are also many Indonesian women who will not sleep with a man unless there is some kind of attraction, even if the man is willing to pay a lot of money. Western women take into account a man’s prospects, so do Indonesian women; make no mistake there are Indonesian girls who are picky when it comes to Westerners they date and/or sleep with. They may not ask for money up front but a lot will come down to the man’s earning potential, which also rings true of Western women.
Many Western men find it confusing, but there are Indonesian women who accept money or gifts because they need to, or the opportunity is there. However, these women take care of their men wonderfully and they remain faithful. This may sound contradictory to what I wrote in the first chapter but Ankle’s girlfriend was, it seems, a professional prostitute, and there is a distinction—the trick for men who take out Indonesian women from bars in Bali is to identify the difference.
It is my experience that a lot of relationships between Indonesian bargirls and their Western partners do not work. That said, when both parties take time to understand the cultural differences, some of them do. The first time I took an Indonesian girl home from a bar I was incredibly green about how things worked—not the sex side of it, that was easy—Indonesian women enjoy sex and they tend to be eager and willing partners, the problem is the idea of payment.
When I first arrived in Bali I came to think of it as The Land of Broken Men and I wasn’t impressed. There were all these old guys who would sit in the pub all day, and they would crow about the twenty-year-old girl that they had slept with the night before. There was a boast to these conversations that didn’t make sense to me. How could you brag about a woman you paid for, why would you want to? I had a hard time being subjected to these conversations and I would inevitably shut them down.
Morally it didn’t appeal and as a sort of rebellion I became adamant that if I was going to take a woman home it would involve no exchange of sex for money. This was a naive way of thinking, as I would learn after I had lived in Bali for some time.
Unfortunately for me I am not the prettiest kid on the block and at this stage I lived in a dog box and rode around on a decrepit old motorbike. These are three very big strikes if you live in Indonesia and want to meet women.
Like most women, Indonesian women have a set of standards a man must comply with if they want to share their company: young and handsome is one, a good heart is another, but at the top of the tree is wealth and/or prospects. I would like to think I have a good heart, but unfortunately for me Meat Loaf never released a song entitled “One out of Three Ain’t Bad”.
I struggled. Quite simply, I did not want to pay and I could not afford to pay.
I found myself with a bit of a problem; everyone perceived me to be a rich businessman but I never spent money and I often found myself being referred to as pelit. This means “skinny” in Indonesian and it refers to someone who is a tight arse. Despite this, I did achieve success in this endeavour a couple of months after I arrived.
One night I happened to be sitting in a bar with a mate when two gorgeous Indonesian girls walked in and sat across from us. My mate was in a relationship at the time so he wasn’t interested. I on the other hand was chaffing at the bit, I had been trying my no cash policy for a while and wasn’t having a great deal of success.
The girl I was checking out was incredibly beautiful; she had high cheek bones, a slim body and long silky black hair. She looked about twenty-seven—I was thirty-six—and as these things tend to go I started giving her the eye and she returned the favour. Things went on like this for a while until finally she said hello.
The girl and I were sitting a few metres apart, either side of a horseshoe-shaped bar, so the greeting was yelled across the open space between us.
I am a little shy when it comes to chatting up women. I can hold a conversation with anyone unless it is a girl I would like to sleep with … put a pretty face in front of me and I clam up like an imbecile. I smiled, waved and said hello, then I went back to talking with my friend, anything to save me from having to sustain a conversation.
Again the girl took the lead. She introduced herself and her friend and then asked for my name. Being shy and afraid to talk, I called the barman over and passed him my phone with my number displayed. I then asked him to give it to the girl. My ploy worked. As soon as the barman re
turned my phone, the girl sent a message.
I felt I’d been very clever, I’d received the girl’s number and I didn’t have to say anything stupid. Now I could hold a conversation by text—a cop-out but also a great way to go for someone with a tendency to become lost for words.
I sent the girl a text with my name and I added one of those stupid smiley faces. Cool, right? I then carried on the conversation I was having with my friend. I ignored the girl for a while, long enough to feel she’d given up on me, then with little choice I screwed up my courage and I sent her a message asking if we could meet up later. Then I promptly got up and left the bar in case the girl wanted to talk!
The girl sent me a text half an hour later asking what I was up to. By this stage I had on a bit of a glow and I decided to try a little experiment. I don’t know why I did this, maybe it was in the hope that the girl would get fed up and look elsewhere, but whenever the girl sent me a text, I would reply first with over-the-top kindness. “You’re so beautiful, I can’t wait to meet you.” Then with the next text I would reply with over-the-top malice. “You’re a working girl, I don’t want anything to do with you.”
This went on most of the night and surprisingly enough it worked—at the end of the evening the girl sent me a text that said she wanted to catch up. I sent the girl a message and told her to meet me at the pub where we’d met and I said that she was to jump on the back of my bike and that I didn’t want to talk. I added that I would be taking her home and I wasn’t going to pay for sex. The girl agreed.
I picked her up at the designated place and true to her word she jumped onto my bike without a word; we then rode to my place in silence.
The girl was beautiful and the sex was great. I was over the moon and very proud of my cunning plan. That was until her phone rang during an intense bout of lovemaking. She picked up her phone, looked at the number, motioned me to be quiet and answered.
The one-way conversation went something like this.
“Hello sayang.”
“I miss you baby.”
“Nothing baby, I’m just at home and about to go to sleep. I hope I dream of you darling.”
“I love you so much baby.”
The woman I was in the middle of having sex with was now whispering I love you to her boyfriend—talk about women multi-tasking. The conversation with the boyfriend went on for three or four minutes and I started to get bored. The girl happened to be sitting astride me and her titties were spectacular, but it’s hard to stay focused when the women you’re fucking is whispering sweet nothings to another man. I decided that even if her mind wasn’t in it, I would go ahead and finish without her. I felt sorry for her boyfriend but I couldn’t really pull out and un-fuck her.
However, I did have a plan. I decided I would finish what I had started but keep my conscience intact by concluding with a massive orgasmic groan. I hoped this would warn the boyfriend that his woman may not be totally kosher. I did my best to ignore the girl’s conversation and I started to move rhythmically inside her, faster and faster.
This girl was talented, she didn’t miss a beat. She placed a finger on my lips and warned me to remain quiet then she rode me like a rodeo queen without pause in her conversation. “Yes of course I love you baby, I will always be faithful to you.”
She was a pro. Despite my best efforts, she managed to keep her voice composed and detached from what was happening beneath her. She also managed to see through my less-than-devious plan. Just as I was about to groan with pleasure she wound up her conversation. “OK, baby, I have to go now, this is costing you too much money. I’m tired, I love you baby, dream of me, goodbye.”
Despite the setback I did manage to hold up my bargain to the brotherhood and moaned like a pornstar. Unfortunately I doubted my groan reached the ears of her boyfriend in England. The girl then hit me with her coup de grâce: she looked down at me, gave me her sweetest butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth smile and asked, “Do you think I’m stupid?”
This was actually the first conversation we’d had all night and I have to admit I felt somewhat beaten. “No,” I replied limply, and then took the only revenge I could manage. I pushed her off me and promptly feel asleep.
When morning arrived, I was happy to see that my companion had stuck around and I was thinking we might go at it again but she had other ideas.
“Good morning,” I said, and reached for her.
The girl pulled away. “Do you have money for me?”
I did my best to look surprised but the evening’s phone call had allowed me a glimpse into her personality and I can’t say that I was too shocked by the question. “I’m sorry sweetheart, but that wasn’t the contract.”
The girl pushed herself out of my bed and rolled to her feet. She then placed her hands on her fabulous naked hips. “Yes, but last night I was drunk and I thought you were handsome. Now I can see that you are ugly, you must give me money.”
Not great for the ego, but brutality honest in true Indonesian fashion. Suffice to say, I didn’t want to give her money after she had called me ugly, so I pulled up my blanket to cover my bruised ego. I placed an elbow on my pillow and, head in my hand, I did my best to look less ugly and replied. “But darling, you said no charge, you can’t change the contract now.”
The girl stamped a foot and everything jiggled. I don’t know if she did this on purpose but the effect was somewhat moving.
“You must pay!” she hollered. “I have sex with you and I not like.”
I felt like I had been doused with cold water and I realised morning sex was out of the question, she didn’t seem up for it. Besides, being told I was ugly and bad in bed was not exactly a great aphrodisiac. I did however feel that the evening’s activities should not be charged for. Business was business and the girl and I had made a verbal contract. “I’m sorry darling, but I will not give you money. Last night you say free, cannot change now.”
She didn’t look happy but to her credit she took it on the chin. She reached down to gather her clothes and started to pull them on. “OK, fuck you, I will go. Don’t contact me again you fucking pelit ugly man. You fucking bad sex man!”
I watched her get dressed and felt a little hard done by. Unfortunately there was little I could do other than watch her tuck her beautiful body away. She collected her things and made to leave my room, but paused long enough to deliver another expletive and a few garbled Indonesian words, and then she stepped outside and slammed the door.
I found out later that she stole my motorbike helmet as payment.
I met her again about a month later. I happened to be riding down Legian Street when I noticed her walking alone. She noticed me too, flagged me down and, with no prompting on my part, she jumped on the back of my motorbike.
“Take me to your home,” she demanded. I obeyed. The girl was stunning and maybe she had lied when she called me ugly and bad in bed.
Once inside, she dispensed with the niceties. “I need money, give me one hundred thousand and I will fuck you.”
This was approximately ten Australian dollars, and it was cheap for a working girl in Bali. Had I known this at the time I may have taken her up on the offer. Unfortunately, I was probably still smarting from the ugly comment and the girl’s demanding tone annoyed me. I don’t like being told what to do.
“I don’t pay,” I told her.
She gave me a knowing smile. “Yes,” she said “I think you will.” She then took off all her clothes, lay down on my bed and, completely naked, stretched out gloriously in front of me. “I think you will pay me now,” she purred.
I was green and still adamant that I wasn’t going to pay for sex. This would all change in the not-too-distant future, but at the time it was how I felt. Besides, this woman had stolen my motorbike helmet and called me ugly. I wasn’t going to be told that I had to give her money to have sex. I stood my ground and held onto my principles, then said the only thing I could think of to wound her. “You’re not so beautiful,” I declared,
despite the fact that my eyes were devouring her lovely form.
The girl laughed at me and turned on her side. “You think?” she asked and smiled impishly. I knew I was beaten and had to change tack. I wracked my brain for a witty comeback. “Besides, you stole from me last time, why would I pay you this time?”
The girl covered herself with my pillow and gave me a wicked smile. “Your helmet was shit, why would I steal it?” I wanted to point out that she would only know my helmet was shit if she had in fact stolen it but it’s not easy to argue with a beautiful naked woman.
“If you need money, why don’t you call your boyfriend?” I shot back at her. I hoped this would cause her to have a yes-I have-a-boyfriend-I-shouldn’t-have-lied-to-you-I-should-fuck-you-for-free kind of reaction, but it wasn’t to be. She reached over and pulled out her phone. “OK, I will call him,” she said. She held a finger to her lips, “Be quiet, OK?”
“Hello darling, can you help me?”
I couldn’t believe it. A month had passed and here I was with the same naked woman in my bed speaking to her boyfriend. This time I was adamant that I would send him a message.
I coughed. The girl shot me a foul look and said, “Yes of course darling, I miss you so much.” I banged a glass down on the sink. She ignored me and giggled into the phone. “Yes baby, I also can’t wait to see you.” I opened a cupboard door and slammed it. The girl scowled at me. “No darling, I’m with my sister.” I went into the toilet and pissed loudly, then flushed. From the bathroom I heard the girl plead poverty. “I have no money darling, I cannot eat.” I walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer and sat down next to her. I then cracked the top of the Bintang, took a long swig and belched. The girl snarled silently then stood up and walked to the other side of the room, opened my curtains and looked outside. “I need some money, baby,” she said. She was still naked and the light from the open window embraced her, making her look devastatingly sexy. I had had enough. I put my beer down and let rip a fart so loud that it could not possibly have emanated from her imaginary sister.
Bali Raw Page 3
