Bali Raw

by Malcolm Scott

  He hit the ground and I landed on top of him. My left hand found his throat and I drilled two hard punches into his pockmarked face. His lip split and his nose broke, blood sprayed up at me and he coughed but I hadn’t finished. I wanted Wade unconscious. I smacked Wade again then lifted my arm for the knockout blow but felt myself hefted up and backwards.

  At the time I did not know who had grabbed me and I struggled to free myself, but whoever held me had a professional grip like a policeman. They also happened to be very strong.

  My legs lifted off the ground. I writhed but could not break free.

  “Sorry mate, I can’t let you go further,” said a rich Aussie voice in my ear.

  I looked down at Wade and watched as he began to pick himself up. There were large splinters of wood all around—the remnants of the chair—and I was worried Wade would pick up a sharp piece of wood and use it against me. I kicked, squirmed and screamed and then suddenly the big Aussie that held me let me go.

  I hit the ground running and dove for a stake. When I had one in my hand I got up and tried to charge Wade with it. “I’ll fucking kill you,” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  Wade turned and started to run and I made to chase him. The big Aussie yanked me back and enclosed me in his arms. “Enough!” he said, forcefully.

  I watched Wade run down the road and away from me. The Aussie was right, it was enough. I knew that Wade wouldn’t be back.

  Fallen Angel

  I’m often asked by young male tourists whether as an old hand in Bali I can help them meet an Indonesian prostitute. I even helped a friend’s virgin nephew get himself a working girl one night. I saw this as community service—the guy was twenty-one years old and he had never had sex.

  Physically there was nothing wrong with Warren. He was handsome, and on the few occasions that I had spoken to him he’d come across as intelligent. To my mind he should have been bonking his twenty-one-year-old heart out, so I put his problem down to shyness.

  I was drinking with Warren and his uncle, Martin, one evening, and when Martin went to the toilet Warren asked if I could help him.

  “What’s up?” I asked, only too happy to help. Warren was a nice kid who was always polite.

  Warren took a quick glance around to make sure nobody was listening, then leaned across the table. “Can you help me meet a prostitute?” he asked shyly.

  I laughed. I was expecting the question. “No,” I said.

  Warren sat back in his chair and blushed. “OK,” he said.

  I felt sorry for him and motioned him forward. “Look, I can’t help you meet a prostitute but I will help you meet a working girl. It may not seem like it, but there is a bit of a difference.”

  Warrens face lit up, he took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he said, and smiled.

  I held up a hand and stopped him, “Not so fast, big fella. First you have to tell me why you want to meet a girl.”

  Warren looked around again to make sure nobody could hear—he almost climbed up the table to whisper to me. “I’m a virgin,” he said. “I came on this holiday to have sex, and I have tried since I got here, but I can’t meet girls. This is my last night and I go home tomorrow, can you please help?”

  Warren was desperate and I didn’t want him taking home some skank off the street so I decided to help. “You’ve come to the right place,” I said, and smiled.

  Warren’s uncle came out of the toilet. “Please don’t tell Uncle Martin,” he pleaded quickly.

  I winked at him, “I won’t say a word.”

  I cleared it with Martin at the very next opportunity and he was happy for me to help his nephew. He also swore not to let on that he knew. Martin made his excuses a short time later and disappeared and I took Warren to a little place that I knew.

  I found Warren a nice girl his own age and organised the price, which dropped dramatically when I mentioned he was a virgin. I also gave her a lecture about making Warren wear a condom. I then gave Warren a lecture about treating the girl with respect, and wearing a condom, and walked them back to Warren’s hotel room where I said goodbye and wished them a nice night.

  The next day, Warren thanked me profusely and again made me swear never to tell his uncle. He told me he’d had the most wonderful night, that the girl had stayed the whole evening, and that he’d given her a large tip before she left. Warren never found out that I had cleared it with his uncle first.

  (I know a woman that works six days a week in a laundry so that she can support her child. She is a single mother and there is no such thing as social security benefits in Indonesia. Every now and again when things are tight and she needs to buy schoolbooks or pay the rent or just buy something for herself, this woman goes out and meets a man. If I had to, and for want of a better term, I would classify this woman as a working girl, not a prostitute.)

  One night, several months after helping Warren, I struck up a conversation with a group of young Australians in a bar. While we were talking, one of the young guys, a good-looking twenty-two-year old, asked, “You’ve lived in Indonesia for a long time, can you tell me how I can meet an Indonesian prostitute?”

  The young Aussie guy, Luke, took me aback; he was a very good looking bloke in a young Brad Pitt kind of way. He was a fit and strong surfer type with white blonde hair down to his shoulders. He was the kind of guy you didn’t want to go to a nightclub with as he would take home the best-looking girl every time.

  Why he wanted to sleep with an Indonesian prostitute when he could have any girl he set his sights on was beyond me, so I posed the question to Luke and his friends. “Listen mate, and I’m not saying this in a gay way, but you could have any girl you want, you’re a good-looking bloke. Why the hell do you want to sleep with an Indonesian prostitute?”

  Luke laughed and I instantly liked the guy, he wasn’t big-headed, despite looking like a high school girl’s wet dream. “It’s just something I have always wanted to do,” he said, and smirked.

  One of Luke’s mates thumped him on the shoulder and joined the conversation. “It’s all he’s talked about since we arrived in Bali.”

  Luke turned and thumped his friend back. “Fuck off! It’s not all I’ve talked about,” he smiled, then laughed like Beavis and Butthead. “Well, yeah, most of the time.”

  I thought for a moment. Warren had been different, he was a virgin and he obviously needed help getting over the hurdle, but Luke was something else. He was confident, handsome and blonde. I knew that Indonesian girls, and Indonesian working girls alike, would throw themselves at him. There was something I was missing. Luke should not have needed my help. “OK,” I said warily, “I can do it, but first I need to ask what sort of girl you want to meet?”

  Luke smiled, showed me his perfect white teeth, and came out with the nasty truth. “The dirtier the better,” he replied, “I want the biggest, baddest, hooker in Bali.”

  The answer intrigued me and funnily enough I knew just the girl, but I didn’t mention this to him. “Why?” I asked, interested. “Why would you want that?”

  Luke shrugged he looked around to his mates for the answer, one of his friends shoved him, “Tell him what you told us,” he said.

  Luke turned back to me and smiled shyly. “It’s just what I’ve always wanted,” he said.

  “OK,” I said and paused, trying to give myself time to think. “If that’s what you want.”

  I looked to Luke’s mates for support. “Is he serious?” I asked, hoping one of them would tell me Luke was joking.

  Luke’s mates giggled, pushed each other playfully as they tried to answer first. “Yep,” two of them said in unison. “That’s how he likes ’em,” chimed another.

  I decided to give it one more shot for the sake of Luke’s future psyche. If Luke had have been ugly or shy I probably wouldn’t have bothered, but Luke looked like he’d just stepped out of a sunglasses add in a Rip Curl magazine and the girl I had in mind was a soul destroying demon that had been taught her craft in the dark hear
t of Sumatra by witches and gypsies. It wasn’t exactly a match made in heaven and I felt that I might be committing myself to the fires of hell if I allowed her to stick her claws into the young man’s character.

  Angel is about thirty and she is petite, pretty and poised. When a man arrives at her place of work she will take him by the hand and lead him demurely into the Promised Land. She will close the door, ask him to lie down and then she will disrobe. She will then step into her bath and shower and wash herself in full view.

  When Angel has finished her scrub she will render the john naked, clasp him by the hand, then lead him into her bath. She will then gently clean him down with warm soapy water and dry him with a fluffy towel. When bath time is over, Angel will take the customer to her bed and proceed to massage all his troubles away. And she is a wonderful masseuse. It’s hard to stay awake when she plays a symphony on your shoulders with her strong, sublime fingers.

  Angel will massage her client all over then sit astride his chest and ask softly in a sweet, demure voice whether he is OK. Her client will look up through hazy, sleepy eyes and see a beautiful Indonesian princess sitting naked astride his warm and oiled body. Then Angel will smile, lean down into his face and whisper, “Do you want more?”

  Angel’s client might hear the change in her voice … it will seem somehow huskier. He will look up to see her petite firm breasts hovering inches above his chest and he’ll reply with his voice choking on the words, “Yes, I want more.”

  Then all hell breaks loose.

  Angel was a legend in Bali, I kept hearing her name but nobody would tell me anything. I would ask about Angel, and the only reply I would receive was a knowing smile, or a, “If you haven’t been there, you will never know” comment. One night I bit the bullet and went to visit Angel. I have never been the same since.

  Unfortunately, except for what I have just written, I cannot divulge any more. I will, however, say this. When you leave after a visit with Angel, your legs seem hollow and it is a chore to walk, a smile is plastered to your face, and the world seems a better place. When you reach home, your night’s dreams are filled with jasmine smoke, hot sex flashes and visions of Angel riding you hard like a woman riding a stallion in a storm.

  Angel was an experience, a happening, an initiation and a rite of passage, she was an earthquake wrapped up in a five-foot-two body.

  Angel was Heaven sent, ethereal and brutally sexual; she was an athletic contortionist with zero inhibition.

  That’s about the best I can do, but a better description would be: Angel is a fallen Angel.

  This was where I took the young Australian that night.

  Angel greeted me at her door like an old friend, she went to kiss me on the lips but I turned my head and offered my cheek. It was not a wise thing to let the baddest hooker in Bali kiss you on the lips; you never know where that mouth has been.

  I introduced Angel to the young Australian and she seemed pleased. I felt like a man handing a virgin to a vampire. Angel took Luke by the hand and led him down the passageway.

  “Angel, go easy on him please,” I blurted.

  She ignored me and, smiling, she gently guided the young boy through her bedroom door. At the last moment Angel turned, gave me a wink, and my heart sank.

  I turned to the young man’s friends and shook my head. “He will never be the same again,” I said sadly.

  Luke’s friends looked at me like I was some sort of weirdo so to change the mood a little I clapped my hands together and said. “Right then, now that’s done, let’s go get a massage and a hand job.”

  The boy’s jaws dropped. “Where?” they asked.

  “Why, it’s just across the street,” I said happily.

  I walked the boys through the whole happy ending experience offered in Bali. It really isn’t that complicated: you choose a girl, she gives you a massage, and then she makes a sly gesture at your crotch and asks, “You want?”

  If you say you do, she will then negotiate a price.

  You should always let her say her price first and know that it will be exorbitant, then give her your own price, she will try and get the price up by telling you happy endings are not allowed in the massage parlour. This is generally a lie, but they all say it and you have to be careful as some places in Bali do not give happy endings. The simple rule is, if she offers, then she is allowed.

  Negotiate the price, get the job done, take a warm shower and be on your way.

  I explained all this to the boys in a flash and we organised to meet about an hour later so we could pick up Luke. I had a massage and then I sat in the lounge and waited for the young Aussie guys to come down.

  Happy ending massage joints are great opportunities for avid people-watchers like me. The girls in these places are quite diverse and they generally fit into three categories.

  The first are young women that do not want to sell themselves fully into prostitution; these women come to the big city and look for proper work but they need to survive while they are job hunting.

  The next group seems to be women that have just come down from Java seeking work but they are not confident enough with their English skills to find a job or to work the clubs. They work in these massage joints to earn a little money so they can support themselves and their child—a lot of these women have given birth recently and been dumped by their Javanese boyfriends—they hope to learn English and/or meet a Westerner to marry.

  The third group is generally made up of married woman who are seeking a little extra cash on the side. I have no idea if their husbands know what they do during the day but it wouldn’t surprise me if they did.

  The clientele is not as diverse as one may think and it’s probably made up more of Indonesians than Westerners. The Indonesians that visit these places appear mostly to be middle-aged, middle-class, married men seeking a little release and freedom after work. The practise is definitely Asian, and although, at first glance it may not seem like it, I’m inclined to think it has a justifiable purpose. The places are generally clean, they are well organised and the massages are genuine. For a married man they offer an opportunity for release that does not involve prostitutes, affairs, or the chance of catching an STD.

  One by one the young Aussie guys descended the steps of the massage joint. I was pleased when they all walked down the steps holding the hands of the respective masseurs—I remember thinking it was really cute.

  The boys and I crossed the road to rescue their mate from Angel’s evil clutches. When Luke walked out of the front door of Angel’s Den of Iniquity he was a devastating sight. He grinned from ear to ear, walked with a shuffling gait, his belt was open and hung down and his shirt was on backwards. He raised his hand in a gesture of greeting and mumbled a weak, “Hi guys.”

  I felt terrible, Luke had become a shell of his former self, and he looked like someone had sucked out his soul. I knew the symptoms well enough but feared one so young would not survive a session with Angel.

  Luke’s mates carried him to his motorbike; they placed him on the seat and set his hands on the handlebars. He looked like a drunk from a Seventies cartoon and I was worried that he would not be able to ride. We drove sedately back to the pub where we had first met.

  By the time we had arrived at the pub Luke had perked up somewhat. He thanked me, bought me a beer and we all sat down to compare notes.

  First I asked him if he was OK and he assured me he was. Next I asked, “How did it go?” Luke looked me squarely in the eyes and I could see they now sparkled with the knowledge of ages, a knowledge only received by those who have experienced Angel. I could see that Luke had come of age.

  I felt a little sad at the innocence lost but I also felt proud of my young Jedi. He had stepped bravely into the lions den, he had walked in the valley of the shadow of death, and although he seemed a little exhausted, he had survived and remained intact. Luke said one word and I believe it summed up his experience completely.

  “Wow!” he said, and then he shook
his head and took a sip of his

  beer. “Wow!”

  I was unsure if I had done the right thing but I nodded knowingly.

  From The Mouths of Babes

  Strange things happen in Bali. This morning I received a phone call from a panicky prostitute. She woke me up at five o’clock so she could ask for my help. The phone call was from a girl named Lita. She knows Fish, and she knows that Fish and I are friends.

  Lita was leaving a nightclub with a client when she noticed the security guards were surrounding somebody lying on the floor. When Lita went over to investigate she found Fish passed out drunk at their feet. She asked the security if there was a problem. They looked down at Fish and asked, “Do you know this man?”

  Lita told the security that she did. “Good,” said the security, “then he is your problem. Take him home, we want to close up.”

  Lita tried to wake Fish but she couldn’t. She asked her client if he would help carry Fish from the nightclub. The client declined to help; he did not want to get involved. He tried to drag Lita away but she refused to leave Fish to the mercy of the security and eventually the client became angry and left. Lita went back to the security and pleaded for help. After a lot of begging she managed to enlist one of them to help her carry Fish outside the club.

  Once outside she realised she could not leave Fish asleep on the side of the road and so she hailed a taxi. Lita and the security guard pushed Fish into the back seat of the car but Lita had a problem, she had no money to pay the driver. She went through Fish’s pockets and found no money, but she did find his phone. She trawled through Fish’s numbers and found mine.

  I woke up after the second call, picked up the phone, and heard a distressed sounding Lita on the other end. “Mal my name Lita, I friend Fish. I think we meet before ya?”

  I did remember Lita. Fish had introduced her about a month earlier and mentioned that she was more of a friend than a prostitute to him.