The Last Harem

by George P. Saunders

  I was naive. Stupid, is perhaps a better word. The "dancing" gig turned out to be a "stripping" gig. I had never stripped before, in fact, considered it an alien practice performed by women with perfect behinds and shapely perky breasts (woman to woman, the perfect nightmare). But I was willing to give it a shot, based on my deplorable financial condition at the time. I imagined myself with a feathered boa, writhing creatively on a small stage, looking dewy-eyed, creating a sense of mystique with all my clothes on. Right. It turned out I was expected to do much more than this, and when this realization finally rammed its way home to me in Japan, I had a good hour-long cry. Still, the bloody decision had been made, and I was going to follow through on it. I would learn to strip, this first and last time, collect the money – and run.

  I signed no contracts for the Japan deal; everything was done word of mouth. The dance club where I would be working was in one of the southern islands. I will not mention its name, nor the name of the club. I am afraid of the Yakuza, the equivalent of the Japanese Mafia. I was informed that this particular club was Yakuza-managed.

  I was raped in Japan, three days after I arrived. It was at the club, on my third night of work. The first two days had been hell. Strip clubs in Japan are not like strip clubs in the United States. The men have no boundaries – each night when I danced, the pants on many of the Japanese men would be open, their equipment standing high and visible. The tips were good, but I knew that I would never be able to fulfill my thirty day oral contract with the club's owner. Furthermore, the attitude from the other dancers was intolerable. Drugs ran rampant in the strip circle and the viciousness among the girls was astounding. I made no friends in Japan, except one girl from Canada who was equally repulsed by her visit.

  That third night was my worst and last. I had been drinking. Too much (wouldn't you, under similar circumstances?!?). I was invited into one of the back rooms for a private lap dance, a $200, ten-minute operation wherein I would strip (topless only) wriggle away to bad Karaoke, then collect the cash and return to the main bar and dance area.

  Lap dancing, for those of you among the uninitiated (as I was at the beginning of my tour in Japan) is a one on one get-to-know you kind of dance wherein the girl basically struts and undulates in front of a customer on a chair, filling up her space with sexual innuendo and wild passionate gesticulations. Such movements and performances were part of fulfilling the customer's "fantasy" (whatever that fantasy might be and/or entail, no pun intended). Once the lap dance was finished, the customer would fork over anywhere from $20 to $100, depending on his level of satisfaction. Touching by a customer was ostensibly forbidden. Thus, a lap dancer was always assured of a sense of boundary and safety.

  I shall keep what happened to me next very brief, but with a warning that it is graphic and not for the faint of heart. I refuse to gloss over it for the sake of literary palatability.

  The men were both Japanese. One man wore a beard, and was around 28; the other was 35 or so and was clean-shaven. Both wore suits. I started my strip, teasing first with my thong, undulating back and forth, then finally removing my top. Standard operating procedure. Both men tried to shove dollar bills in my thong, at the same time trying to shove their fingers under the thong and into my crotch. I was able to glide away gracefully with each pass.

  Then something happened. Their mood changed. They became angry. The younger man, for no discernible reason, slapped me. I hit the son of a bitch back, and reached for my top. But then the older, bearded man grabbed my hair and jerked me toward him. The younger man suddenly ripped my thong down to my ankles. I tried to scream. A futile effort. The older man clamped my mouth shut.

  Suddenly, the younger man was inside me, from behind. Pumping, clawing at me. Again, I tried to scream, but all that came out was a strangled cry. The music was loud, I doubt anyone in the main bar area would have heard me anyway, or come to my assistance.

  I was slapped again. And again. A moment later, I noticed the older man holding my hair was masturbating in my face. When he climaxed, his ejaculation hit me in the eyes and cheek. A second later and the younger man behind me climaxed as well. I fell to the floor. I was kicked once, though by that time I was unsure of where I was and who was who.

  A moment later they were gone.

  I lay on the floor and sobbed. No one came to the back room for another five minutes; there was no blood, and aside from the foul issue encrusted on my face and in my hair from the older man's lust, there was little indication of violence. Later, I did not even see bruises on my face from the slapping. The rape, from a criminological perspective, could be described as perfect.

  I don't know if I reacted to the rape as typically as most women. I remember being fairly calm about it an hour later, though in my mind, repeatedly, I called myself stupid, stupid, stupid. It was all my fault. I had come to this country without contracts, without even a work visa. I came on a whim, with little regard for my own safety, believing (as most of us believe) that I would be fine, that I would be spared from any tragedy, simply because tragedy happened to other people.

  I told no one of the rape. I did not want to face law enforcement officials on this island, who might very well cause problems for me in ways I could only imagine. And of course, I did not inform the owners of the club for fear that the men who may have raped me, believed they could do so with impunity because of their association or membership with the Yakuza.

  I left on an airplane that night for Los Angeles.

  I did not seek counseling when I returned, though in retrospect, I should have done exactly that. I bore the brunt of my violation in tormented solitude.

  I did not celebrate Christmas that December.

  For the rest of my life, I will always say: I should have gone to Brunei instead...

  ***

  I did not tell my parents of the rape incident. Not for another year. In a way, I was hoping it would be erased from my memory, expelled from my consciousness like a bad dream that never really happened. Wishful thinking. I grew morose in December and early January; suicide, in my mind, was a very real option.

  I had myself tested for AIDS three times in thirty days. Of course, my results were negative each time, but this fact gave me very little comfort. Ten years from now, the virus could materialize.

  I stayed inside most of the time. Money wasn't coming in, rent was late, but I had little desire to do anything, except sleep and cry. I cried a lot in that first month after my return from Japan. That, and watch television.

  Gradually, I forced myself back into the world. I took up martial arts. Kenpo. A Japanese based fighting style. A pity I had not studied earlier.

  One day, I was watching a movie on USA television. It was a beach movie called, of all things, Beach Beverly Hills. The lead actor was a guy named George P. Saunders. I don't know what it was about him at the time – maybe it was the blue eyes, or because he was kind of funny in the film – but I wanted to meet him. My girlfriend, Rina, had also been in the movie; she offered to introduce us. Whenever the opportunity came up, that is. I knew this was a good sign: being raped did not forever more destroy my sex drive. I took this to mean I was healing. In fact, one never really heals from rape; ask any victim of such a crime. But one can recover, and that rate of recovery is decidedly individualistic.

  In February, 1995, George and I met at the American Film Market in Santa Monica, California. He was one of the writer-producer-actor-director types, so he had a couple of projects he was trying to sell there. I had just finished filming a movie called Vampirella. I was at the Market to help promote the movie. George and I met by the elevator; we talked (for around two hours) and agreed to get together for a drink some night.

  We met about a week later at a Beverly Hills watering hole. I think the bar was on Rodeo Drive, but I can't recall. Neither does George. Anyway, we hooked up for exactly fifteen minutes. He ordered a glass of wine and I ordered what I always order . . . champagne. The date was pretty quick, but it was the start
of something beautiful.

  We fell madly in love. Honestly, I never thought I'd fall in love with a guy like George. My boyfriends up to now had been older gentlemen; Tony Curtis, as mentioned, was forty years my senior – the oldest man I was ever involved with. As a side note, I never chose my men based on age or profession or financial status; it just seemed to me that the older men were generally kinder, and less self-involved.

  As with my parents, it was not until much later that I told George about Japan. I have no regrets on this decision.

  After the American Film Market, George went on to produce another movie – something he needed to shoot out on the ocean called Making Waves. The film had to be shot on two sailboats; George went out to sea for a few weeks – and I began to have my second conversation with my friends about a country called Brunei.

  ***

  Over the months, of course, I'd heard about Brunei – and about the Sultan. But it was all pretty sketchy stuff. The information was never really clear; it went more like this: There's this rich guy in Southeast Asia, and if you go visit him, you'll become a millionaire.

  Sure you would, I thought. Wonder what you have to do to get rich? But sooner or later, a few details came trickling my way, via other girlfriends or actresses I had worked with over the years.

  Finally, in the summer of 1995, after George had returned from his ocean movie, and was neck-high in post-production hell, I met the agent who would eventually be responsible for sending me to Brunei. Let's just call her Tamara.

  When Tamara and I first met, I think our conversation kind of went like this:

  "Wait a minute," I sputtered. "You're saying I get $22,500 a week. And all I have to do is show up at a party in an evening dress, be nice to the guests, drink expensive champagne, and that's it?"

  Tamara, the agent, was adamantly insistent: "Yep. That's it. Part of it, anyway. I've been sending girls over for years. That's all you have to do. Not only that, on your birthday, you automatically get $70,000. And you also get lots of jewelry. Just for being there. Just for looking beautiful."

  "No sex?" I asked. Japan loomed in my mind.

  Tamara just nodded "no." I remember now that she had never really articulated the word...

  "Nothing anal – or with animals?" I prodded. My imagination has always edged toward the lurid and frightening.

  Again the nod, with a comforting smile, translated as "no."

  I trusted Tamara – but I still had doubts. I continued asking questions, not only of Tamara, but of other girls who had gone to, and returned from, Brunei. Most of them were mysteriously silent on the subject. I did not understand the silence, but Tamara explained to me that the silence was more discretionary than evasive.

  The language of the contracts included a clause that all girls agreed never to speak of their experiences in Brunei. The clause was never a precondition to employment, and appeared more as a courtesy to the Sultanate's privacy. As already mentioned, of course, many of the girls through the years have indeed spoken out (sometimes with inflammatory accusations included). The vast majority, however, have simply chosen to remain silent and adhere to the clause absolutely. There has never been any legal response from the Sultanate against those individuals that have discussed their experiences in Brunei, no matter how shocking and maligning they may have appeared in print. I suppose this is so because to acknowledge these sensationalistic allegations would be to further add fuel to the press-hungry junket of tabloid global-dom. Basically, the Sultanate would just like to have all of this go away. Notwithstanding the Royal Family's notable inclination to not "fighting back" publicly, another reason for the silence by the majority of former "haremites" is no doubt because the girls felt that they would be labeled as prostitutes.

  "So there was prostitution," I countered to Tamara.

  Again, the infamous negative nod, free of sound and innuendo.

  "But that's the general perception most girls wish to avoid," Tamara added.

  When I eventually looked at the contracts, they seemed straight-forward and professional. And the figure of $22,500 again caught my eye. It was a lot of money. It was too much money to be ignored.

  I decided I would go to Brunei.

  I figured the worst thing that could happen is that someone would try to make a pass at me and I would kick him where it really counted and get on the first plane home. There would be no repeat of Japan.

  I told Tamara this.

  "Trust me," she said. "You're going to be fine..."

  I remembered a joke someone told me about Hollywood. It goes like this: What does a producer tell you when he's about to fuck you somehow?

  Answer: Trust me.

  I took a breath – and took a chance.

  I guess some of you reading this think either I was pretty dumb (again!), or I knew exactly what I was getting in to and didn't give a shit because of the money. If you think I knew better, and even assume that I happily flew to Southeast Asia to prostitute myself, well, sorry. I did no such thing. I signed some pretty legitimate looking contracts, with my agent present, and so I took a calculated risk.

  But of course you're asking the $22,500 question: Just what exactly did you have to do for all that money, Ms. Dorian?

  More than you think, less than you imagine. Let me further explain my reasons for accepting this most curious adventure...

  –

  ***

  When the 1995 American Film Market rolled around, I was in the middle of some pretty intense personal problems. First of all, my brother had been diagnosed with schizophrenia. He was being treated with lithium. I stayed up nights worried sick about him – wondering how I could personally help. My folks weren't rich by any means, and the continuing treatment and medication for his condition were quite costly. Needless to say, I was in no position to offer any kind of financial assistance. My most pressing charity - me - was dying on the vine where money was concerned. Not a great feeling, perhaps some of you have been there before...

  I was also trapped in an apartment paying too much money for rent. This contributed to my stress – especially since I had been unemployed for some time. I did a movie called Hard Bounty, but it was low budget, and the pay was pretty poor. I was quite frankly facing bankruptcy.

  I had agreed to promote The Wasp Woman for the director of the film; one of those favor things. I wasn't getting paid, but I figured if I helped out, maybe, down the line, I might get another part out of it in another one of the director's films. A calculated risk. One of many in Hollywood.

  Because the nature of the movie was generally sexual, i.e., I was running around naked, topless most of the time, my promotional costume for the Film Market was fittingly provocative. So, I wore a see-through blouse and extremely tight shorts; so did my girlfriend, Rina, my co-star, who had several years earlier co-starred in another movie, Sorceress.

  Personally, I hate the Film Market. The creepiest people in the world run around, lying to each other about how many films they've produced, how much money they've bankrolled, how much money they've raised, how many stars they have power lunches with daily and on and on. I don't pretend to be a sociologist, but I think the Film Market exemplifies all the bad things people think and hear about Hollywood. It's sleazy, plain and simple.

  So there I was, contributing to that sleaziness, walking around in a see-through bra and tight shorts, with my buttocks hanging out for the world at large to see. Oh, well. No hypocrite am I.

  As mentioned already, I met George at this particular market. He was working part-time at a law firm, while trying to finance, direct and peddle his movies. I actually saw him in some bigger things – he had a small role in the Hunt for Red October (credited as George Winston). Plus, I knew he had acted on Broadway some years earlier; he had even gone to Juilliard. Today, however, he admitted that he was so poor, he couldn't even pay attention. I thought that was funny – but in that moment, I made a note to myself never to get involved with someone like George. The money factor, honestly,
was an issue.

  I know that makes me sound a bit shallow, but, sorry, at the time, that's the way I felt. I was tired of being poor. If I had more money, I could help my family, help my brother, help all my friends. I had girlfriends at the time who were call girls, and who made a pretty decent living doing it, but I couldn't go there. It was not even a realistic option in my parochial way of seeing the world and making decisions.

  So, back to George. Nice guy, talented – poor. I thought we could be friends. We chatted some more in the suite, then he left, just as my friend, Janet, came in. She was a pretty blonde, recently returned from Southeast Asia. A little place called Brunei. By now, Brunei was no longer a stranger to me.

  Janet had stayed in Brunei for about four months, and had come back with a few hundred thousand dollars. Modeling, I asked, amazed and hopeful?

  Not exactly, she told me.

  She didn't go into details, but she did mention the Sultan – this really rich guy who paid a fortune to ship beautiful girls to his country to "party."

  "Call me," she said, "if you want more information... I'll hook you up with the agent who booked me the gig." Those were her exact words.

  So, the Film Market of 1995 marked a turning point in my life. I met a guy named George, who would become the greatest love of my life. And I had heard of Brunei – a place that would change my life forever!

  Just Folks, Really...

  I didn't hear about Brunei for another couple of months. I was busy in my new relationship with George, which was generally very enjoyable. If I had any complaints, it was that we didn't have a lot of time to spend with one another. He was in post-production on his film Intimate Deception – and in preparation for his sea movie, Making Waves, starring himself and Mickey Rooney, in mid-April. Still, we made do with the time we had. Gradually, I came to a realization: that I was falling in love.