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While at the cafe you can pick any chair at a table you want. I usually pick a seat in a quiet area. Once you've seated a waiter will come to take your order. You can choose to eat as many as you want, read a newspaper, have a smoke, snooze on the reclining chairs, whatever. The captains don't rush you and you can always take your time and relax. That's what I love about these places! Hell, you can even head back up for another round in the sauna room. You can pretty much do whatever you want in whatever order you choose.
When you're good and ready you can ask to see the ladies available. In Bond Spa you have a choice of China girls, Thai, Vietnam and even a Malay ladies. Chinese girls make up the bulk of their line up which is true of every health spas in KL. Most of the ladies arrive around 8pm though but from my experience you can still find a good selection anywhere from late afternoon to early evening.
Now if you're the kind of guy that can go 2, 3 or more rounds, Bond Spa's pricing structure is quite easy. The base price for spa and time with 1 hooker is RM 238. So let's say you've just had sex with your first hooker and you decide head back to the sauna again.
And you feel like you're up for choosing another girl. All you have to do is pay RM 198 for each additional lady.
When you're good and ready to leave you head back down to the locker room and tell the attendant you want to check out. He'll help you open your locker plus inform the front reception you're leaving and while you're getting dressed they'll take the time to calculate your total. And that's all.
It is quite straightforward and as a first timer it may seem awkward. But as you go more often you will be like a pro!
E2 Spa Club and Sauna in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia.
Address: Wisma Mpl, Jalan Raja Chulan, Kuala Lumpur, Wilayah Persekutuan Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
The body to body massage takes place in a larger shower on a rubber inflatable mat. Full on sex is followed on a bed.
I've tried the Dragon Package at E2 Spa near the end of my stay in Malaysia. And at that moment it wasn't all that exciting maybe because my testosterone level was quite low. I'm sure the experience might've been much more pleasurable if I didn't have so much sex during my time in KL. But at least my Chinese massage girl did a great job to please.
Other key differences between E2 Spa and Bond Spa is there are no safety deposit boxes at E2 which I think really isn't that all important. Though there are lockers where you also get an electronic locker key. You will also need the attendants electronic locker key to open your locker. You also have to write down a password on an etch a sketch pad so when the locker is opened, the attendant will ask you what your password is.
Service wise everything else is the same as Bond Spa. You relax, eat, choose a lady and pay at the end. But if you're only there for having sex with one of E2's ladies then you pay up front.
I crush a piece of toast layered with kaya and butter between my teeth. ‘What’s their age range?’
He laughs, exposing a red throat and uncountable white teeth. ‘Mostly forties and fifties. A few are younger, in their thirties.’
‘Are they local women or foreigners?’
‘Mainly local, a few are female tourists travelling alone.’
‘Their marital status?’ I sweep tiny toast crumbs with my palm to the floor.
‘Married mostly, but husbands too busy to satisfy them or already impotent.’
‘Ever met with any trouble with a client’s husband?’
‘Touch wood, never. The closest was a mobile call when my client and I were being intimate. Her handphone was on the bedside table. When she saw who the caller was on the screen, she leapt up from the bed and asked me to switch off the TV. She rushed to the bathroom to answer the call.’
‘Do you practise safe sex?’
‘Of course. I always use condoms and dental dams.’
‘Where do you meet your clients?’
‘Local women often meet me in hotel restaurants. Outskirt areas like Puchong, Cheras, Kepong, Damansara Permai. You see, discretion is important to them. That’s when they evaluate me. They’d ask questions about my services. We also chit-chat a bit to see if she likes my personality. If a deal’s not possible, she pays for my taxi fare. Occasionally, a few clients who are travelling alone on business or holiday will stay in the city centre. But these are often outstation clients.’
‘How many customers do you see per week?’
‘Business is quite irregular. On certain months, I get three or four clients. Sometimes, none at all.’
Jeannie takes a sip of water from a tulip glass, leaving a lipstick stain on its edge. ‘Unbelievable, but it’s true.’ Charles and Candy, hands entangled, appear at the side of our table. ‘Hey, sit down and talk to my friend. He’s writing a book.’
Candy looks at her Cartier watch. ‘Actually, we only have fifteen minutes more before our time’s up. But the driver says he’ll be late. Traffic’s real bad.’ Charles pulls a chair out for her and they both sit down. ‘We can talk until he arrives,’ Candy says. She raises her hand to catch a waiter’s attention, and she and Charles order fruit juice.
I dunk the bag of Darjeeling tea in the cup a few times, and ask, ‘Candy, what kind of family do you come from? Strict? Lenient?’
‘My Papa was strict. He was a restaurant owner and also its cook. He only cared about me getting good grades, and disallowed all extra-curricular activities and late nights. I hated my childhood. I was not interested in studies, and had ambitions to be a singer, actress and model.’
‘Have you ever fallen in love with a regular client?’
‘Most clients fall in love with me instead of the other way round. Somehow, they don’t realize I’m just like an actress. One man told me personal things about his family and work. Then he showed me his I.C. and asked to be friends with me. It almost made me laugh.’
‘How long have you been in this line?’
She sips her watermelon juice. ‘Three years.’
‘What’s the ideal client like for you?’
‘Someone who’s well-groomed, polite and smells good. Strictly business, doesn’t ask for my personal phone number or about my private life.’
‘And what type of clients do you dislike?’
‘I hate a man who doesn’t respect my time and rates. The kind who’ll try to bargain for a discount or persuade me to stay a little longer in his room.’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
Address of Genesis Health Club: 10 Floor, Menara Genesis, No.33, Jalan Sultan Ismail, Kuala Lumpur
Chinese girls will set you back RM 268 for 45 minutes and you get 1 shot. They have Vietnam girls too which cost RM 198. I think there were other girls from Southeast Asia but I can't remember which.
But these girls provide Dragon Massage which is a KL term but basically means body to body massage at a shower room.
Just to mention the second time I was went to Genesis I didn't go for the spa option. Which meant I wore the clothes on my back and whatever I had in my pocket like my wallet. After getting dress the Chinese girl I picked as me for tips. I told her sorry I didn't have enough cash. She wasn't upset and even if she was I couldn't care any less. It wasn't that the service was bad but it wasn't extraordinary too and I wasn't planning on seeing her again. That's just the way I roll.
Genesis has some very friendly waiters too and they do have a decent menu for guests to enjoy. But their menu is not as big as their major competitors Bond Spa and E2 Spa.
From the couple of times I've been to Genesis I noticed this is the place where I see the most non locals coming in and out. I suppose because it's one of the easiest body to body massage shops to find in KL.
‘Which type of hostess is the most important?’ I flip to a new page in my notepad.
‘All three types of hostesses are important.’ She picks up a plastic letter-opener from a silver mesh pencil holder and toys with it absently. ‘The "girlfriend" hostesses lure in the average customer for repeat business; the "model" hostess is more compatible with upscale customers for business entertainment; and the "playmate" hostess is ideal for fun, jokes and laughter, she’s always a hit with younger clients.’
‘Why do some men want to date hostesses?’
‘Some want them as their girlfriends for whatever reasons. Others want to keep them as a mistress. Still others want sex outside working hours. As most hostesses are not prostitutes, the only way to sleep with them is to know them better. You know, develop a personal friendship with them.’
‘What advice would you give to a man who wants to court a hostess?’
‘Certain behaviour will help a customer succeed with a hostess. First, he must be honest about his job, marital status and financial standing. He must not brag about money unless he’s prepared to back it up with action. While chatting with a hostess, he should also never say bad things about his family. He should tell her how much he cares for them but he’s in a nightclub just to relax over a couple of drinks. Know what I mean?’ She wags a finger. ‘A bachelor shouldn’t boast about the number of girlfriends he has. A man who’s perceived as stable and reliable by the hostess stands a better chance of earning her respect and developing a long-term friendship. I’d also advise customers not to crack vulgar jokes.’
‘It’s best to be honest instead of giving hints or being indirect.’ He lifts his cigarette and taps ash into the ashtray. ‘If you’re too shy to use the word sex, say something like this: “I’d like to invite you to supper and later to a hotel. Would you like to come?” If she says no, ask her to recommend someone else. Don’t be afraid she’ll be offended by such an invitation. If you ask her to go out with you, and only later you mention sex, it smacks of manipulation, which she may not like.’
I book a table at Orchid Niteclub in Ampang Road Kuala Lumpur and ask Charles Chow to join me but, he says it’s his squash night and declines; however, his younger brother, Ivan, whom I’ve met before, will be happy to come along. Ivan, aged thirty, is not as wild as his brother Charles, so I am unsure if he is the right companion for such a fling. Nevertheless, I’ll have someone to split the bill with.
We arrive at Orchid at 10 pm and the valet parks my car. Inside the hall, the receptionist takes us to a semicircular sofa with a coffee table in its mid-gap. A pair of floor-standing lamps in romantic shades of pink complements the cream-coloured settee. The air smells of rose tainted with a lingering trace of cigarette smoke.
A waiter, wearing a black bow-tie and a brown vest, passes two menus to us. ‘Please order your drinks and food first. Mummy will come soon.’
In the menu are the prices for hostess time (RM60 per hour), ladies’ non-alcoholic drinks and bar grub. The items listed are nothing earth-shattering except for the prices, so we order two big bottles of Sapporo Premium Beer, fried mozzarella sticks, tortilla chips and deep-fried chicken wings.
A woman, wearing her hair in a shag with face-framing layers and an empire-waisted watermelon-red dress, strides to us across the plum-coloured carpet. Three hostesses pad along behind her.
‘Good evening, I’m Mummy Lulu,’ she says, extending her hand. ‘I’ve three very pretty GROs for you. All of them are very friendly. Who do you want?’
‘Come, baby, let’s go to the bedroom,’ Janet says. She and two ladies with their grey roots showing lead him to the bed in the adjoining room. Robert wants to say no, but the words fail to escape from his lips.
His loins pulsing away, he lies down, and the three women undress him. Hands hold him down, grip his wrists, grab his ankles, and he lies spread-eagled. Hands, mouths and bodies are all over him. The light from a camcorder shines on him. Someone is recording the orgy!
Robert sees a blurry vision of the birthday girl. She strips, pulls his G-string down to his knees and straddles him, grunting lustfully into his ear. Robert squirms, overwhelmed by her crushing weight and, after the equivalent time rice takes to be cooked in an electric cooker, he reaches ecstasy. He is dressed up by the women just as quickly as his clothes were removed. He lies on the bed for another hour before he regains the faculties required to get up and leave the suite.
Ending his recollection, Robert slaps the table with his palm. ‘They put something in my drink! Maybe Spanish Fly or some other drug.’
He and I are sitting in a food court in KLCC. ‘Technically, that’s rape. Why didn’t you report to the police?’ I bring several strands of wanton mee to my mouth with a pair of chopsticks.
He leans back on his chair and finishes drinking his Coca-Cola. ‘When a social escort, whether a man or a woman, gets raped, it’s difficult to lodge a police report for a successful prosecution.’
‘You still want to continue escorting?’ I spoon a piece of red barbecued pork to my mouth.
Robert wipes his lips with a tissue paper. ‘I consider that incident as one of our occupational hazards.’
I couldn’t dance and the hostess was very patient with me. She showed me the steps and I learned from her. She also taught me how to drink. My goodness, she drank brandy and whisky like water. She’d say "bottoms up" and pour everything from her glass in at one go. I’d slowly sip my gin, which tasted terribly bitter to me. But after a few more visits, I grew fond of hard liquor and have been a frequent nightclub patron ever since. Of course, my dancing has improved tremendously.’ I try not to judge him but cannot fathom why he doesn’t take his wife dancing instead.
Sakamoto X (‘Don’t mention my last name,’ he requests), a Japanese expatriate, tells me, ‘I take my senior staff to Zimpaco Nightclub to drink frequently, but we don’t book women. It’s like a dinner treat for them. On such occasions, I get to know my staff better, and all the tension accumulated in the office gets dissipated. These sessions build loyalty and trust between subordinates and their superior.’
A bachelor named Hoon Keong, aged forty and a staff architect, says, ‘I’ve got very few friends because I work long hours in a small practice. I’m shy with women. Last time, I used to stutter a lot when talking to women. A nightclub’s one of the best places for me to groom my conversational skills and gain some confidence. In a nightclub, I try to conduct interesting conversations. I was scared to death the first time a hostess sat with me. But after several visits and chatting with so many girls, I’m now more confident. Of course, the booze helps to loosen my tongue too.’
‘This may sound untrue but I visit a particular nightclub for its music,’ Muthu says. ‘I like jazz and blues which you can’t find in dance clubs. I always request for my favourite songs to be played. I can’t dance, so discos are out for me.’
I got cheated after entering the place. So everyone beware!
I was walking along bukit bintan and got caught by the okt. After salespitch that u can have a wide selection of girls at $150 to $250, I decided to follow him. Then he brought me to Green Elephant spa.
Went into a room at the reception, he brought in several girls to choose from. No price quoted yet. After confirming the lady, the waitor came in and chat with okt. I was quoted $350. After mhch persuasion, I say ok.
Since I don have cash, he offered payment by card.
But when the bill came, it was billed $500. He insist that I have to pay for room $150. I was like how can this be? Since I am in his territory, I just went on.
Things got event worst.
I was led into the room, the okt was asking for tips for everyone, including the watch man and waitor. $200... and another $20 more for condom...
What can I do, in a remote room, and out numbered. So after paying $770, I thought I can enjoy the viet lady.
After wash up, she blew me like for 30s ask me to Fuck her. And in the whole process she keep rushing u off. Only rubbing of breast, others like kissing or touching anywhere else is prohibited.
So everyone, if u want to go, please checked all this hidden cost first. I totally blacklist this place.
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She led me up to a room a one flight up and I could already tell the place was quite dingy. The room she took me too was really old. The carpet looked scary and the bed had some hairs on it. I think the entire floor is dedicated for hookers and johns. And I don't think those rooms get regular rooms cleanings.
And the room was a bit stuffy because the air con was off. I was going to turn it on until I saw the mold or whatever crap stuck to it. I figured it's best to leave it off or else a lot of shit its just going to shoot right out.
I was a little surprised when the Thai girl I chose asked me to shower alone. I say surprised because every single girl I've picked always joined me in the shower and helping me clean my bits. But I just shrugged and went ahead.
When I got out and dried I head straight for the bed and she went right to a BJ. taking off her top and leaving on her panties. She had a good body, nice big tits. Fake though but it was nice. And she gave a great BJ.
I asked for her to my condom on as it I was getting ready for that and she did. As she got on top she told me not to look. I thought to myself, why that's an odd request. She said she was shy. I'm not a naivete guy and I know she isn't new to this. And she said I was too big. I'm not, I'm average. I'd be the first to admit it.
Now I don't want to get into too much graphic details but I think what I've got there was a post-op ladyboy. Hey, don't judge. But if you've fooled around with as much hookers as I have in South East Asia you are bound to come across one. And I have to admit my guard was down because "supposedly" these joints are supposed to be ladyboy free. Chances are this ladyboy's features and demeanor were so good it got past the captains.
I just got, up took my shower, threw on my clothes and left. To me, that's a RM 188 never to let your guard down lesson I learned again.
A waiter brings Jessica a willybecher and a bottle of beer. I fill up the glass, and Ivan puts it in front of her on the table.
Sliding across on the smooth leather, she sits closer to him, her shoulder touching his. ‘You should come here more often. We’ve a lot of things in common to talk about. I was also in sales before. You know, I like you, I like your style.’
Music sounds from Jessica’s cell phone. ‘Ivan, please answer the call for me. My hands are oily,’ she says offhandedly.
Ivan grins sheepishly, his face turns red and his fingers tremble. ‘What – what do you want me to say?’ The cell phone is planted all the way down in her cleavage.
‘I think it’s my friend. Tell her I’ll call back.’
Gingerly, he uses his thumb and forefinger to lift it out, brushing against her soft flesh. He clears his throat nervously and speaks into the mouthpiece. ‘Jessica’s engaged right now. She’ll call you back afterwards.’ Then to Jessica: ‘Where shall I put your cell phone?’
‘Same place!’ she says, with an air of nonchalance. She sticks her chest out to make things easier for him. ‘Please switch it off first.’
With his chin almost trembling, Ivan carefully slips the cell phone in her cleavage, and taps its top a few times with his forefinger so that it goes all the way in. Phew! He wipes beads of sweat on his forehead with a piece of Kleenex tissue.
Before Jessica can reply, the band starts on the first bars of Nat King Cole’s ‘Unforgettable’. The ambience in the hall turns lively, prompting Jessica to sit straight and slip her shoe back on. ‘Come, let’s exercise,’ she says. ‘You can put your head on my shoulder and enjoy the perfume.’ She stands taller than Ivan in her four-inch stilettos.
With four other pairs of dancers, Ivan and Jessica sway back and forth with the music on the marble dance floor, entangled like a baby chimpanzee and its mother. I sense that alcohol is making Ivan lose his inhibitions. The next number is a waltz.
Munching mozzarella sticks, I watch the dancers sway as if they’re skating on ice. After a few more dances, Jessica and Ivan return to the table and he continues to drink.
‘Want to go out with me?’ he asks Jessica. ‘I mean, after the nightclub closes.’
I look straight at the band, now playing ‘When I Fall in Love’, pretending not to hear anything.
‘Where? For what?’
He averts her eyes. ‘Some place quiet, a hotel perhaps?’
‘Sorry, I’m having my period.’
‘How about next week? I’d be happy to come again.’
‘Come next week. Then we can discuss it.’
‘Sure you’ll go out with me?’
‘My mother’s confined to a wheelchair. She suffered a stroke a year ago. I’ve to go home after work to care for her. Come next week, we can take it from there.’ She holds his hand for a moment and gazes into his eyes. ‘I know you’re an understanding person, that’s why I like you.’
Flirtation is all talk, no action.
We dawdle to the car. ‘Where shall we go next?’ I ask Charles.
‘SS Karaoke. Near Imbi Road.’
As it is close to midnight, the traffic is light, so I speed towards the city.
‘Slow down, buddy,’ Charles says, exhaling the stale smell of hops. ‘No need to rush, they close at 3 am. There may be police speed-traps along this stretch.’
Within thirty minutes, I swerve my jalopy into the driveway of a modern commercial tower, stop at its entrance and hand it over to a valet. The lift whisks us to SS Karaoke on the sixth floor, which has a standard setup. Charles requests for the mamasan who leads us inside a room and switches on the lights.
‘Only three hostesses available, the rest are booked,’ the mamasan says. She looks like somebody’s grandmother.
‘Does any one of them do a striptease show?’ Charles asks. The mamasan hesitates for a moment, and he continues, ‘My friend has been here before. That’s how I know got this service.’
‘Two girls can, Suzie and Mas. Excuse me, I’ll get them.’ She returns with two brown-skinned lasses whose lips are painted glossy red.
The mamasan puts her hand on the shoulder of one GRO, and pats her a few times. ‘Suzie,’ she says. Then she points with a rakish tilt of her chin to the other girl. ‘She’s Mas.’ Suzie’s long hair deflects the roundness of her face. She is dressed in a cream, short-sleeved shirt and an orange miniskirt. Her well-proportioned figure, a 34-23-34, in her five-foot-three frame is like a bomb exploding sex appeal. A head taller than Suzie, Mas has a long face and sports a chin-length bob that make her face look wider. Both girls have artistic hair stylists, I conclude.
‘Okay, we book Suzie,’ Charles says.
Changkat Thambi Dollah Road and its adjoining drags are dotted with karaoke lounges of a hybrid kind: lady barbers who also sing with you. Catering mainly to open-air workers, such low-end joints won’t burn a hole in your pocket, and operate both during the day and night.
The afternoon sun blazes down as I walk from Shaw Parade, where I’ve parked my car, to an establishment whose signboard says: ‘Hair Dressing Salon & Karaoke’. I clump up the stairs to the first floor of a shophouse, and on pushing the glass door open, a gush of cool air envelopes me, and I enter a bright room.
There are six barber chairs facing a wall with mounted styling stations and mirrors. The smell of freshly cut citrus fruits from air-fresheners, overlaid by the odour of Dettol, invigorates me. At the far end of the room is a wall-mounted mantle shelf where a Taoist deity sits with two electric glass candles. Four lady barbers in their thirties and forties are sitting on a settee upholstered in PU leather, and one of them rises to greet me. Two others remain seated and continue to crack watermelon seeds between their teeth, while the fourth looks up from her newspaper to glance at me before burying her head in it again.
‘Boss, please sit down,’ the woman says. ‘Chinese tea or beer? Anchor, Tiger, Heineken. Also got soft drinks. Seven-Up, Coca-Cola, Pepsi.’ Her hair is amped up in a shaggy layered bob. She is wearing a fuschia, short-sleeved pull-on dress with matching belt, while her feet are shod in brown sandals with T-strap styling.
I pay her for the haircut and leave the premises, the sun making me squint momentarily.
My watch reads nearly 2 am, and Kelab Ria in uptown Kuala Lumpur has attracted a good crowd, judging from the cars double-parked on the side of the drag. In a glass case at its entrance are pictures of female singers – past and present, I presume – and a band. After buying a ticket for RM15 which entitles me to a free drink, I enter, pushing apart a cretonne split-curtain hanging in the doorway. A TV monitor is playing ‘Kereta Malam’, with its singer Citra Monata gyrating away. The furniture comprises oblong coffee tables paired with sofas and small, square tables with metal chairs. Wall-mounted fans swirling from side to side help circulate the air from the air-conditioners. All the GROs, ranging from twenties to thirties, are scattered on six or seven sofas, chatting with customers.
A dark, short-necked, bespectacled man is sitting at a wall-side table with a sallow-looking brown girl, probably in her late twenties, and I settle down at the table next to his. In his fifties, the man has a receding hairline and a neatly trimmed goatee. Seated opposite him, the sallow-looking brown girl is wearing a low-cut t-shirt and a miniskirt with a braided belt. A waitress sets my drink on the wood tabletop, and folds a paper cocktail napkin beside it. I lift the glass to my lips, and as I swallow the first sip, one end of the adjacent table jerks upward for a moment, accompanied by a muffled thud. Curious, I look at the underside of the table. With his slip-on sneaker removed, the bespectacled man is using his bare foot to stroke the leg of the GRO!
On a TV monitor, musicians playing an accordion, a violin and drums discourse a dance song. Five GROs, each with a male partner, scuttle to the dance floor to sway their hips, move their feet forward, sideways, backwards, and spin around. They repeat the steps, occasionally placing a hand on the hip, and the other hand on the shoulder, and thrusting the hip sideways thrice. Their ability to be nimble on their feet even while wearing high heels impresses me. The band, comprising two guitarists, an organist and a drummer, now resumes playing after having taken a break. They play Malay songs, Javanese songs and Indonesian dangdut. On the dance floor, pairs of dancers sway back and forth, but never touch.
Soon, it is closing time. The bespectacled man pays his bill and leaves. I follow him. He walks to an old Volvo and waits, leaning on its bonnet. A few minutes later, the girl he was with comes out and goes to his car. They enter the jalopy and drive off. I hang around the kerb, pretending to read text messages on my cell phone. As the lounge empties itself, more customers come out, seeking their cars. A big-bellied man, clad in a safari bush jacket, struts out hand-in-hand with a coffee-brown girl, wearing jeans and bare-back halter top, and they slip into a Mercedes with a chauffeur. They are heading to a hotel or some cozy place. Another GRO emerges, her hand holding the waist of a handsome young man, and a handbag is slung over her shoulder. They enter an SUV, which speeds off as if the hunk is impatient to do whatever he has in mind.
I scrutinize her from her head to feet. No hair on the upper lip, great. No Adam’s apple, so far so good. I glance at her feet. They are proportionate in size to her body, fantastic. A small, silver cross dangling from her neck indicates that she is likely a Filipina.
I lean over to Charles and say in Cantonese dialect, ‘She’s a girl.’ He smiles at me. I revert back to English: ‘Go ahead, enjoy yourself. I’m leaving after I finish my drink.’ I take a swig of my beer and wave goodbye to him.
Charles escorts the Filipina to a waiting taxi in a rank. Under the street lamp, the road sign is visible: P. Ramlee Road.
I sit straight and square my shoulders, and my eyes flick up and down a girl passing by. Her curvy body in a skin-tight, V-necked jumpsuit can conjure concupiscence in an octogenarian. She notices me and her lips part in a smile. I return a grin and she walks straight to my table and sits down.
‘Are you Japanese?’ Her voice can shatter a tulip glass.
‘No, I’m local. You’re a tourist?’
‘I’m employed here on contract.’ Her eyes are wide–set and her nose is flat.
‘A maid? You don’t look like a maid. You come here often?’
‘Sometimes, if I need money.’
‘Why here, why not other clubs?’
‘Many foreigners come here. I like Japanese tourists. Small dick, big money.’ She giggles, dimples appearing in her cheeks.
I finish my Bir Bintang. ‘I gotta go. Bye.’
Disappointment disfigures her face and she remains seated, scouring around with her eyes. I mosey to the sidewalk. On both sides of the drag, a myriad of nightfall’s characters – party animals with glazed eyes, transsexuals with shifty eyes, hookers with flirtatious eyes, and womanizers with lecherous eyes – pass by me as I stroll to my car in a hotel’s basement parking.
‘Aaaayyy, David! You’re late for your appointment!’
‘I’ll call you back.’ He staggers up to his feet and goes through his leather wallet and luggage. All his cash is missing, and he’s too embarrassed to make a police report.
Leo Lee, a computer trader, slides out a four-inch long comb from his back pocket, and combs his Brylcreem-styled hair. He walks straight to the table occupied by a five-foot-six blonde whom he has been observing for two hours. She had been dancing with a beer-bellied white guy who looked twice her age, whom she left with for over an hour, only to return to the club alone. Though she wears no fishnet stockings, boots, or skin-tight clothes, but a blue, three-quarter sleeved, lace top and denim shorts, he senses she’s a vice girl who has just sold a quickie at a nearby motel. In his little black book, kept in the drawer of his writing desk, Leo has been ticking a list of his conquests over the years: Thai, Myanmar, Korean, China doll, Filipina, Indonesian, Vietnamese, Japanese, New Zealander and Mongolian. Tonight, he aims to tick Russian when he reaches home.
‘Hi, where are you from?’ he asks, smiling. Her upturned nose and full red lips spell seduction to him. Her blond hair is swept back to reveal a pair of gold earrings.
‘Kiev, Ukraine.’ Her blue eyes twinkle at him. She leans sideways and pulls a chair away from the table. ‘Have a seat. I’m Iryna.’
Leo is pleased that her English is passable but a small element of apprehension enters his veins as he has read somewhere that Ukraine has the highest HIV/AIDS rate in Europe, with one in five sex workers infected. But what the heck. He decides he will wear two condoms.
Max goes to the bank immediately to withdraw the cash. Next day, he carries an old sports bag containing the money and drives to the temple. He enters the main prayer hall and scans around. It is empty. He sinks to his knees and utters a prayer. His handphone rings.
A man’s voice says, ‘Leave the hall now.’
And then a woman’s voice, ‘Darling, I’m at the pavilion directly across.’
Max rushes out of the prayer hall, abandoning the bag, and sprints to the pavilion. Lukden is leaning against a pillar, sobbing. Max, overwhelmed with relief, comforts her and leads her to his car.
As he starts the engine, Max asks: ‘Did they harm you?’
‘No, they treated me well.’ She dries her eyes with her sleeves.
‘Shall we report your kidnapping to the police? Did you see their faces?’
Lukden’s eyes widened and her voice quivers. ‘No, they blindfolded me. Let’s forget about this kidnapping. Let’s go home. I’m tired. I want to forget this bad incident. I’m afraid they may take revenge.’
They return to their condominium in Damansara Permai, and a few days later, Max takes Lukden on a short honeymoon in Singapore.
‘Darling, I need to go back to my parents’ for one week,’ Lukden says one evening during dinner in their condominium.
She gives me a demonstration of Thai massage and gets me in all sorts of positions, each position that stretches a certain part of my body. She elbows, knees, slaps, squeezes and my meridian points until they hurt. It is amazing. After the session, akin to torture, I am no longer a twisted pretzel; instead, I am renewed.
I also recall that William Soong, a thirty-five-year-old bank officer, tells me he goes to a no-hanky-panky spa every fortnight. What to expect a spa? He says, ‘Upon entering my regular spa, I register at the counter and am given a key to a safe-deposit box and locker. After I’ve kept my wallet and watch, I’m ushered to the locker area. Inside the locker are shorts, a towel and a bathrobe. The towel has been boiled and dried in a tumbler, so it’s clean. I change into my shorts and pass my shoes to a shoeshine boy for a polish. I then go either to the sauna or steam bath to sweat toxins out profusely. On rainy days, I prefer the sauna as the air is dry. During hot weather, I choose the steam-bath. After the sweating, I shower to clean myself.
‘Then I proceed to the hot therapy pool. The sense of weightlessness relaxes my feet and spine, and I usually stay in the pool for thirty minutes. Next, I dip in the cold pool to close up the pores. After those treatments, I’m renewed in vigour. I change into dry shorts, go to the TV lounge to relax and eat snacks. One or two hours later, I go for my Thai massage. The masseuse rubs my neck and stretches and bends my knees and arms at awkward angles. The best part of the massage is the bow position. I kneel with body upright and the masseuse grabs my hands from behind. She then positions her knees behind my back. The masseuese will tell me to relax my at the right moment. Then, presto! She rocks backward and lifts me on her knees. My spine bends backward like a bow. Amazing! The backbone loosens up after this stretching.’
He talks briefly on his cell phone and passes it to Tuyen. ‘Your agent wants to talk to you.’
Tuyen sobs and wails in Vietnamese, while Adrian paces up and down the room, his lips pressed tight. She returns the phone to Adrian and stares blankly at the carpeted floor, bleary-eyed.
Charles asks: ‘So how, now? I’ve to pay two thousand for one session?’
Adrian discharges a deep sigh and takes out his wallet. ‘I’ll refund you thousand eight hundred. Just pay the normal price.’
Fifteen minutes later while Charles is driving away from Bukit Bintang, his cell phone rings.
‘Hello, Charles! Looks like Tuyen’s attempting suicide.’ Words in a hurried torrent burst from Adrian’s voice through the Bluetooth headset. ‘If she dies, we’re in deep shit. Please come and calm her down.’
‘What?’ Charles, overcome with guilt and sympathy, slaps his hand against the steering wheel. ‘Okay, I’m coming back.’
He executes an illegal U-turn, speeds to Laguna Hotel and returns to Tuyen’s former room. The door is ajar and he strides in. The split glass casement windows are open and Tuyen is sitting on the ledge, her feet dangling on the other side, one hand holding the middle sash bar. Adrian is standing several paces from her, taking deep breaths as if trying to calm down.
Tuyen turns to face Charles and snivels, her voice choked with emotion. ‘I virgin! I virgin! I no boyfriend!’
Adrian’s face is pale, his voice shaky. ‘Her Vietnamese agent called again after you left. He insists Tuyen’s a virgin before she met you. In fact, he’s acquainted with her family. He suggests you take her to a gynaecologist for a check-up. Just look at her. She is very upset. She’ll owe her agent a lot of money if the deal fails.’
Full-service girls for englishman Charles.
‘You want massage ladies or full-service girls?’ the captain asks.
‘Let’s see your full-service girls,’ Charles says.
Five masseuses troop in and stand in a row. The fair-skinned girl, garbed in a tight top, sucks in her stomach, sticks out her bottom and crosses her arms to squeeze her breasts together so they look bigger. A petite girl with bronzed skin and blond hair strikes a pose, looking over her shoulder and pouting. A tall lass, wearing a chunky necklace, puts one foot in front of the other, tilts her head, allowing her long hair to flow on one side, and her left hand daintily clutches her right upper arm. Two other girls stand straight and put their hands beside their body.
‘First girl from China, second girl is Indonesian, the rest are Thais.’
‘Price?’ I ask.
‘China girl, two hundred ringgit; Indonesian and Thai girls all same price, one hundred and sixty ringgit. Forty-five minutes is the time limit.’
‘Who’re your red numbers?’ Charles asks.
‘Our red numbers are working.’ The captain fishes out his mobile phone to display a photo of a busty woman with wavy hair and bee-stung lips. He thrusts the cell phone to us and says: ‘This is Abby, Malay girl, number five. Still got three more clients.’ He jabs a button and an image of a Chinese girl appears. Her large eyes with double eyelids and high nose are heart-stealers. ‘Number two, Karen. Very good service. But booked for the next four hours.’
Charles punches his fist into his left hand. ‘Bad luck.’ His face is red from the effects of the stimulant.
‘Actually, these five girls’re also good. No customers have complained.’
Again Charles inspects the girls who are getting restless. ‘Indonesian,’ he says, pointing to the petite girl with an upward jerk of his chin. He gets up and follows her.
After five minutes, the sensation makes me more relaxed, and I idly stare down at the masseur’s feet. They are shod in white sneakers that close with Velcro tabs. Strange. How can the masseur be massaging me with his knee when his feet are on the ground? I count mentally – two hands squeezing my shoulders, two feet on the ground. Perplexed, I lift my head up and turn around to look. Holy smokes! With his pants pulled down below his hips, the masseur is jabbing my back with his enormous, erect weener! Stop – stop – stop that at once! I choke. My voice is barely audible. No answer from the strong, silent masseur.
The blood drains from my face, and then my chest and feet, turning my skin cold. Will he kiss me next? Oh, my god. I don’t want to start a fight with a masseur capable of tearing my scrawny body apart. I reluctantly allow the massage to continue and put my face into the gap again. He slides the towel down to my thighs and kneads my buttocks, but only for two minutes. He compresses my buttocks with both hands, and proceeds to rub his unshaven face against my two globes of posterior flesh!
Eeeeeeeeeeeek! Swallowing my fluttering heart, I jump up from the massage table and shake my head. E-enough, I’ve had enough. I totter like a sapling after a storm to the clothes hook behind the door and retrieve my garments.
You don’t like me? There is fire in the masseur’s eyes, and ice in his voice. If you don’t like me, earlier you should have chosen someone else.
I mop my forehead with my handkerchief. It’s – it’s not you, I’m just not gay. I dress and beat a hasty retreat from the room.
In the waiting lounge, a muscular man – with showy, drugstore blond hair and an earring – is discussing his choice of treatments with the supervisor.
The burly man pretends not to hear anything and looks at the customer coming out of the bathroom after taking a shower.
Charles’ face darkens and he returns to our settee. He pats me on the arm. ‘What a stuck-up bitch! Come, let’s go.’ Without a word, we get up and walk to the door.
The burly man glares at him, his eyes shining like steel. Charles braces and makes a point of looking tough and bored. He tenses his deltoid muscles to make his shoulders bigger and his stare jettisons hard-jawed defiance. The glass door clicks open and we leave. Built like an ox, he would be the last person in the world a lone pimp would choose to tangle with. Just the same, I utter a sigh of relief as we exit the grille door downstairs.
‘Inexperienced men frequently make blunders. They simply go inside a spa and are tricked into getting services they don’t want,’ Ah Fook, a beady-eyed captain of a spa, says. ‘For example, our centre does not offer sex. But my boss has instructed me to confuse a customer into taking a massage even though he’s looking for sex. So, whenever a customer comes in, I’ll quickly take him into a massage room. “This way, sir”. A smart customer will never leave the sitting lounge; an inexperienced customer will stupidly follow me into the room.’
‘Once he’s inside, half the sale is closed. In fact, once clothes are off, and he’s lying on the massage table, it’s too late to back out. An experienced customer will ask questions. He won’t even touch the tea served and he’ll sit near the door. Only when he’s sure the centre offers what he wants will he go into the room.
‘If a customer asks for sex, my style’s not to say yes or no. My usual answer is that he has to ask the masseuse herself. If the customer complains, my reply is our girls work by rotation, and I’ve no control which girl will service him.’
The towel has been boiled and dried in a tumbler, so it’s clean. I change into my shorts and pass my shoes to a shoeshine boy for a polish. I then go either to the sauna or steam bath to sweat toxins out profusely. On rainy days, I prefer the sauna as the air is dry. During hot weather, I choose the steam-bath. After the sweating, I shower to clean myself.