Sarong Party Girls (21 page)

I was feeling slightly like an auntie at this point, looking at these young girls in high heels, wondering how come they're so daring, not afraid of falling off the fucking bar. (Then I caught myself realizing that that's exactly something that my mum would say.) I was damn worried about falling myself, given how tipsy I was feeling. Then I saw the girls each using one hand to hold the gold railing on the ceiling for support, so I followed.

The shots were starting to make me feel good—­and being that high above everyone else made me feel like I was floating. I knew the guys below me could probably see my lacy red panties every time I shook my backside and moved my legs but I didn't care. Some of them were cute after all—­as Albert sometimes liked to say, “Any publicity is good publicity.”

Looking out at the crowd—­guys were staring at me, confirm quite interested, and a few ang moh women were giving me dagger eyes. Good! I purposely shook my backside at them a bit more. I felt good—­perhaps even like a celebrity. In between songs, the bartender kept giving us shots, too—­each one wasn't that strong but they did make me feel more wild. I was really dancing like madwoman now, sometimes use my free hand to push up my boobs and all. The guys—­I could tell from their eyes. They were all damn steam.

After a few songs, guniang's feet were hurting so I squatted down. Before I could try and figure out how to climb off, three guys rushed forward to help me get off the bar counter! I'd never felt so special, man. Good to have this feeling, especially after this cock week and last weekend. I guess I should thank Fann and Melvin.

I was adjusting my skirt, getting ready to walk back to the table when a short ang moh guy with a paunch and messy gray beard tapped me on the shoulder. My god—­of all the handsome guys at the bar, this one is the one who wants to chase me? Why is my life so unfortunate?

I blinked at him and started to walk away but he said, “Jazzy? I'm Steve—­Steve Carlyle, Melvin's friend.” Oh—­bar owner! Of course I should be nice to him. So I turned around and smiled.

“You were terrific up there! Really lit up the room,” Steve said, shaking my hand. “Do you want to be one of my regular bar-­top girls? I can't pay you—­not like Galaxy or one of those bigger flashier clubs. But I will give you free bottles. And you and your friends never have to queue up; you'll always have a table.”

Wah—­guniang here has been going clubbing for so long but I'd never been asked to be podium girl before! I'd always thought this kind of podium-­girl arrangement is a bit LC. It's true that podium girls at bars and clubs are just regular girls, not pros, who are just good at dancing and look quite cute but still—­hallo, how much different is this arrangement, at the end of the day, from KTV hostesses entertaining guys by throwing around their body? And those girls get paid more! With LV handbags on the side if they are really smart about their strategies! Although I'd always thought that—­that was based on having never actually tried it. In the end, after dancing up on the bar with those girls at Carlyle's, the whole thing actually was quite fun lah. Plus, I didn't want to be rude to Melvin's friend.

“I'll think about it,” I said, making sure to smile at him really sweetly before walking away.

“By the way,” I quickly added, winking at him, “could we have some Chivas at our table?”

By the time I got back to the table and sat down, I could see the waitress walking over with a bottle of Chivas from the bar.

“Eh—­where did Imo go?” I asked, looking at her empty seat. Her phone wasn't on the table either.

Fann just shrugged—­that woman was a bit mabuk, I could tell. Her eyes were half-­closed; her body swaying a bit. The bottle of Jack was almost empty, surrounded by a few small glasses—­I guess they had been doing shots. When the waitress showed up with the bottle of Chivas and opened it, sticking a spout in, Fann suddenly got damn energy, clapping her hands and all.

“Come—­another round!” Melvin said, pouring three big shots of Jack, wiping out the bottle. The two of them bottoms-­up their glasses but I just sipped mine. Not that they noticed—­Melvin had started to stick his hand inside Fann's blouse, pretending to be holding her waist but from the way the fabric was moving I could see it gradually moving upward. I considered taking Fann to the ladies' room to remind her of her grand plan to not let Melvin get any action until she became his girlfriend but the woman was too far gone. Shameless!

“Aiyoh!” Fann said, squealing and swatting Melvin's arm so he immediately moved his hand back down to her waist. “How can you go there? We're in public! You are
so
bad, Melvin. Just for that, you must be punished.”

Fann climbed on top of Melvin, sitting on his lap. Holding his head, she started frenching him deeply and moving her hips around, clearly rubba-­ing his cock. These two—­my god, it was like I was not even there. Just when he started to rubba her backside with his hands, she whacked him.

“No!” she said, taking the bottle of Chivas and sticking it inside her cleavage. “You must be punished,” she said, kneeling on his thighs now so the spout was just over his mouth.

When she said, “Drink!” she leaned forward, using her hands to cup her boobs up and steady the bottle. Then she started pouring Chivas into his mouth.

Kani nah. That was my hard-­earned Chivas! You think I let that gross guy do a body shot on me, dance until my feet hurt, show my panties to the whole bar—­all that so that I can sit here and watch Fann use her pushed-­up boobs to pour my Chivas down her boyfriend's throat?

But guniang here knows when she has become an extra. It was time to get lost.

Fann and Melvin of course didn't even notice when I finished my whiskey, grabbed my handbag and got up.

Once I got outside the bar, it hit me how drunk I was. It hadn't rained that day so the air was still bloody humid. I could feel my blouse and skirt glued to my sticky skin. Damn gross.

“Jazzy! Right? It is Jazzy?” I heard one of the ang mohs sitting outside the bar say.

I turned around to look but it was so dark and I was a bit dizzy so I wasn't sure who was talking to me at first. Then, aiyoh, my god—­it was Sharon's husband!

“I'm Alistair,” he said, taking my left hand and kissing it.

I wanted to throw up—­of all the guys in the bar, I would pick him to be the second-­last guy I wanted kissing my hand. (Steve the paunchy bar owner would be the first.)

“Nice to meet you, but I'm not feeling well,” I said, taking my hand back and walking away. “I'm going to make a move first.”

“Wait!” he said, walking quickly to catch up with me. “May I send you home?”

Aiyoh—­this guy really has balls, man. I stopped and quickly turned around, quite pissed off. I was about to say something like, “I'm your wife's friend, you know! Don't you give a shit about Sharon and your baby at home?”

But then I thought about it—­is Sharon really my friend? Was she ever really my friend? That stuck-­up bitch Sharon? Who called me shallow and all that crap when guniang here was just trying to help her? Whose husband is here steaming over me so much that if I tap his cock one time I bet he confirm will instantly come all over his pants? Besides, from Sharon's Givenchy bag and the photos of her vacations, I was guessing that he was quite loaded.

“Hmm . . .” I said, scrunching my face up a bit and lightly touching his shoulder with my finger and making a little circle, like I was thinking hard about it.

“Please?” he said. His eyes were really begging me. I bet I could get this fucker to do anything I wanted. I should text his wife a photo, man. Who has the power now, Sharon?

“Well,” I said, smiling a bit shyly, “your tongue did feel nice . . .”

 

chapter 14

Even I—­Jazeline Lim Boon Huay—­know (sometimes) when I have been too much.

I am always right, it's true. But sometimes even I have to admit that perhaps I'm just a little bit wrong. Waking up the next morning, I definitely knew that this was one of those times.

As much as I hated Sharon for being such a bitch to me—­should I really have done what I did?

I know I was sloshed (which is actually a good excuse) and yes, Sharon had really pissed me off (also a very good reason) and I was feeling a bit gross and awful about the whole Carlyle's scene (I guess maybe I am a bit to blame for not saying no at any point when I sort of could have?). Also, I was feeling a little sad that Roy hadn't texted so I guess guniang here was looking for some comfort—­somewhere. (OK, this one even I will admit is quite a cock excuse.) But when I woke up the morning after, all I could think about was the sound of Sharon crying at the food court a few days ago.

Her husband, Alistair, surprisingly, was quite a gentleman once we were alone; he was even a bit sweet. He didn't make a big fuss when he said goodbye to his friends to send me home. I don't even think they knew he was leaving because of a girl. And in fact, he seemed a little shy once we got inside the taxi, keeping quite quiet, sitting all the way over on his side of the seat. I wondered if maybe he was feeling awkward about asking me right away whether I actually wanted to be sent home or wouldn't mind going to hotel for a bit. So he was just asking me stupid questions like “Where do you work?” That kind of shit. (I also pretended to ask him some questions back, even though I already knew where he worked and what he does. He didn't mention Sharon at all. And of course he wore no wedding ring. Typical.)

But when the taxi was almost in my neighborhood, he moved a bit closer. “It's not that late, actually . . .” he said. “Just after midnight?”

“Yeah—­so?” I said, pretending to yawn a little. Guniang was a bit mabuk, yes, but not so drunk that I didn't know how to make him sweat a bit.

Alistair looked a bit worried. “I guess if you're tired . . .” he started to say, then quickly added, “but if you're not too tired . . .”

“If not, then?” I said, purposely acting a little blur.

“Then . . . would you like to get a drink?” he asked, getting closer so he could put his arm around me now. I could see taxi uncle staring at us in his rearview mirror, shaking his head and then blinking his eyes.

“Like, at another bar?” I asked, leaning a bit closer to him and tracing one of my fingers on his thigh. I could hear him breathing heavily now. Pathetic fucker.

“Jesus Christ,” he said very softly.

I could see from his face that he was thinking quite hard. Was he feeling bad? Interesting—­if so, this was definitely the first time I'd come across this kind of thing. Could it be that guys like these sometimes could actually have a conscience? Just the thought of that made me suddenly feel a little tender toward Alistair.

Besides, before Sharon got fat and obsessed with her baby, even though she wasn't Miss Chinatown material, she was not terrible-­looking. If this guy actually married her, perhaps he did actually love her.

The taxi uncle was slowing down a bit now, reaching my block. When I felt Alistair pull away from me, I thought, OK, this guy—­he's really not bad. Good for Sharon. Maybe she's wrong after all about why her hubby goes out so late so much. Maybe he's just sowing wild oats by drinking and flirting with guniangs at the bar, never following through and going all the way.

But then Alistair leaned forward and said to taxi uncle: “Actually—­Fauntleroy Hotel, please? Sorry, we're not stopping here.”

I guess at that moment, I could still stop it. I could say, “Sorry, I'm tired. Maybe another day.” And I honestly hadn't thought much about whether I would go through with it at this point. Part of me wanted to find out whether Alistair was really the guy that Sharon thought he had turned into—­and, if I was wrong, then I'd figure out a way to tell her. (Without incriminating myself of course.) But to be honest, guniang was feeling a bit sad after watching Fann and Melvin snog all night. Roy still hadn't texted me; and even though I had felt quite happening to be dancing on the bartop at Carlyle's with all these guys looking at me, in the end, none of the cute guys ended up coming to talk to me or buy me drink. Like that—­how can? At least here—­here was a guy, married or not, who could provide some comfort and entertainment for a few hours.

Also, I know we girls are supposed to think hooking up is bad, but I think this kind of experience, always somehow ends up being useful—­it's like research. Cock sometimes small, cock sometimes big; sometimes the method is more action action, sometimes it's more slow and romantic. And sometimes I even learn a new technique, different ways of teasing that can get ang mohs even more steam. Kind of like that old government “Productivity” song they taught us in primary school. “Good, better, best—­never let it rest. Till your good is better, and your better best!”

On top of all that, I guess I was a bit itchy. Go home alone to my sad bedroom and lousy single bed? Boring lah! Plus, the Fauntleroy Hotel is quite atas. Definitely not Hotel 81! This is one of the big downtown hotels, by the Singapore River and all. I had been there before—­but only for high-­class wedding dinners. I never knew anyone who had the kind of throwaway money to just anyhow stay there. So in the end, I just didn't stop Alistair.

Alistair was holding my hand, stroking it gently, by the time we got to the Fauntleroy. He helped me out of the taxi—­not bad, quite the gentleman—­but once we were outside, he made sure to walk a little bit ahead of me as we entered.

“Welcome back, Mr. Davis,” the doorman said, bowing as he opened the heavy gold door for us.

Alistair waved at him slightly then quickly walked through.

“It's not that I do this often,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed as we crossed the very quiet marble lobby. “My firm does a lot of business with the Fauntleroy—­they let us have a room whenever we want it so I end up having a lot of meetings here.”

OK—­whatever he says. Hallo, he's not my husband after all—­like I give a shit what he uses the Fauntleroy for.

I decided to wait by the lift lobby while he took care of business at the reception desk. Better lah. No matter how polite those receptionists are—­they always gossip. Alistair didn't say anything when he came back to the lift lobby and we were silent all the way up to the top floor, all the way to the room at the end of a long corridor.

When he opened the door—­wah! It was a suite! I had never been to a suite for hookup before! But guniang made sure to act cool. I pretended to look around and seem bored.

“Is this OK?” he said, looking a bit worried as he closed the door. “I can get something else . . . or we can go somewhere else, if you prefer? I just thought it might be a little more private—­and quiet—­to have a drink in a room.”

I walked over to the big glass window—­a serious one! Extending all the way from the floor to the ceiling type. From there I could look out at the small tourist boats on the river, the bright lights of the tall casinos, the ocean. I felt so tall, so big, like a god looking out at all of Singapore or some shit.

“No, this is fine,” I said, turning away from the window and smiling at him.

Now that we were in the room, standing around, feeling a bit awkward, he seemed even more shy. What happened to the mabuk guy frantically licking my stomach at Carlyle's? Maybe he really doesn't do this that much? Cannot be. But who knows? (And who cares?)

“I guess . . . we should have that drink I promised you,” he said, looking carefully at the fridge—­at the bottles, not the price list! It was the first time I'd seen anyone go to a hotel minibar and not look at the prices at all.

“I noticed you drinking Chivas at Carlyle's—­is that all right?”

I just nodded. So he opened a medium-­sized bottle of Chivas and poured two glasses on the rocks, bringing one over to me by the window.

“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass with mine. We both took a few long sips, standing side by side, looking out at the lights. I could feel him slowly rubba-­ing my back, stroking my hair—­it was actually feeling bloody good. I bet he gives a good massage, I thought. He bent down to kiss me, very slowly but very sweetly. A warm warm soft soft one. I could feel his cock pressing my thigh—­not only was it bloody hard already, but it was also damn bloody big. Wah, that Sharon—­lucky girl!

I moved my hand over to rub his cock but he stopped me.

“Not yet,” he said. “Can you take your clothes off for me?”

I started to pull my blouse off but he stopped me again. “No—­sweetly, slowly,” he said, walking over to sit on the couch. He put his glass down on the gold-­rimmed coffee table so he could hold his hands up, using his thumbs and index fingers to make a rectangle, as if he was taking a photo of me standing in front of the window. Then he smiled and put his hands back down again.

I was beginning to think this was turning out a bit strange. These types of hookups usually are never like this. (Not that I do this that often lah—­you must believe me, this is really true.) But these types of things—­usually are just fast fast hard hard type; no storybook kind of set up. Married guys, especially, usually have to go home quickly after all, so the moment they're inside the room, pants come off already. But this one, it was as if he was shooting blue movie in his head. I wasn't sure what to do with this—­and if I should be offended. The way he was bossing me around, it made me feel a bit like a pro! I'd never experienced anything like this before. But I had already gone this far—­I didn't want to offend him or make things not nice. So I thought—­why not? It's quite simple to just go along with this—­at least for a bit.

So if Alistair wanted a show, then I decided I would give him a show. Guniang was already inside the room—­might as well go all the way. Besides, it could be fun? First, I took another sip of whiskey, then licked the entire rim of the glass before putting it down on the floor. Then I leaned back against the glass window and spread my legs a bit. Slowly, slowly, I peeled up my skintight red blouse. I could hear him sighing loudly as he slowly saw my black lace push-­up bra appear. Then, I unhooked the back of my skirt and unzipped it—­but this one, I couldn't control how slowly this went though. The skirt was flared, so the whole thing just fell off in one second. Alistair had already see my red lacy panties before but still, he couldn't stop staring. Good.

Next, the bra was unhooked. I covered my breasts with one hand and used the other one to throw the bra at Alistair. He was staring so hard at me, waiting for me to take my hand away from my chest, that he couldn't even react in time to catch it.

“More,” he said. “Please?”

When I moved my hand away, he sighed damn loud. I know my boobs and butt are not say as nice as Fann's lah. But I been told before that my body was like a little Japanese girl's body—­everything is small and tight. This kind of body is actually quite popular with ang mohs—­I think they have some fantasy of being our uncles and protecting us or some shit. And I guess if your wife is now a fatty, maybe you really miss this kind of look. Poor Alistair.

I refused to take my panties off though.

“Kitchen closed,” I said. “Now—­you.” I started to unbuckle the straps on my heels. After all that, my feet were really hurting.

“Don't,” he said, standing up and walking over. Were we going to fuck by the window? Not bad—­I had never done it facing all of Singapore before. Instead, he suddenly picked me up and carried me like a baby to the bedroom, throwing me on the bed. Damn strong! Guniang here was starting to get quite horny and tried to unbuckle his belt.

“Not yet,” Alistair said, pushing me back on the bed and pulling down my panties, spreading my legs apart, stroking my feet and high heels. “I think I should finish cleaning you up first.” And then he started licking me all over, from my toes to my legs to, OK, you know where. All the way up and back down again, then he kept licking me there. Guniang here don't want to say too much lah so I'll just say I didn't have to fake anything. In fact, all I could see for a while right after that was large white dots. This—­confirm—­had never happened to me before.

By the time Alistair took off his clothes, guniang here was so high that I didn't even care that his body was not great—­not fat, mind you, and you can tell he does work out, but his skin all over was super pasty, like those oily white Hainanese chickens you see hanging on a hook in the hawker stall, and his chest was filled with curly gray hair.

By that point, I couldn't think. All I could do was stare at him while he fumbled to open a condom wrapper.

“Oi,” I said, giving him a bloody dirty look. “Hurry up!”

Alistair laughed. But he did hurry up. By the time we left the room two hours later, the pack of three rubbers he said—­as if—­he bought for a friend at 7-­Eleven earlier that night was all habis.

Thinking about it the morning after, I started to feel a little hot all over again. And then I felt terrible. Jazzy, what's wrong with you? Even if you're feeling lonely and sad for yourself and horny—­there are so many guys in the world. Why would you go with your schoolmate's husband? In fact, after Alistair sent me home—­for real—­it was all I could think about. The guy was even nice enough to ask if I was hungry and wanted to order anything off room ser­vice right after, but all I could think about was whether Sharon was going to give him hell for creeping home at five in the morning. So, I just hurried us both out of there.

I had no answer for why I did what I did. But now that I'd done it, I couldn't stop thinking about how good Alistair felt. I needed to snap out of this. But how?