Sarong Party Girls (7 page)

Then I slowly slowly moved my right hand to the correct position—­and squeezed his cock.

 

chapter 5

“Aiyoh, what is wrong with you?”

Kani nah, ­people here are just trying to quietly sit and drink kopi on a Saturday morning also cannot. Why does Seng bloody hell have to come and bother me? I even went to the kopitiam quite early that day. Early for me, that is. After all, I came home at 10
A.M.
—­after showering, I didn't want to listen to my mum complain about me coming home so late (especially after her lecture at the wet market yesterday). And the thought of having my dad join her in hantaming me—­my god, I knew I'd better fasterly get out of the house. And on a Saturday morning, the kopitiam is the best place to go and stone for a bit lah. If you go to one of those atas western cafes with the croissants and shit, these smiley waitresses with the high-­pitched singsong voices won't leave you alone! “Miss, do you want more of this or that crap?” and all that bullshit. But in a kopitiam, the uncles there will usually leave you alone to sit and stare into your kopi for as long as you want. The only drawback—­for me, anyway—­was the bang balls possibility of bumping into Seng.

“What's wrong?” Seng asked again, pulling out a plastic stool from under my table and sitting down. “I whole life never see you so quiet before.”

I couldn't even really move my head that much. I just lifted my sunglasses and stared at him. “I got ask you to sit down with me, is it?”

“Eh, this one is free country, you know. You don't own all the seats at the table. If got free seat—­then anyone can sit lah! Now—­what the hell is wrong with you today?”

Of course, Seng was the last guy I could tell. Even though the fucker was getting so comfortable at the table he took out his Marlboro Menthol Lights and nodded at the kopi uncle, giving him the “one” sign. Before uncle—­in his long pajama pants and singlet that was so thin you can practically count all the hairs around his nipples—­brought his kopi over, Seng had already moved the rusted empty lychee can near his elbow and lit his ciggie. I tried not to watch him slowly scratching his chin with his one long fingernail. I don't understand when Seng suddenly became such an Ah Beng, growing a sharp fingernail on his little finger for digging his ears and nose and all. And why was I so unlucky to be sitting at a smoking table? Never think properly lah. I had wanted to avoid all those Saturday mothers with their noisy fat kids but now here I was, ending up talking to Seng. Really bang balls, man.

“You don't want to tell me I also know lah,” Seng said, flicking his ciggie into the lychee can and exhaling through his nostrils. Actually I don't usually mind Seng so much. Last time when we were young, before he became an Ah Beng, we actually hung out at the kopitiam together a fair bit. At that time, we were just ­seventeen—­we still had no money to go clubbing so much, so might as well just sit in the kopitiam and drink Anchor beer. It was quite fun lah—­on Saturday nights, you would see all the old neighborhood Ah Cheks and then the two of us sitting there, drinking beer, talking cock. Uncles would try to share their sad life stories, wanting to tell us young ­people all the mistakes in life to avoid. Crazy! As if we can't see with our own eyes what their pathetic lives are like. Seng and I would always just laugh. Of course we're smart enough not to end up drinking in a kopitiam with these old Ah Cheks when we are forty years old. Seng is not say very good-­looking but he knows how to dress up nicely, saving up to buy Prada sneakers sometimes, carrying a Dunhill wallet and all. And he's not big and buff like those ang moh guys we all like but his body is not terrible. (At least he's not fat like some of his chubby friends. One good thing about his smoking, I guess.) And we all know how chio I am lah. So all those Ah Cheks should know better. Unlike them, ­people like us actually have dreams. As if we need their advice!

At that time I was not yet happening like I am now, where I have these guys at clubs buying me drinks and all. Back then—­we were all damn poor, man. Must save up for a week so we can afford even one pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea at a club. To make the most of it, we knew we had to drink the pitcher fasterly so we could get a quick high. If your head immediately feels pain a bit then confirm is success. But if you drink so fast it's not always shiok. Such highs always only last so long. But the good part is, if you are high and act happy a bit, sometimes guys will notice you more and come over to offer to buy you drinks. So in the end the strategy might have some payoff, after all. As tough as those days were, you know what those aunties always say—­better to know hardships early in life, otherwise later when you have a good life, you won't appreciate it.

Later on, once Seng finished army, we all had a bit more money, but he and I would still go to the kopitiam sometimes. Drinks at clubs were expensive after all—­so if you sit in a kopitiam first, drink four or five Anchors, get mabuk already then that's the time to go clubbing. When you get to the club already high, you don't need to spend so much on drinks there. Seng even hung out with us girls sometimes back then, but we hadn't invited him in a long time. If you want to meet ang moh guys, if you bring a Singaporean guy along—­aiyoh—­you might as well just give up before going out. (Louis is different. A rich guy buying bottles for everyone—­who doesn't want to hang out with him? Even ang moh guys also like him.)

Seng also taught me to smoke back then—­he said it would make me look sexy. The last time I smoked with him, he was trying to teach me how to do this stylo move, pushing smoke out through his nostrils like a dragon. But no matter how many times I tried, until my nose was fucking pain, almost want to nosebleed, I also couldn't do it. This skill—­Seng knows he is champion, and he was doing it now. My head that morning was so painful, however, I just sat there and watched him make those long dragon smoke puffs. Everything was quiet. I had nothing to say.

Earlier this morning—­my god. I was still trying to not think about it.

“You hungover lah,” Seng said, taking one sip of his kopi that was so big that almost half the cup disappeared. I never understood how that guy can drink so fast. Kopi, whiskey, all the same. One sip, two sips—­time for a refill already.

I didn't want to respond to his cock comment. Usually better not to encourage him. If I answer one question, I will have to answer ten more. “This kind of obvious thing,” I just said, “no need to say lah. Waste saliva only.” Seng just put out his ciggie and pointed one more time at the kopi uncle, who immediately stood up, pulled up his pajama pants and shuffled over to make more kopi.

“Guniang, you last night didn't vomit is it?” he said, shaking his head. I didn't move, hoping that if I didn't say anything he would just shut up. “You ownself ask for it,” he said, lighting another ciggie. I could see him looking at me—­at first I thought maybe he's pitying me or some shit but actually, it was quite funny. The fucker looked like he was concerned. Must be my lucky day.

“You should know this what,” he continued, “if you are going to get that mabuk, then must make yourself throw up before sleeping. Otherwise, if you get hungover until like this, what's the point of drinking?”

It's true lah. Right then, I was thinking, what is the point? That morning—­aiyoh. That morning. At first, when we left Attica, I planned to just go that guy's place, finish already then make some quick excuse and go home. But then, my god, guniang here was so tired and mabuk I just fell asleep! Not to say that the guy was that good—­but luckily he was quick. So even though he was also quite mabuk it was almost literally like, garabing garabung then everything over already. If he didn't shout one time when he came, I probably wouldn't even know that anything happened. When he suddenly said “GOD!” guniang was actually lying there, still slowly adjusting my hair on the pillow and all, wondering whether I should try and turn over so I wouldn't have to see his nose, which, once we got outside of Attica and I could actually see his face, I realized was not only big but also hairy as fuck. Kani nah, next time I go to Strip I'd better ask them whether they wax noses or not. If they don't, next time I'm not even going to consider guys like this. I would have turned over from the start so I didn't have to see that shit lah, but the first time with a guy, sometimes if you turn over they get the wrong idea. Hallo—­guniang here don't do backside.

Once the guy was done he went and got us some water—­sweet of him lah. That move, I appreciated. But by the time he came back I was already asleep. Then this morning, aiyoh. When I woke up at around nine, I could actually see that his apartment was not very nice. It's not small—­one of those older condos, so it was quite spacious because when government first started granting land for building them, they parceled out bigger lots, so all of them were big big one. But even though it was not bad, it was totally empty! There was nothing on the walls—­just white and more white. In the living room, there was just one sofa, one coffee table and one giant flat-­screen TV and PlayStation. The fridge was empty. And walao eh, clothes were all over the place—­half-­rolled-­up socks, dirty T-­shirts, all thrown all over the living room floor. The bedroom (I guess maybe he doesn't spend so much time there) was at least a bit neater.

I was still walking around the living room, thinking of what else I could look at, when he came out of the bedroom and said, “Hey babes. Hungry?” In the daylight he wasn't, say, terrible-­looking. The nose, it's true, looked quite bad. (In the morning light I could see even more clearly just how much hair there was.) But his body—­which I could see even more now since he was still naked (and also since I wasn't mabuk and feeling a bit cross-­eyed anymore by this point)—­was quite thin and nice; his smile, quite cute. If I didn't know by now that I'd probably have to end up picking up his rotting underwear from the floor my whole life, then I actually might consider. Also, I couldn't remember his name. Babi, why didn't I think of going into his wallet and find out while he was still sleeping? Now, what should I call him?

So I just smiled and said, “Not really hungry, sweetie.” I was about to pick up my handbag and tell him I'd better go. But then the guy came over and hugged me from behind. I didn't know what to do. Usually they're not so sweet. So I just turned around and he suddenly kissed me, the open open type. I was going to push him away since we both hadn't brushed our teeth yet—­why would he want to kiss like that now? Damn gross, man. But then I could smell something minty. Wah—­fucker brushed his teeth! I was so touched I actually wasn't thinking and just kissed him back. Then I could feel that he was getting a bit hard. And I remembered that he was actually quite nice-­sized. Also, last night, since I was so tired, fucker came but guniang here didn't finish. (Actually, don't say didn't finish lah—­the fucker was so quick that guniang never even started.) So when I thought about it a bit—­OK, might as well not go home just yet.

Overall, it was all OK lah. At least the second time, both sides also got action. But the bad part is, hooking up like that tends to mean that it cannot just be a one-­night thing. So when he asked for my number, I felt a bit like I couldn't say no. Also, since the girls and I sometimes go to Attica, I might bump into him again! So better don't give a fake number, I guess. The good part is, at least when we exchanged numbers, guniang here had a number one idea. I pretend-­told him I don't know how to spell his name, asked him how to spell it and all. So he slowly spelled out for me: R-­O-­Y.

So, now—­like that lah! I don't even know how, man. With a nose like that and with his lousy apartment and I don't even know what cock job he has, this situation—­aiyoh, it's not good, man. Really not good. Confirm will end up wasting time. By the time I got back home, I already got a nice text from him. This one—­is really susah.

“Guniang, your kopi so cold already—­come, I buy you new one,” Seng suddenly said. I had forgotten he was even there. Actually, I even forgot that I was there.

Just the other day, my mum actually said to me: “Please lah—­why don't you just go out with a nice boy like Seng? You know, last week he brought me and your dad breakfast—­I think he came looking for you, but in the end he just gave it to us and watched us eat. This kind of good heart—­I can tell you, a white-­skin man definitely don't have.”

Seng? My god. Of course in my mum's mind this is the kind of dream husband for me—­Goh Kwok Seng, major Ah Beng to the extreme! But my mum mainly loves him because even though outside the house these days, he is one of those kwailan assholes who likes to go to Marina Square and stare at other Ah Bengs and ask them “You staring at what?” before throwing down his cigarette and whacking them one time, at home, Seng is very sweet to his mum. Only son, after all. And after his dad died a few years ago, if Seng doesn't pamper her, who will? Plus his mum and my mum used to be old kakis, so Seng is very “auntie-­auntie” around her, always finding all sorts of ways to carry her water.

But expecting Jazzy to marry this kind of guy? Talk cock lah!

I don't even know what Seng's job is—­one time he told me he was applying for some fuck job at a shipping company and I zoned out. Please—­I know shipping is a big business in Singapore, but ­people (especially those at Seng's level) who are in it are basically nothing better than the coolies that our grandfathers were, working at the docks. And no matter how many TAG Heuers he buys for himself or Prada shoes he wears, at the end of the day, a coolie is a coolie.

So even though guniang here wouldn't have minded a free kopi from Seng, better not say yes. Don't give him any funny ideas.

“No need lah,” I said. “I better go home already. Must help my mum clean the house.” This one—­I know is lies. Seng also knows is lies. But whatever lah. As if he cares.