Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

“Hey, sweetie,” my ang moh suddenly said in my ear. So I turned around. And the moment I did that he just started kissing me—big, wet slobbery ones. His chubby lips were like suction cups, man. And he kissed me for so long that one of his friends started pointing and cheering, actually spilling beer all over himself because he was jumping up and down. Kani nah—never see people hook up before is it?

The kissing actually wasn’t that shiok. His tongue and my tongue were not quite in sync and some more he was quite the aggressive type—move head, move hands, everything also rubba. I started thinking, now it’s maybe four something? If I leave now, the cab queue is probably still quite short—no need to wait for so long. Maybe can even buy supper on the way home.

But then I thought about how chio I looked tonight. In my Seven jeans, my backside was super power! And my small black tank top was damn sexy. Even so, all those guys at Lunar didn’t even look at me one time once those China girls came out. How can like that? I know Louis had warned me about the situation. But that was total defeat. And Jazzy cannot lose!

No. Even if this guy is a lousy fuck, I must have something to show for tonight.

So I stopped kissing him for a moment. He looked a bit confused, but then I smiled sweetly at him, then looked a bit demure and all, even fluttering my eyelids a little bit. (I tell you, ang mohs—especially drunk ang mohs—really love that geisha shit.)

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

“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.