Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

We decided to go into one of the bars, even though Imo and Fann didn’t want to, saying they were worried about what kind of guys were in there. But Sher and I thought, we’ve never been here before—at least check one out. What’s the harm? Maybe it would at least be a bit entertaining—and from the looks of just the outsides of the bars, I could tell that we could emerge with many stories to tell our friends even after just one drink there! So, why not?

Also, I know it’s a bit crazy to think this in Orchard Towers of all places, but you never know where you can find love. Sometimes even nice ang mohs also go to sleazy places—maybe they’re there because their friends have brought them or it’s some compulsory office party they have to attend or some shit. And we had already been talking about how, if you want to meet guys, sometimes you must adventure a bit. Cannot be so close-minded and judgmental. Anyway, since we were already in Orchard Towers, I said, “Let’s go.” So we just picked one of the bars that looked more open—not one of those with blacked-out glass windows or bitchy-looking Thai girls standing outside to check your ID and charge you a thirty-dollar cover fee if they think you’re a girl that is potential competition. The one we picked seemed decent—it even had a large barrel painted on the side of the door, giving it the same look as some of those touristy English pubs near Boat Quay. But once we walked in, we almost walked out. My god, the place was damn fucking sleazy.

The bar was filled with girls—all wearing high heels and short flared-out skirts. Most of them had long black hair, some tied up in sweet little ponytails. And their faces all had that fresh, clean kind of makeup to make them look even younger. I couldn’t tell how old they were, but if I had to guess—maybe seventeen or eighteen? And that’s because I’m Asian—I can tell they are actually not as young as they look. If I weren’t Asian, I confirm would think they look more like fourteen or fifteen years old. And the whole bar was filled with these girls! Except for one—this woman who looked quite ragged, maybe thirty years old or something. She was wearing simple black pants and one of those patterned auntie blouses and she had one of those big bulky fake Coach handbags on her arm. The moment we walked in she just sat in one corner and stared at us the whole time.

We ordered a drink—we figured since we were there, we’d better order something or mamasan confirm will come over and whack us one time. When the drinks—and bill—came, we instantly regretted it. One simple gin and tonic—fifteen dollars! Some more the drink was damn watered down. “Never mind lah,” I said to Imo when I saw her making a face. “Research is never free.” Once the drinks came, we didn’t know what to do so we decided to just sit there and look-see look-see. Fann got excited when she saw there was a small pool table in the corner. “Hey, maybe we can play a bit!” she said, starting to get up. Luckily, Sher acted quickly and pulled her back down before Fann could make a move.

“Guniang,” Sher quietly said to Fann. “Don’t be so blur. Look around the table—is anyone actually playing pool?”

It’s true—even though there was a game in progress, and there certainly were people walking around carrying sticks, the only action we were seeing was when the girls would come and bend over the pool table, stretching for a really long time, sometimes even propping one of their legs up on the table until can see panties and everything. No one actually seemed to be noticing the game. The girls were just anyhow shooting—striped ball, solid ball, anything also whack. Ball never go in also never mind one—this game was really damn toot. Since when do you have people playing a game and not caring about winning?

If the girls missed a ball, they just covered their mouths and giggled like those teenagers in Japanese toothpaste ads. We watched this carry on for a bit, not quite sure what to do—Imo at some point just gave up and started texting with god knows who—until Sher suddenly elbowed me. She nodded her head very slightly toward the dark corner near the pool table. I had to squint a little bit at first but there was some tall, a bit fat oldish ang moh guy sitting on a bar stool and rubba-ing this girl. At first, it seemed normal—not like anything we hadn’t seen in Attica before, except this guy was balding, had super gray hair, at least two chins and such big boobs that no decent Singaporean girl would ever give him chance. Hallo, even though he’s an ang moh guy, us SPGs still have some standards, please.

This was all still sort of OK, but then once or twice when the girl started moving away from him, he would grab her wrists and pull her back so she was facing him, her thighs wedged between his legs. This guy wasn’t even wearing pants or jeans—he was wearing bermudas! Some more they were not even branded berms—got no logo! As we watched, the guy got more daring—he not only started reaching underneath the girl’s skirt to rubba her backside but at some point he turned her around to face his friends on the other side of the pool table. His fat fingers were all over the front of her shirt, rubba-ing her stomach and everything and then moving down to her skirt. Sher looked damn angry. We thought all this was quite bad already, but then the guy lifted up the girl’s skirt and started rubba-ing her through her panties, pretending to try to pull them down. His friends just started laughing and cheering. Aiyoh! No shame! We thought the girl would give the fat guy one tight slap but she just giggled a bit and patted his hand, firmly moving it away. Mamasan in the corner was keeping an eye on all this, even though she had this heck care look on her face. What kind of mamasan is this? Where got people give things away for free?

“Should we do something?” Imo asked. When I looked at her, she looked like she was going to cry. It’s true lah—the four of us have seen all sorts of public rubba-ing in our lifetime of clubbing (and also participated—a bit—of course) but this, my god, this really made me want to vomit blood. The girl was so young, the guy was so old and ugly—some more from the looks of him, he confirm is not rich. Not even middle-class. Where got point? No amount of money he gives you can be worth that shit.

Then suddenly we saw mamasan raise her right hand and rub her thumb against her fingers. Cash sign. The girl turned around and kissed the guy on the cheek then whispered in his ear. He smiled, nodded; then she took his hand and led him around the pool table, right past us and headed to the darkest corner of the bar. We had seen the door in that corner earlier—some thin wooden one with a slightly frosted glass window. At first I thought it was a karaoke room because through the large window we could see a couch and coffee table. But then there was a sign on the purple wall saying STAFF REST AREA. Quite weird, I thought at the time. Working as a bar girl—is it really that strenuous that you need a rest area? But once the girl brought the ang moh into the room, closed the door and turned off the lights, I realized how toot I was.

Which is why, once Harry’s opened—thank god. If you want to meet ang mohs, then you didn’t need to be so LC as to go to Orchard Towers. All Harry’s bars are confirm not low-class—they have nice tables, waiters treat you like normal girls, and the menu even has atas drinks with happening shots like Lemon Drops.

Of course, if you are truly happening at Harry’s, you don’t need to look at the drinks menu. In fact, Charlie was so famous here she didn’t even need to order her drinks. The moment the bartender saw her walk in, he already started mixing. So by the time she pulled out a ciggie to put in her mouth, the waiter had already brought over a vodka green tea. He even stood to one side, waiting for her to be ready and all so he could pull out his lighter to light her cigarette. Imo, Fann and I all looked at each other—kani nah, this woman was damn impressive.