Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

Charlie looked sexy. In fact, I don’t think we had ever seen her not nicely made up, but tonight she looked more chio than usual, wearing a tight short dress. “Is it one of those Harvey Leggy types?” Fann whispered to me. I wasn’t sure but with the stretchy bandage-straps crisscrossing her chest, showing off her B-cup tetek, it very well could be. Her hair at that time was quite short, in a very straight bob, fringe long long one, swept to one side so when she leaned over to talk to you, she always had a fan of hair brushing across one side of her face, making her eyes look even bigger. For those guys who like those Sailor Moon kinds of blue movies, Charlie is the shit lah. Since secondary school days, she was always quite cute—but back then, her kind of cute was mostly the sweet sweet type. It wasn’t until she came back from Ozzie that she suddenly became so sexy. I don’t know what happened to her there, man—or why she never stayed. But when she came back last year and we met at Zambo the first time, we almost didn’t recognize her. All the guys we were with that night got super steam the moment they saw her. But because none of them were ang moh, all also knew they had no chance with Charlie.

Midway through her cigarette at Harry’s, Charlie was leaning back, crossing her legs, looking quite bored and blinking her eyes a bit as she slowly smoked. Fann and Imo looked at each other, then looked at me, both not sure what to do. Toot is toot. So I just started explaining. “Um, Charlie—you know, we’ve all known each other how long already…”

Charlie just rolled her eyes and sighed, leaning over to put out her ciggie in the ashtray. “Please lah—cut the crap,” she said. “I naeioo you how long already—no need to bullshit me. You just want to naeioo my secrets, just admit it.”

I could see Fann’s face was starting to turn black—I knew she never really liked Charlie. Charlie just blinked again at Fann and looked back at me.

“You want my advice?” Charlie said. “Then listen. Stop being so desperate. Please—you girls keep going to the same places over and over, meeting the same groups of guys over and over. And when you go there you’re always in the middle of everything, chitchatting with the same arses each weekend, dancing with them, going home with them—or not going home with them but then seeing them the next weekend anyway. Aren’t you bored? If you want people to notice you—really notice you—then you must hang back a bit, be in the shadows, let the guys discover you and want to naeioo you. These ang moh guys, hallo, all they want is the chase. If they want to run after you—let them run! The harder they have to run, the more they want you. Even after you get married, must still make them run! When they stop running is when they run away.”

Wah, this was the longest I had ever heard Charlie talk. But it made sense. I was thinking about that guy I just pok’d—what was his name? Obviously, that one was a mistake. Even though in the end he seemed like maybe a decent guy, at this point, guniang here cannot start over with him again. My flower—all give away already. I even stayed over on the first night! The chase hadn’t even begun but everything—aiyoh—everything was over already. If the guy didn’t have such a hairy nose I might feel a bit sad. But my god, that nose!

“Hallo, Jazzy, are you even listening?” Charlie suddenly said. So I made sure to look back at her again.

“Also,” she said, looking around at all of us and scrunching her nose, “language, ladies. You and I know how we always talk. But kopitiam chitchat is different from ang moh chitchat. Guys don’t like it. Even if they think it’s a bit exotic, they in the end will think that you are just too LC for them. Want them to take you seriously, then you must give them the impression that when they bring you back to Melbourne, Chicago or whatever shit longkang like Manchester they came from, that you also can fit in and be the perfect wife. So yeah, among yourselves, you can talk talk however you want but when you want to hook ang moh guys, you must sound more atas.”

This one is true. When we get to the point of hanging out with ang mohs and their friends, whenever we talk, they sometimes catch no ball, asking us to repeat what we said—slowly. Quite embarrassing. Charlie was right. If they cannot see us fitting into their world, then confirm we have no serious chance.

“Plus, this”—Charlie started saying again, pointing her second finger at all of us, making a circle in the air—“I can tell you, is not going to work.”

“What do you mean?” Fann said. Her dark face came back again.

“You three are too similar!” Charlie continued. “You think this one is what—army is it? Everyone all the same one. No, your approach must be different—your role model should be girl bands. See, even though they are one group of girls, all around the same age, all chio, you can always tell them apart. Each girl has a distinct personality—got Posh Spice, Sporty Spice, Baby Spice… I’m not saying you should dye your hair different colors and wear costumes or some cock shit but maybe each one of you can find something to play up.

“Like you,” Charlie said, taking out another ciggie and waving it at Imo, “pretty face, nice clothes—maybe you are the atas one. So maybe talk less, be standoffish a bit. Jazzy, you are more of the spunky type. Many ang moh guys like daring girls.”

Charlie gave Fann a hard look—we could see her eyes going from her hair to her face to her body and back up. “You,” Charlie said, “you—aiyoh. OK, I’m sure if you really put your mind to it, you can find something interesting.”

The bartender had come over with another vodka green tea for Charlie. All of us were sitting right in front of her and none of us had noticed that her glass was almost empty but somehow the guy managed to arrow it with his eyes from the other side of the room and fasterly make a new one for her. After he set it down, he lit her cigarette, waiting for her to take her first puff and smile sweetly at him before he walked away.

Charlie was quiet now. Her advice was good but it was a lot to think about—things to practice. Maybe must even go shopping. But tonight—tonight was still early. I guess maybe we could hang around a bit and have some drinks. It wasn’t even 11 P.M. after all—although this was quite late for Harry’s. Usually ang mohs like to go there for after-work beers or earlyish drinks and then run home to their wives before it gets too late. If not for Charlie, who knows the whole staff at this Harry’s, we wouldn’t be here. We didn’t like this particular Harry’s bar, in Boat Quay, because it was very touristy. And all SPGs know tourists are like sailors—in and out so quickly, confirm will have no results. My whole life I only knew of one guniang who managed to hook an American sailor on shore leave who wrote her love letters for six months then came back and asked her to marry him. Wah, that one is damn lottery! Now she lives in some chee bye little town in Virginia lah—boring military wife and all. But still at least she managed to make it out.

Tonight though, the ang moh crowd at Harry’s was older; many of them had wives or girlfriends by their sides so it was all a bit pointless. Just when the Filipino band started playing “Wonderful Tonight” and we were wondering whether we should go somewhere a bit more lively, some short Malay guy popped up by our table, winking at Charlie and all. We thought this was quite funny—even Fann started smiling. If Charlie doesn’t even want Chinese-Singaporean guys—Malay guys where got chance? But Charlie just laughed and patted the cushion next to her and he sat down.

“Rahiman—girls; girls—Rahiman,” Charlie casually said.