Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

“Hi, I’m Melvin,” he said, shaking my hand and then Imo’s.

“Imogen,” Imo said, smiling. “But everyone calls me Imo.”

“And I’m Jazeline—but you can call me Jazzy,” I said. Fann gave me a long stare. My god—don’t tell me guniang thinks I’m flirting with her boy. (Plus, hallo—she is one to talk! Who is the one who cannot be trusted around guys we’ve already reserved?)

“I’m afraid that it’s a little more crowded than usual,” Melvin said, pointing at the long line. “ Time Out Singapore just wrote about this place so I guess the masses have come to check it out. I mean, it’s good for my friend Steve but… well, anyway, let’s check it out. It’s a fun place and I promise you’ll get good drinks. Steve’s said he’ll take care of us.”

Melvin put his arm around Fann’s waist and led her to the door. The bouncer, I guess, knew Melvin because they high-fived each other before the guy unhooked the velvet rope and let us all in. Just before we entered, I looked back at the long line. I could tell many of the girls in line were SPGs and some were now glaring at us. Aiyoh, so petty. If they are not in the in crowd then they’re just not in lah. Why should they be jealous? Wasting energy.

Katy Perry was blasting through the whole bar when we got inside. The place itself was quite small but along one long wall there was big bar with a wide wooden counter. On the ceiling, all along the bar, there was a thick railing, almost like those old handrails on public buses, but this one was shiny and gold-plated. Quite interesting, I suppose.

The crowd was damn thick—everyone was moving, dancing a bit to the music and just clogging the whole area. I also didn’t know where to go. Melvin was leading Fann somewhere though—toward the back, near the end of the long bar. Fann reached back to hold my hand so I reached back to hold Imo’s hand. By the time we got to the end of the bar, guniang here already had beer spilled on me three times. Kani nah. But at least the table that we were given was a bit more quiet. And it was right next to the bar, so we could see all the action. I guess Melvin’s friend had already prepped the table—there was a big ice bucket, a tower of glasses, carafes of orange juice and soda. Nice!

After we sat down, Melvin started shouting across the table. But I couldn’t hear a thing—it was so fucking loud. Fann whispered in his ear and he went off toward the bar—I guess, to order our drinks.

“Oi, Fann,” I said. “You sure we want to stay here? This bar is practically a rugby field—except there are scrums everywhere and guys don’t care if you’re a guniang or a guy, everyone’s just pushing. How is this fun? Should we see if Louis has his usual table at Studemeyer’s?”

“We have to stay, Jazz—Melvin will be upset,” Fann said. “Just stay for a while lah—he says it will get more fun. And excuse me, how many times have I followed you all over Singapore to this bar or that club, no questions asked, just because you want to maybe see someone there?”

Right then, Melvin came back with a tray of Sex on the Beach shots—the tray was so big there were about thirty-plus shots there!

“I think each one of us gets about eight!” he shouted, setting down the tray and grabbing two shots. “Bottoms up!”

So we followed him—each person grabbed two glasses, clinked them and then whacked both shots, one after the other. The shots were not strong at all—more sweet and fruity than strong. My god, all this sugar—make us fat only. I made a mental note to make sure to vomit extra hard later. But for now, aiyah—just drink lah. We quickly did a bottoms up a few more times until all the shots gone. A waitress appeared to clear the table, disappeared and then came back holding an unopened bottle of Grey Goose and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Grey Goose is not bad. And Jack Daniel’s is not as expensive as Chivas—but hey, if it’s free, we anything also will whack.

Fann was right—it was getting to be more fun already. Imo reached over and started to put some ice in a glass but Melvin stopped her. “Allow me!” he shouted.

Wah, this one is quite not bad! (I quietly gave Fann a thumbs-up sign.)

Melvin mixed four vodka sodas then passed them around. We quickly did one bottoms up so we could quickly get a bit high, since those shots really didn’t do anything except make us feel like peeing. I tell you—those Sex on the Beach shots probably were mostly food coloring and fruit juice. None of us were feeling even a bit buzzed. But I could see that Melvin was trying to make up for them—his vodka sodas were damn power! After just the first bottoms up, my eyes couldn’t focus for a few seconds.

After that, we slowed down a bit—Melvin mixed another round of vodka sodas for us to sip and passed the glasses back to us. Not really thinking about it, I took a short red cocktail straw and knotted it twice, popping it into my glass. This way, I could differentiate my glass from all of theirs, otherwise bloody hell, all the drinks look the same, and all of us just end up sharing saliva. Seeing the straw made me feel a bit bad. Seng was the one who taught me that strategy years ago when we were teenagers and first started going to clubs—he always made one knot on his straw so I made two. Usually, especially later and later in the night, when it was just the two of us left, we could really tell whose drink was whose. I always pitied all the others around us—just passing germs to each other by accidentally sharing drinks.

That afternoon, Seng had texted a few times, asking me to come out with him and his friends tonight. They were going to some cock club in near Marina. Just seeing the name, I knew that this club confirm is one of those places where no ang mohs go—guniang here had never heard of it before! Plus, none of the ang mohs I know had ever mentioned it before. Jazzy? Go to this kind of club? Waste time only.

“Eh, don’t be so proud lah,” Seng finally texted. “Why no give me face? Trying to make me beg you to come out with me tonight, is it? Uncle here getting too old to kneel lah.”

I didn’t bother to respond.

Imo was starting to look a bit bored—her eyes were glued to her phone, which she put on the table so she could keep an eye on it even when we were all chitchatting. But it didn’t vibrate even once. Fann was sitting very close to Melvin, who was rubba-ing her arm and kissing her cheek now and then. And her top—bloody good choice—had a low cowl neck, so if you were taller than her (which Melvin definitely was), all you had to do was look down a bit only to see everything. (And Fann of course didn’t wear bra. Good girl!) This, Melvin had obviously figured out already because he kept looking down, while Fann just purposely moved around now and then, letting her shirt fall even farther down occasionally before giggling, covering her mouth and pulling it back up. Walao. I was so touched I almost shed a tear—the student was becoming the master.

Melvin—confirm blue balls, man. I could see the look on his face—he looked like he was sweating a bit, clearly getting more and more desperate. Plus Fann told me today she was definitely not going to let him pok her again until she officially became his girlfriend. Good lah—even if Imo is a gone case and I’m not so successful yet, if Fann manages to hook him, then at least we have a 33 percent success rate. We would have something to show.

Who knew that of the three of us, the least chio one is the one who win first? Aiyoh—sometimes life is like that. You just cannot predict. Even though of course I am happy for Fann, I started to feel a bit sad for myself. I don’t understand why I can’t just find a nice cute cute ang moh guy with a good job (like, not at an oil refinery) who wants me—for more than just one or two fun nights. Yah, I know—I’m not as pretty as Sher, my backside is not as nice as Fann’s and my clothes are not as atas as Imo’s, but I’m also not bad, I think. I’m such a nice girl—why doesn’t anybody just want that?