Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

“Well,” I said, smiling a bit shyly, “your tongue did feel nice…”

Even I—Jazeline Lim Boon Huay—know (sometimes) when I have been too much.

I am always right, it’s true. But sometimes even I have to admit that perhaps I’m just a little bit wrong. Waking up the next morning, I definitely knew that this was one of those times.

As much as I hated Sharon for being such a bitch to me—should I really have done what I did?

I know I was sloshed (which is actually a good excuse) and yes, Sharon had really pissed me off (also a very good reason) and I was feeling a bit gross and awful about the whole Carlyle’s scene (I guess maybe I am a bit to blame for not saying no at any point when I sort of could have?). Also, I was feeling a little sad that Roy hadn’t texted so I guess guniang here was looking for some comfort—somewhere. (OK, this one even I will admit is quite a cock excuse.) But when I woke up the morning after, all I could think about was the sound of Sharon crying at the food court a few days ago.

Her husband, Alistair, surprisingly, was quite a gentleman once we were alone; he was even a bit sweet. He didn’t make a big fuss when he said goodbye to his friends to send me home. I don’t even think they knew he was leaving because of a girl. And in fact, he seemed a little shy once we got inside the taxi, keeping quite quiet, sitting all the way over on his side of the seat. I wondered if maybe he was feeling awkward about asking me right away whether I actually wanted to be sent home or wouldn’t mind going to hotel for a bit. So he was just asking me stupid questions like “Where do you work?” That kind of shit. (I also pretended to ask him some questions back, even though I already knew where he worked and what he does. He didn’t mention Sharon at all. And of course he wore no wedding ring. Typical.)

But when the taxi was almost in my neighborhood, he moved a bit closer. “It’s not that late, actually…” he said. “Just after midnight?”

“Yeah—so?” I said, pretending to yawn a little. Guniang was a bit mabuk, yes, but not so drunk that I didn’t know how to make him sweat a bit.

Alistair looked a bit worried. “I guess if you’re tired…” he started to say, then quickly added, “but if you’re not too tired…”

“If not, then?” I said, purposely acting a little blur.

“Then… would you like to get a drink?” he asked, getting closer so he could put his arm around me now. I could see taxi uncle staring at us in his rearview mirror, shaking his head and then blinking his eyes.

“Like, at another bar?” I asked, leaning a bit closer to him and tracing one of my fingers on his thigh. I could hear him breathing heavily now. Pathetic fucker.

“Jesus Christ,” he said very softly.

I could see from his face that he was thinking quite hard. Was he feeling bad? Interesting—if so, this was definitely the first time I’d come across this kind of thing. Could it be that guys like these sometimes could actually have a conscience? Just the thought of that made me suddenly feel a little tender toward Alistair.

Besides, before Sharon got fat and obsessed with her baby, even though she wasn’t Miss Chinatown material, she was not terrible-looking. If this guy actually married her, perhaps he did actually love her.

The taxi uncle was slowing down a bit now, reaching my block. When I felt Alistair pull away from me, I thought, OK, this guy—he’s really not bad. Good for Sharon. Maybe she’s wrong after all about why her hubby goes out so late so much. Maybe he’s just sowing wild oats by drinking and flirting with guniangs at the bar, never following through and going all the way.

But then Alistair leaned forward and said to taxi uncle: “Actually—Fauntleroy Hotel, please? Sorry, we’re not stopping here.”

I guess at that moment, I could still stop it. I could say, “Sorry, I’m tired. Maybe another day.” And I honestly hadn’t thought much about whether I would go through with it at this point. Part of me wanted to find out whether Alistair was really the guy that Sharon thought he had turned into—and, if I was wrong, then I’d figure out a way to tell her. (Without incriminating myself of course.) But to be honest, guniang was feeling a bit sad after watching Fann and Melvin snog all night. Roy still hadn’t texted me; and even though I had felt quite happening to be dancing on the bartop at Carlyle’s with all these guys looking at me, in the end, none of the cute guys ended up coming to talk to me or buy me drink. Like that—how can? At least here—here was a guy, married or not, who could provide some comfort and entertainment for a few hours.

Also, I know we girls are supposed to think hooking up is bad, but I think this kind of experience, always somehow ends up being useful—it’s like research. Cock sometimes small, cock sometimes big; sometimes the method is more action action, sometimes it’s more slow and romantic. And sometimes I even learn a new technique, different ways of teasing that can get ang mohs even more steam. Kind of like that old government “Productivity” song they taught us in primary school. “Good, better, best—never let it rest. Till your good is better, and your better best!”

On top of all that, I guess I was a bit itchy. Go home alone to my sad bedroom and lousy single bed? Boring lah! Plus, the Fauntleroy Hotel is quite atas. Definitely not Hotel 81! This is one of the big downtown hotels, by the Singapore River and all. I had been there before—but only for high-class wedding dinners. I never knew anyone who had the kind of throwaway money to just anyhow stay there. So in the end, I just didn’t stop Alistair.

Alistair was holding my hand, stroking it gently, by the time we got to the Fauntleroy. He helped me out of the taxi—not bad, quite the gentleman—but once we were outside, he made sure to walk a little bit ahead of me as we entered.

“Welcome back, Mr. Davis,” the doorman said, bowing as he opened the heavy gold door for us.

Alistair waved at him slightly then quickly walked through.

“It’s not that I do this often,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed as we crossed the very quiet marble lobby. “My firm does a lot of business with the Fauntleroy—they let us have a room whenever we want it so I end up having a lot of meetings here.”

OK—whatever he says. Hallo, he’s not my husband after all—like I give a shit what he uses the Fauntleroy for.

I decided to wait by the lift lobby while he took care of business at the reception desk. Better lah. No matter how polite those receptionists are—they always gossip. Alistair didn’t say anything when he came back to the lift lobby and we were silent all the way up to the top floor, all the way to the room at the end of a long corridor.

When he opened the door—wah! It was a suite! I had never been to a suite for hookup before! But guniang made sure to act cool. I pretended to look around and seem bored.

“Is this OK?” he said, looking a bit worried as he closed the door. “I can get something else… or we can go somewhere else, if you prefer? I just thought it might be a little more private—and quiet—to have a drink in a room.”

I walked over to the big glass window—a serious one! Extending all the way from the floor to the ceiling type. From there I could look out at the small tourist boats on the river, the bright lights of the tall casinos, the ocean. I felt so tall, so big, like a god looking out at all of Singapore or some shit.

“No, this is fine,” I said, turning away from the window and smiling at him.

Now that we were in the room, standing around, feeling a bit awkward, he seemed even more shy. What happened to the mabuk guy frantically licking my stomach at Carlyle’s? Maybe he really doesn’t do this that much? Cannot be. But who knows? (And who cares?)