Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

The whole table around us suddenly got super noisy—everyone was laughing at something that Tucker just said, so Roy and I turned back to them and tried to follow along. I guess one of the Chinese guys had made some comment about not really knowing how to tell whether a woman has come or something. The things that were being discussed at this dinner—just shameful! Americans, I tell you.

“Of course you don’t,” Tucker said to the Chinese guy. “Small limp dicks, tiny tongues. I can tell you right now, my friend—you have definitely never made any woman come.”

The whole table started laughing again—even the two Chinese guys. And even Roy!

“Now, just ask Vanida over here,” Tucker continued, putting his arm around Vanida, who was so skinny and small to begin with but looked even skinnier and smaller when she was mashed into his armpit. “Ask her how many times I make her come every night. What is it—three times at least? Four times? You should hear her when she’s really going!”

I didn’t know what to do. I looked at Vanida, still squeezed under Tucker’s arm. She was smiling a very small smile, her eyes looking downward, but she nodded anyway. Everyone started laughing even louder now.

“Roy,” I whispered, squeezing his thigh under the table so he would stop laughing and listen to me for a minute. “This is not right.”

Roy just looked at me a little apologetically, whispered the words “Not now” and kept laughing along.

I waited for Tucker to release Vanida before taking out one of my business cards. Looking at what it said made me sad again: “ New Times, assistant to the editor.” Would I have the same phone number on Monday? I didn’t even know. But at least this was a way to get ahold of me somehow. I must remember to tell the new girl to forward all messages to me in case Vanida calls. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if she did but surely there must be some way I can help her.

I thought back to all the women I had come across just in the last two weeks—the girls at the KTV lounges, having to flash bits of their ass, legs, more for lousy garlands from drunk businessmen, the China girls at Lunar having to put on that show night after night, the modern SPGs on the bar counter at Carlyle’s in their heels and little skirts, kicking up their feet for guys to enjoy. And then, Jazzy. The Jazzy who would never become an event planner now in all probability. The Jazzy who was getting shipped off to circulation on Monday like yesterday’s fish. The Jazzy who was pushed to invite Louis in. The Jazzy that Sean thought he could add to his sex-toy harem. The Jazzy everyone liked having fun with and no one wanted to keep. Who would protect Jazzy now?

“Vanida,” I said as quietly as I could while Tucker was telling his next story—I couldn’t really hear but I’m sure it was about sex and his amazing cock. I saw Roy look at me whispering to Vanida, frown very nervously and then look away.

“This is my business card,” I said. “If you ever need help, you can always call me. OK?”

I wasn’t sure if she understood what I was trying to tell her but she took my card and looked at it for a long time.

“What’s this?” Tucker asked, grabbing the card and looking at it closely. “Oh, New Times, eh? Exchanging business cards—how cute. You want to keep in touch to swap blowjob tips or go shopping? Or are you one of those bleeding-heart feminists in the media who actually thinks she can help whores like her?”

No one was laughing now. Vanida actually pulled away from me and moved closer to Tucker, her small fingers holding on to his elbow.

“I have to say,” Tucker said, chuckling a bit. “Singaporean women like you really crack me up. What do they call you—‘sarong party girls’? You think you’re so great that you won’t date one of those losers sitting over there,” he added, pointing at the two Chinese guys at the far end.

“You think only white guys deserve you. But please—you and Vanida, the two of you are the exact same kind of girl. All you’re both after is more money, more power in your little world. And you’ll do anything to get it. And I’m the sleazy one?” Then he laughed a bit louder, tossed out a loud “Control your woman, Roy!” before giving Vanida a big loud kiss and going back to cutting his steak.

Guniang here was tongue-tied. But then I looked at Roy—wasn’t he going to say something to defend me? Roy just gave me an embarrassed look and turned to the guy next to him, asking him to pass the asparagus.

I looked at the plate in front of me. I had only eaten a few bites of steak—it really was damn shiok lah, buttery and fatty fatty. And I hadn’t even tried the truffled mashed potatoes yet. But I slowly folded my stiff napkin and put it by my plate.

“Mr. Tucker?” I said, leaning past Vanida, who quickly shrank back the moment she saw me moving toward her, as if I was going to try and talk to her again or some shit.

“Thank you very much for this delicious dinner,” I said. “But I really have to go.”

The whole room was quiet for only half of my long walk to the door.

“Let the bitch go,” I heard Tucker loudly saying to Roy just before the door closed behind me. “We’ll find you ten better ones tonight—the kind that knows the only acceptable time to open their mouths is when your cock comes out.” The last thing I heard was everyone starting to laugh again.

I couldn’t even look at any of the waiters around me as I walked, all by myself, through the big restaurant. Did any of them see how that guy had grabbed me? All the things he had said? If they did, I’m sure they’d have a lot to gossip about. Kani nah! Now I really could never come back to Manhattan.

Outside, I stopped by the escalator and decided to wait a bit. Maybe Roy was stunned in there and didn’t have time to react? And then maybe after I left he realized he was wrong and told Tucker off? If he did, I’m sure he wouldn’t stay. So, OK. I decided, let’s wait a bit.

Guniang waited five minutes. Ten minutes. Then, OK. I guess, it’s just like that.

As I got on the escalator down, I didn’t know how to feel. There was a jabbing pain in my chest; my heart. And I felt like crying—but Jazzy cannot cry! Maybe I just really needed a hug. Maybe I needed someone who could cheer me up a bit, make me smile. So I took my phone out and texted Alistair: “Free tonight? Fauntleroy?;)”

He replied right away. “Wish I could, my dear. But the wife has booked us on a sudden weekend trip to Bali. Not sure why. Leaving first thing tomorrow. Text you when I’m back Monday?”

Bali… I guess Sharon was taking my advice after all and was trying to mend things by booking a romantic holiday. Good for her. Good to see her trying—trying to win her man back from the fucking slut who borrowed him.

“OK,” I texted back. Even though I knew right then that I didn’t plan to see him again.

Saturday night. Again.

I was feeling bloody bored.

Whole day long I was damn quiet. I wanted to tell someone, to talk to someone, but I also didn’t know what to say. All these things—everything that happened, where to begin? After that awful night at Manhattan, Roy had texted several times to apologize, saying that he had to be polite to Tucker, there was no way he could have said anything to contradict or embarrass him and hey, would I please just let him take me to a nice dinner—a real dinner—so he could explain? I didn’t even bother to respond. This kind of no-balls loser—worse than dating an Ah Beng, I tell you!

That Saturday at home I was so quiet that even my mum started to worry—she wondered why I didn’t go to the kopitiam to drink kopi and shake leg, why I didn’t go shopping with the girls, why I just sat in my room, not talking, not singing, not complaining at her when she burst into my room with her “Ah Huay!” nonsense.