I come to, my head fucking pounding; I’m still drunk, but at least I’m in my bed. Make that a bed. That’s a relief. How I got there, I have no clue. It’s probably something like six o’clock in the morning. I’ve got no idea why or how I wake up so early, especially since my first meeting isn’t until 9 a.m.
Lying in bed next to me, sound asleep, is the naked body of a smoking hot chick. I lift the covers further for a more detailed inspection. Holy shit. Nice. Still alive? Nice. She is amazingly proportioned, quite curvy for an Asian chick. Clearly surgically enhanced, but what the fuck do I care? I poke the ass to see if the rest rolls over. Damn, I want its autograph.
Now for the life of me, I have no recollection of where the fuck she came from, where I met her, and how she ended up in my hotel room. More important, I have no clue if she is a professional or not. I reach over and grab a tit, a fucking awesome tit. Okay, this might be a little creepy, but fuck it.
But she is definitely hot. Is she a whore? I ask myself. We were out with some legit girls for a while, but then again, I’m in Singapore. I remember being out with a bunch of clients and colleagues. We went to karaoke; there were some pretty good-looking chicks there. I remember being the big hit, owning “It’s Not Unusual” by Tom Jones. I must’ve hooked up with one of those chicks. I am the man. This discourse continues in my head. She’s probably legit, maybe a junior client, or an analyst from the Singapore office, I tell myself hopefully.
Having exhausted my capacity to debate with myself, I pull back the covers again and give her a gentle tap on the ass. Nothing happens. She doesn’t even budge. So I go back for the double tap, this time a little bit harder. Again, nothing happens. So finally, I wind up and come down with the full-out spank. Instantaneously, she jumps up—wide-awake—and immediately starts blowing me.
I’m now getting the best blow job I’ve ever had. Not the best blow job you’ve ever had, the best blow job I’ve ever had.
At this point, I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t care. She finishes. “Okay. I go shower now.” Not sure how I should play this. I’m hungover and some chick who just gave me the best head ever, who I still hope might be a client or colleague, just spoke to me in Tarzan English.
I do my best to go back to sleep.
The next thing I know, she’s looming over me, dressed in a cheap cocktail dress. Okay, how do I play this? “Okay, hon, you have to go, and I have to go back to sleep for an hour. So give me your business card and we’ll hook up again next time I’m in town.” I knew it wouldn’t work, but I try.
“You pay me money; everybody pay; you owe me S$200. Nobody fuck for free.” What a profound statement: “Nobody fuck for free.” I think back to everyone I can ever remember fucking, especially my current girlfriend. But then again, my girlfriend’s probably more expensive than a thousand hookers and still never gives heartfelt head, at least not to me.
I know the drill. “I paid Mama-san last night, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. It’s already taken care of.” The events of the previous evening hadn’t actually come back to me, but it’s worth a shot. That fails immediately; this clearly ain’t her first rodeo.
“What? You crazy, la? Who fuck for free? You pay, you fucking fuck.” She reiterates in increasingly broken English. “Nobody fuck free, you fuck.”
I get out of bed and scrounge around for my wallet. No cash. I find my pants from last night. No cash. My suit jacket. No cash. All I can find are a few illegible credit card receipts. It must have been a fun night.
Bottom line, I have no fucking cash anywhere. Now, the last thing I am going to do is the reverse walk of shame with some love monkey down to the nearest cash machine.
Before I can even start to pitch a layaway plan, she grabs the phone and presses 0. “I call hotel security,” she says while holding the phone out like a gun. “Or you come with me to ATM and pay me S$200. Okay, fuck, you pay me S$200. No one fuck for free. You pay S$200.”
My survival instincts immediately take over. I leap across, slam the phone down, and gently lead her over to the closet. I pull out the hotel laundry bag, shake it open, and hand it to her. I then pull her over to the minibar, open it up, and start stuffing the bag as she holds it open. Two Diet Cokes, two Heinekens, two small bottles of Pellegrino. Boom. A handful of the airplane-sized Grey Goose and Bacardi bottles and then some. I pause for only a matter of seconds before I hear, “No. No. S$200. More. More.” Next go the Pringles, M&Ms, and Twizzlers. “More,” she barks. In go the Oreos, Junior Mints, and the mini Jim Beam.
I reach up to the countertop—the half bottle of cabernet sauvignon, the Jack Daniel’s, the pistachios, the Toblerone. And the fucking Moët.
Finally. She looks into the bag, surveying her loot. “Stop. Now too much.” She then reaches in and pulls out the Pringles and the Toblerone, pauses for a few seconds, and then pulls out a mini Bacardi, sets them back down on the countertop gently, and says, “Okay, this good, la.”
And then just like that, she goes off on her way, stuffed laundry bag of loot over her shoulder like some kind of Singaporean Ritz-Carlton Santa Claus/whore prancing along in her four-inch Lucite hooves, marching to the drumbeat of the damned.
I shower, suit up, and head downstairs for day two of our Asian investor conference, and then successfully forget all about the experience.
That is, until two weeks later, when my secretary hands me my expenses and reminds me the minibar is not covered under T&E. The minibar bill? S$198. I owe her S$2.